Vaginal Dryness

Are You Addicted to Your Vibrator?

The other night I was out with the girls. We popped into the health club for a quick steam and then to the hotel bar across the road for drinks and dinner under palm trees and stars. It was very romantic.

As we sat around the table, conversation sparking like a hundred firecrackers, a thought stuck me. How could three good-looking, fun, accomplished women be not only single on a Saturday night but also completely unconcerned about the singleness of our lives?

It was as though, somewhere along the way, we had lost interest in the dating dance. If only you could go from love at first sight to happily ever after with none of the “getting to know you” stuff in between. And, if you couldn’t, no biggie either: solitude has many virtues.

Maybe we had set our sights too high. Leigh, a tall fifty-year-old woman with shoulder length brown hair and bedroom eyes said she was still looking for her knight in shining armor.

“Isn’t he dead yet?” I said.

Leigh shot me a dirty look. “My parents have that kind of relationship. Why can’t I?”

“Because, Leigh,” I said smugly, “How can Mr. Knight become Mr. Right when he doesn’t even exist?”

“How do you know that?” Gina piped up, flicking her wavy blonde hair off her face. “We’re not all as jaded as you are, Pam.”

I stared at her. “Oh no,” I said suspicion rising. “Don’t tell me you’ve got Knight Fever, too?”

Gina grinned at me. “No,” she said. “I’ve settled for Mr. Sex Just Right.”

Leigh and I sat forward in our seats, all ears. “Continue,” I advised with a queenly wave of the hand.

“Well,” said Gina taking in a deep breath. “I met this fantastic guy but there’s one problem. I can’t seem to come without my vibrator.”

“Oh,” I said heavily. “That is serious. If a guy can’t compete with a vibrator, he hasn’t got a hope in hell.”

“Oh, stop, Pam,” ordered Leigh disapprovingly. She turned to Gina and touched her arm consolingly. “Does he know what he’s doing in bed?” asked Leigh.

“Yes, yes, he’s a great lover,” said Gina.

“Maybe he just doesn’t like threesomes,” I said, “And is afraid to tell you.”

“He said he doesn’t mind the vibrator,” said Gina.

“Doesn’t ‘mind’ the vibrator?” challenged Leigh. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“There are only two courses of action,” I announced slapping the table with authority. “Either you’re addicted to your vibrator, which believe me, is nothing to be ashamed of—“

“Or?” asked Gina waving me onto the next point.

I crossed my legs and leaned back in my chair, intertwining my fingers behind my head. “Or,” I continued. “This is a classic case of the V-shortcut syndrome.”

Gina rolled her eyes and looked at Leigh. “I never know what she’s talking about.” Gina looked back at me. “What are you talking about?”

“V as in vibrator, ladies,” I explained. “The V-shortcut allows you to bypass any discomfort and anxiety you may have being with a new sexual partner. It also has the added benefit of bypassing his ineptitude, should there be any.” I leaned in for effect. “And, let’s face it, there almost always is.”

Gina and Leigh stared open mouthed, shaking their heads with confusion.

“In other words,” I went on. “It’s a performance prop—for him. You come quickly and he feels like his penis is almighty and all-powerful. I hate to tell you this, Gina, but you’re a Penis Pleaser.”

“A what?” said Gina stunned.

“A penis pleaser,” I said. “It’s part of the syndrome.”

“I thought that’s what you said,” said Gina bursting into laughter. “You’re insane.”

“Mark my words, girls,” I said with a know-it-all smile. “It won’t be long before there are 12-step programs for vibrator addiction due to overly zealous penis pleasing.”

“Oh tell me, Mistress Pammy,” mocked Gina. “What’s the cure?”

“Talk to the penis, Gina.” I said with a definitive shake of the head. “Talk to the penis. Tell it who’s really in charge.”

Do you worry about being addicted to your vibrator? Is your partner getting jealous because of all the pleasure you’re having by yourself? Or, has your vibrator become your significant other?

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More “Lube Life”

Slip, Slide and Away We Go.

I realize I haven’t told you much about the prince, otherwise known as the boyfriend. I’m saving details for later, but I will share this. He’s younger, by almost 20 years, 19 to be exact.

That’s significant because it explains why, when he went running out of the house for a solution to my vaginal dryness/personal lubrication problem, the following went through my mind: I hope he does not bring back, a) hot fudge topping, b) whipped cream, c) ice cream, and d) bananas. I know what that boy will do for a hot fudge sundae.

