I Didn’t Have My First Orgasm Until I Was 28, Thanks to Chronic Pelvic Pain

We’re more sex positive than ever. But we still haven’t erased some fundamental truths: Women’s bodies are still policed, sex education is still lacking, and talking about sex still carries a stigma. It’s created a whisper network around sex and made the very mention of the words female pleasure enough to make you blush. So this week we're discussing good sex and why it matters. Our mantra? Owning your sexual pleasure is power.

I was woefully unprepared for the blinding pain that would crash through my body the first time I tried to insert a tampon. Admittedly, I had tuned out during most of the sex ed classes in middle school—I was a hypochondriac, so listening to someone talk about STDs and how scary pregnancy is sent me running to the nurse’s office—but none of my friends mentioned anything about pain when they recapped the class to me later.

After my first encounter with a tampon at 13, it took me a year to work up the courage to try using one again, the echoes of the crippling pain pressed into memory. Every time I did try to insert anything, that same intense, sharp pain returned. I never asked any of my friends if they too could only wear pads, because I was too ashamed.

In high school, I went to see a doctor for a checkup. I was getting frequent UTIs so she suggested it would be a good time to do a Pap smear. When she pulled out the speculum, I tensed. My whole body froze in anticipation, preparing for the impending pain. I screamed when she tried to insert it. She pulled it out and tried to use the child speculum but I screamed at that too, yelling at her to remove it. The pain was so intense I thought I was going to pass out. This couldn’t be normal.

I quietly admitted that I had frequent pelvic pain. The pain was likely being caused by anxiety, she said. I should learn how to relax. I left with a pit in my stomach, a gnawing fear that my vagina had somehow been wired all wrong—calibrated for pain instead of pleasure.

Sex, Pain, Shame

My friends started to get boyfriends in high school and talk about sex. At parties, couples would sneak away, and I would feel a pang of jealousy. The very idea of sex made me shudder. Even during make-out sessions, my body would tense instinctively—my pelvis involuntarily recoiling. Everyone said how good sex was, so I never felt comfortable bringing up my pain. I assumed I was the only one. I slowly disconnected from that part of my body, pretending I was just too busy to have a boyfriend.

After college I saw a gynecologist in L.A. and opened up about my symptoms and pain. She repeated the same diagnosis: anxiety. When I asked her what to do, she too recommended trying to relax: Have a couple of drinks, take my prescribed anxiety medication.

But her prescribed pre-sex routine made me uncomfortable—I didn’t want to have to get drunk or take an Ativan every time I had sex. I wanted to do it sober and be fully aware of what was happening around me. But I was desperate.

A few months later, a few drinks in, I found myself on my patio with a close guy friend. We started to make out and next thing I knew, I found myself on top of him, ready to go. Despite my pain, I was still a woman with desires and needs. I felt attraction and wanted to be physically intimate. But the pain that came along with trying to fulfill those desires meant I spent years trying to repress them.

Finally, I thought, things were going to change. For once I wasn’t anxious. I was relaxed. Ready. But as soon as he inserted his penis, I screamed so loud, I’m pretty sure I woke up all of the neighbors. I started crying uncontrollably, pushed him away, and ran to my bedroom, ashamed to admit that it hurt so much.

Addressing Pelvic Pain

One year, no sex, and lots of shame later, I started to see a talk therapist after experiencing severe anxiety and panic attacks that interfered with my daily life. I was always an anxious person, but until now I’d always been able to cope with my symptoms. Maybe anxiety really was behind my pelvic pain, and it was all in my head.

About six sessions in, I decided I trusted my therapist enough to open up about my chronic pelvic pain and fear of sex. It was the best decision. She told me this was very common, even though it’s rarely talked about. She asked me if I had ever masturbated, to which I emphatically replied, “Never.” I didn’t connect with that part of my body, except when I had to put on a pad during my period. I basically pretended I didn’t have a vagina; no way was I going to try to pleasure myself. The thought alone made me tremble with fear.

Talking about the pain and shame I felt surrounding sex helped. It wasn’t all in my head. I wasn’t the only one. But after months of talking, I was talked out. While I wasn’t as fearful, I still had immense pain. I had hit a wall. So my therapist suggested I make an appointment with a pelvic floor physical therapist. I didn’t even know these types of PTs existed. Why had no one ever mentioned this before? I immediately called and scheduled an appointment.

During our second session, the physical therapist did a pelvic exam—she didn’t use any scary speculums and went really slowly, talking me through each step. My pelvic floor muscles were shockingly tight, she explained, which was why I was likely having so much pain whenever I tried to insert anything, by myself or with a partner. Anxiety did contribute to that chronic state of tension but the solution wasn’t as simple as “learning to relax.” I needed to retrain the muscles.

We made a plan for 12 sessions of physical therapy, and she sent me home with a set of dilators—smooth plastic, cylinder-shaped objects that come in a variety of graduated sizes—which are used to gently stretch the vagina. She suggested I start with the smallest dilator, about 3.5 inches long and a half-inch circumference, and use it for 15 minutes each day.

Suddenly paying so much attention to my vagina felt like a chore. Pleasure had felt like such an unreachable goal for years, and when I started physical therapy it finally felt possible. But this wasn’t fun; it was clinical. I was starting to experience less pain, but pleasure was still totally foreign to me.

After a year of treatment, I could successfully insert a tampon. Yay, me. But after all this work, I felt no closer to sex. No closer to the toe-curling sexual pleasure I’d been hearing my friends talk about for years. Just to maintain the small but significant progress I’d made, I’d have to keep using the dilators.

Owning My Pleasure

After I’d finished physical therapy, I was having a conversation with a friend from college and mentioned my experience with dilators and how I didn’t even know what sexual pleasure was. She explained that she doesn’t typically have an orgasm when she’s with a partner—only when she is masturbating. I’d realized in talk therapy that I didn’t have a clue how to masturbate—thanks to the pain, my entire pelvic region felt off limits even to me. But for the first time I realized I didn’t necessarily need to insert anything into my vagina to get off.

I went home that night and started exploring. I read erotica, listened to erotic audio stories, and watched porn. I focused solely on exploring what sexual pleasure means for my body, rather than all the ideas I’d internalized about what sex was “supposed” to look like.

At 28, I had my first orgasm. It was, no surprise, among the best feelings I’ve ever felt in my life. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops. My entire adolescent and adult life, I’d felt that this part of my body was completely broken, but it had worked all along. It just needed to have some kinks worked out.

Since then I’ve started to be more open about my journey and my pain, and the more I talk about it, the more I learn how far from alone I am. Turns out, many of my friends and friends of friends have also suffered in silence, assuming, like me, that sex would always be painful.

I take my dilators out of the drawer every now and again, but they no longer feel like my only shot at experiencing pleasure. Penetration is far from the only path to good sex. I’ve learned that pleasure is unique to each person—I have the power to experience it however I want. I’m continuing to stay open-minded and explore. After all, my pelvis and I have a lot of pleasureless years to catch up on.

Allyson Byers is a writer in Los Angeles covering mental health, chronic pain and illness, and sexuality. Follow her on Instagram @byersally.

Originally Appeared on Glamour