I feel guilty about how badly I’ve treated my vagina

Last month I found myself nodding along vigorously to musician, Paloma Faith.

Only I wasn’t listening to her new album, I was reading her new book MILF, in which she apologised to her vagina. 

‘My vagina has always been sensitive but accommodating, a bit like me. I feel guilty about how I have treated it in the past,’ she said.

My vocal skills notwithstanding, I couldn’t help but feel a kinship with Faith in that moment.

I’m 41, she’s 42. We’re both mothers – she has two kids, I have four. 

And just like her, I too spend a lot of time feeling bad about how I’ve treated my vagina in the past.

Like Faith – who went on to talk about how she had allowed men to ‘shove it in without lubrication’ and how she ‘almost tried to ignore the lack of comfort or arousal’ in the past – mine too has been neglected. Its needs ignored for years, always putting the pleasure of others ahead of my own.

Recently, I’ve been telling friends that one of my biggest regrets is not being more sexually adventurous in my youth.

It’s not that I wish I’d slept with an Eras Tour stadium’s worth of partners. But I do wish I’d had better sex, more often.

Sex in which I prioritised myself, my needs and my pleasure.

I was a late bloomer, sexually-speaking.

Though my NYC upbringing was neither traditional nor conservative, sex ed in the ‘90s wasn’t exactly what you would call strong on topics like consent or female pleasure. 

However, there was a heavy dose of fear-mongering and I remember my girlfriends and I constantly worrying about accidental pregnancy and STDS… long before we were even sexually active.

Like many of my peers, I then relied on popular culture – films like Cruel Intentions and American Pie – to teach me stuff that school wouldn’t. 

In these films, penetrative sex was often depicted as the end goal. And on the rare occasions where cunnilingus was shown, it was rarely about female pleasure and more often used as a way to manipulate characters into ‘giving it up’.

Meanwhile, Sex and the City – which I inhaled religiously – provided a whole new vocabulary of intimidating sexual acts and innuendoes (anal, golden showers, ‘funky spunk’) for me to worry about.

As a result, having spent my teens training to be a classical dancer, I only had my first sexual experience at 18. 

Even then, I viewed sex as something I wanted to do to feel like I fit in with my peers. A necessary part of social interactions and relationship upkeep, not something to enjoy.

So, in my 20s, I’d often slip into character – always a supporting actress, never a leading lady – with my goal being to help the leading man reach the big finale. 

It must have been my fault – or worse, my vagina’s – that this other person hadn’t managed to orgasm, or had done so too soon.

Meanwhile, the idea of considering my own sexual needs was almost comical. 

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t that I never had satisfying sexual experiences – the problem was that I didn’t value myself enough to consider what I wanted out of each encounter, like an orgasm.

I often couldn’t achieve this goal from penetrative sex though (something I later discovered a majority of women struggle with) and therefore the act itself became something I hoped to avoid because I found it unfulfilling, awkward, stressful or painful, most of the time.

Looking back now, I know I only have myself to blame because I never vocalised my needs. I was scared and embarrassed.

When sexual partners made it a point to give me pleasure, i.e. with oral sex, I’d often bat their heads away, terrified at whatever unknown horrors they might uncover below my pantyline.

I wish I’d had more self-confidence, but I’m not sure where I was supposed to get it from.

And while the adrenaline rush of meeting someone and the chance at a loving relationship did excite me, I found it baffling how often friends would describe sexual experiences with people they barely knew in almost reverential tones when I mostly felt like a stand-in for a prop. 

When I met my now-husband though, that all changed.

We’d been friends for years but finally got together in my mid-20s, and though I was initially insecure about vocalising my sexual desires, when he started confiding his it helped me understand how communication and trust were key to enjoyable sexual experiences. 

Now, even after four kids, we enjoy a fulfilling sex life that’s only improved with time.

I also feel more connected to my vagina than ever. It’s seen things: My biggest baby weighed over 10 lbs; the smallest was 8lbs, 6oz. 

I feel protective of it, too. Last year, I fractured my sacrum, bruising my nerve endings. I spent weeks in tears, completely, terrifyingly, numb as a result.

Losing all sensation during sex made me feel powerless and scared. What if I never managed to achieve orgasm again? 

The experience helped cement what I already knew deep down: My vagina, its health and its pleasure should never be an afterthought.

Then, two months ago, I discovered I have a 4cm vaginal cyst, which may have been caused as a result of childbirth, or possibly from my injury last year. 

I have no idea how long it’s been there. Even though sex isn’t painful now with it, there’s a good chance removing it will probably make things feel even better. So I’ve booked in for surgery right away and I can’t wait. 

Frankly, I’m done putting the needs of my vagina last.

Forty is a magic number when it comes to shirking off shame and now, so many of my conversations with other women my age revolve around vaginas: pain, perimenopause, pelvic incontinence, prolapse. Most of us are just done with shying away from our vaginas.

I also have four daughters and I never want them to feel embarrassed about vocalising their desires or sharing their discomforts and fears. I would hate for them to grow up pretending their vaginas are disconnected from the rest of their bodies, like I did for so long. 

If I could go back, I would have spent my youth ensuring my vagina was screaming in pleasure, instead of counting down to someone else’s climax.

Thankfully, that’s a sentiment I plan to carry into the future with me.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

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