I stood in the middle of the kitchen and crossed my fingers, hopeful that he’d at least of the presence of mind to ask a fellow shopper for a recommendation. I had my doubts.

A few minutes later, the front door opened with a bang, and the prince came bounding in, startling me. He handed me a plastic grocery bag. I stared at it, frozen in place. It dawned on me that this wasn’t exactly a good sign: going to the grocery store for a personal lubricant was kind of like picking up a bottle of wine at the Circle K en route to a fancy dinner party. Or so it seemed at the time.

“Open it,” he said waving the bag excitedly in front of me.

Cautiously, I looked inside. There was a long rectangular blue and white box, the grocery receipt tangled around it. I stared at him. “You got deodorant?” I said confused.

“Deodorant?” blurted the prince. “What are you talking about?” He reached in for the box and pulled out an elliptical-shaped bottle with a bright blue cap.

“Carra-Gee-Nie?” I said trying to pronounce the name on the label as he held it up to my face.

“No, it’s carra-gee-nan,” the prince sounded out. “It’s from ocean plants. Here, give me your hand.” He flicked off the cap with his thumb and squirted a thick clear liquid into my palm.

“Ohhhh, silky smooth!” I purred rubbing it around. “It feels just like, well, me.”

Suddenly a suspicion exploded in my head. “How do you know about this stuff?” I glared at him.

The prince started laughing. “Relax,” he said. “I was in the can and saw a funny ad for it in one of your women’s magazines.”

Really?” I said. “What’d it say?”

“May require use of a younger man,” said the prince breaking up again. “Spoke to me.”

Can’t argue with that, I thought to myself. I took the bottle from him and read the label. “Hmmm,” I said, “It says here, ‘love with care’.”

“That’s because it’s all natural,” explained the prince. “I know how green you are.”

“No, baby,” I teased, “I know green you are. Personally, I’m more into love with dare.” I pumped some lube in his hand and massaged it around seductively with my index finger.

The prince gave me a naughty smile. “Dare you to lube up and *Bleep*Bleep* all over *Bleep*Bleep*,” he said.

“Oh you nasty *Bleep*Bleep*,” I teased. “Get your tight little *Bleep*Bleep* into the bedroom,” You’ve got some *Bleep*Bleeping* to do.”

[Note to reader: You will notice that I have left off some obvious details as I believe they are best left to the imagination. In the interest of partial disclosure, however, I will say that half a bottle of Carrageenan™ was sacrificed in the course of the evening and it is highly probably that it will happen again.]

Have you tried a personal lubricant recently? What did you think? Did it open up new possibilities? Do you have a personal favorite when it comes to a lubricant?

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Get Ready for the “Lube Life”

Let someone else figure it out

Last time we talked, I mentioned my embarrassing new problem: vaginal dryness, and how I came to realize the dry-dry wasn’t going bye-bye. In fact, it was getting worse. I had to take action. I had to, in short, find the perfect personal lubricant.

I turned to my girlfriends but one after another, they’d clam up, pretending like it was Niagara Falls every time they had sex. Jody, over lunch one day, reached for my hand across the table and squeezed it hard.

“I’m soooo sorry it’s soooo bad for you,” she said as though she’d just read a draft of my suicide note. I shook my hand free and shoved a big forkful of cheesecake in my mouth.

“Yeah, well,” I swallowed hard. “I’ll figure it out. Someday.”

I turned to Google and typed in, “personal lubricant.” There was so much choice, I felt like a sugar addict in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. My favorite link was, “licking vaginal dryness without a prescription.” What are they thinking? Everyone knows you don’t need a prescription to have oral sex.

There are “Liquid Silk” lubes, “Good Head Gels,” flavored lubes, vegan-safe lubes, and just plain “Slippery Stuff”. They “Devour me Lickable,” “Astroglide,” and “Hydrosmooth.” They’re sugar-free and “Sliquid Sassy.” There’s even a lube that comes in the form of pearl-sized capsules you insert in your vagina before sex. The heat is supposed to dissolve the capsules but I’d probably sneeze and turn into a human be-be gun.

Eventually I hit on the idea of eliminating lubes with ingredients I couldn’t pronounce, such as dimethiconepropylene or tetrahydroxypropyl ethylenediamine. That helped but I still couldn’t decide. So, after careful deliberation, I went to plan B. I’d let the boyfriend decide.

I was in the kitchen mixing up instant mashed potatoes. The prince was splayed out on the couch, reading a magazine.

“Honey,” I said my mouth full of potato. “Have you noticed something’s missing from our sex life?”

He lifted his head over a pile of decorative pillows. “Oh no,” he moaned. “Am I in trouble?”

I laughed. “No, no,” I said. “It’s just that things seem a little dry when they should be wet.”

I cut to the chase. “What’s your frank opinion on personal lubricants?”

There was silence. I wiped a clump potato off my chin with a tea towel.

“It’s not my fault,” he said defensively.

“I know, honey,” I said reassuringly. “You are a well trained puppy. It’s a menopause thing and frankly, I can’t seem to decide on a personal lubricant.”

The prince let out a sigh of relief. Danger averted. “I’ll be right back,” he said jumping up. “Got a little surprise for you.”

I stared at the door as it slammed behind him. I do so love a man who takes charge, I smiled to myself. But where is he going? And what would he bring back?

What would you want your significant other to bring back for you?

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Vaginal Dryness Got You Stuck?

Ever experience an unwelcome change in your body where seemingly overnight you go from wet as a lake during sex to dry as a week-old cake? I’m talking about the dreaded vaginal dryness. Two words I never thought I’d utter.

In fact, there was a time, when I could tell how hot the sex was by how wet it got, down there, you know, where it counts. You can fool your head with fantasies and delusions trying to convince yourself that the “frog” you’re screwing is actually a “prince,” but you can’t fool it. If it, in the words of my friend, Jane, “Ain’t dripping egg whites, it ain’t happening. The rule of thumb is,” she went on, “The wetter, the better.” I nodded dutifully and made a note to myself to never ask for an omelet at her house.

Still, Jane had a point. It demands nothing less than the real thing – true lust and desire. That surge of chemistry that hits you like a bolt of lightning — and, boom, you just gotta have it. So it was a surprise to me when in my forties, with menopause newly upon me, I found myself in bed with a real “prince.” Everything was flashing green and I was ready for a humdinger of a night when shockingly, it wouldn’t drip.

Bone dry. Not even a bit of tacky wetness. Just tree bark rubbing against tree bark. Not to be outdone by my body, I ran into the kitchen naked, grabbed a bottle of olive oil from the cupboard, and raced back to bed.

“What’s that?” asked the unsuspecting prince.

“Olive oil,” I said matter-of-factly. “Your tool needs oiling.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said covering himself with the sheet. “You do that and I’ll never be able to eat a salad again without getting a hard on.”

“So give up salads,” I said. “We can’t stop now!” My eyes flashed desperation.

The prince stared down at his penis. It had shrunk to the size of a giant peanut.

“Oh yes we can,” he said. “I’m going to bed.”

He rolled over and was snoring in seconds. I lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling fan for hours, and asking myself over and over, Had the lubrication faucet just turned off for good?

What would you do? The only thing I could thing of was to go see my doctor. It was too embarrassing to even consider talking to anyone about it.

The next day, I found myself in a similar position to the night before, with knees splayed open and a blue sheet the size of giant paper towel covering my privates. Only this time, I was watching the top of my doctor’s head as it bobbed up and down in front of my vagina as she tried to place the speculum.

“Hmmmmm,” she said ominously. “What do we have here?”

“What is it?” I said trying to prop myself up on my elbows. Not so easy when your feet are in stirrups.

“Hold still,” she said. “The speculum’s falling out.”

I stared at her gray roots trying to distract myself and held steady.

“Very interesting,” she said rising from between my knees. “You have a patch of dry skin on the top, inside of your vagina.”

“A patch? Of dry skin?” I said with horror. “What the hell is that? Some kind of leprosy?” This was more serious than I realized.

My doctor’s mouth started moving quickly. I was too stunned to make out a word she said except I was sure she laughed, and I was sure I heard the words, “vaginal dryness, menopause, it could get worse.”

An image of sand dunes in the shape of labia flashed before my eyes. Without me knowing it, it was turning into a desert wasteland. I already knew olive oil wasn’t going to cut it but what help is there for a gal left high and dry? Is there sex after vaginal dryness?

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