Awakening

"Perimenopause is the time during which your body makes the natural transition to menopause, marking the end of your reproductive years." Burbled the man on the YouTube video in an upbeat and engaging tone.

I was listening to the video while I tried to scrub half dried cat vomit out of my living room rug. My gynecologist's office had called earlier in the day to confirm that my hormone levels did in fact indicate that I was perimenopausal. Though, truthfully, I already knew before they even called -- the headaches, no focus, waking up in the middle of the night so drenched I had to wonder if a pipe had broken above me, the random unexpected moments where I would swear that some asshole had a space heater on full blast pointed right at me, and of course there were the mood swings -- going from calm to having the rage of a thousand PMS's. I would find that suddenly I would just feel furious at the stupidity of oblivious and inconsiderate people. The infraction didn't even have to directly affect me to get me hotter than Carrie White on prom night. Oh, and let's not forget the piece dela resistance -- thick black whiskers that seemed to sprout out of my chin like spring's first shoots of grass every few days no matter how many times I plucked or tore them out between my thumb and index finger.

However, the absolute worst part of it all was something that I didn't even notice at first. One Saturday morning I woke up from a vivid and sensual dream and was in the mood. It was then that I realized that I hadn't actually been in the mood or even thought about sex for months. How long had it been? I had wondered. Four months? Six? Longer? Jesus! That's it. I thought. I deserve some self-care. Yet, when I did all the things I usual did, while thinking about all the sensual fantasies I could imagine, I was dry. Not even a drop of moisture. I was drier than a mathematics conference hosted by a professor with cotton mouth.

I did eventually have a climax despite the lack of moisture. Well, if you could call it that. It felt more like a perfunctory, mechanical spasm. One, two, three pulses, then done. It felt like a chore rather than anything in the same universe as passion.

"...and once you've gone a full year without a period, you're considered to be in menopause." The man's voice cheerily stated.

Approximately 4-5 billion women on the Goddamned planet and they couldn't find a woman to do the fucking voiceover? I grumpily thought. Also, why does this fucker sound so damned happy?

Then, I thought about his last statement. It would be nice to not have to buy feminine hygiene products. I've always hated that phrase, by the way. I think most women do. Feminine hygiene. It's like a warning that we're unclean because we're bleeding. Don't let the bleeder touch you when she's unclean, boy, she's gonna get you with her witch's sex blood magic and ruin you. That's when those wicked vaginas grow teeth and devour men whole. Fucking uptight Puritanical muthafucking men and their scared little man-child mindsets. We women have fucking self-cleaning body parts! We're magic 100% of the time. That archaic frame of mind ruins men too, by the way. Telling them that it's wrong to feel or express human emotions so that they can't differentiate what they're feeling except, "not good." Telling them that there's only one right way to be a man. Fucking ridiculous.

Where was I? Oh yeah. No more periods. That definitely sounded like a blessing. No more need to worry about pregnancy. Not a huge concern since I can't even see my significant other for the foreseeable future, but still an upside to "the change."

I looked at my computer screen. There was a very wrinkled miserable looking woman on the screen as the voiceover man chattered on.

"Some other things you might experience during perimenopause are: rapid heartrate, embarrassing leaks, irregular and crazy heavy periods, itchy boobs that feel deflated and hurt, depression, weight gain, hormonal acne, change in body odor, as well as thinning hair and bald spots and, of course, uncomfortable sex or complete lack of libido. But, don't worry, these are all normal occurrences during this natural stage of a woman's life. After you're officially in menopause, Kegel exercises can help strengthen your pelvic floor. You'll also want to keep your labia and vagina toned so they won't begin to sag, shrink or tear." He said cheerily.

"I'm sorry. WHAT!?" I yelled, shocked. "Sag, shrink or tear?! No, no, no, no, no, no, no!"

I stopped the video on opened Google, hurriedly typing in "saggy vagina menopause." There it was. "Changes in the Vagina and Vulva."

I read on terrified. "During the transition to menopause hormonal changes occur in a woman's body. The vagina and vulva are both affected causing them to become thinner, drier, and less flexible which is known as 'vulvovaginal atrophy.' Holy fuck!"

I couldn't help myself. My vision blurred and large, hot tears fell on to my cheeks, running down my face. I know, I know. Millions of women are all going through this, countless more already have, but when you're going through it... Well, I felt like I had gone from being an energetic young woman to old childless spinster-crone. Time for me to get fitted for a cane and hooded cloak. I'm about to become a member of the old shriveled vagina club, grow a beard, and turn into a desiccated old prune.

The worst part is that no one talks about it. No one warns you about this stuff. It's like some top-secret sorority -- The Sisterhood of the Sagging Vagina, Sister Dry-Berry Pie reporting for duty, Ma'am. Christ! The sisterhood is so top-secret that even once you're a member, we don't talk about it.

As that night turned into weeks, into months, I began to accept that my body was changing. Most of the changes I hated. Though it was nice to only get a period every four months -- exceptionally painful, nauseating, and ridiculously heavy, but after seven to ten days, it would end and I'd start the count again. Day one, day two, day three through day one hundred and ninety or thereabouts and then I'd hope, maybe this time I'll make it to three hundred and sixty-five and be done with this shit. This was the way for several years.

A few months ago, something shifted though. I had just had a period three weeks before and, therefore, was completely caught off-guard by the giant period stain in my underwear. I hadn't even started cramping. There hadn't been any pinch of ovulation. There had been absolutely no warning. Thanks, uterus. Ovaries, way to look out for a sister.

For the next few months, it was the same -- hoping that I would go back to my old countdown, only to be surprised at a random inopportune moment, barely a month after the last time. The cycles were still rough -- heavy, long-lasting and exhausting. However, I noticed that my interest in sex had begun to change as well.

I found myself hunting for new toys and getting excited while researching them. Vibrators, dildos, thrusting/vibrating dildos, suction toys, every description I read increased my excitement until I was feeling it flow through my body in waves. I finally decided on a standard vibrator, a suction toy, a toy meant to mimic a lover's tongue, tirelessly working your clit and, since my boyfriend and I still weren't able to see each other, I bought a thrusting dildo as well.

In the beginning, I subsisted on memories of my boyfriend's kisses, the feel of his hands and body on mine. However, as time went on, it became bittersweet to daydream about that far off someday when I would be allowed to touch him again. More often than I want to say, I would cum and immediately start sobbing. I tried to expand desire's repertoire. I would search out images of men I found attractive or porn GIFs that ranged from sweetly tame to wildly passionate. These were more satisfying, but I felt guilty, like I was doing something wrong and betraying my relationship. I began to tell my boyfriend about the porn images I was seeking out. At first, he found it amusing, I think. His girlfriend was the perv in the relationship, not him. After getting over the initial fear of being judged, I was excited to tell him about my erotic escapades.

"I learned all about cock milking today, honey. Did you know that there are machines that some Dom's use to make their subs cum multiple times in a row? This morning I was watching a threesome -- one man was eating a woman's ass and fingering her while another man fucked her mouth. Then, one tea-bagged her while the other choked her and came all over her tits. It was so hot! Can we do that sometime?"

"People don't really do that, sweetie. That's just stuff they do in dirty movies." He said before we ended our nightly video call.

I hated that he called them dirty movies. There was nothing dirty them. It was one, sometimes, two, three, or more people enjoying each other, making each other feel good. What's dirty about that? Why can we not talk about these things without passing judgement when it's between consenting adults? The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. I hated all of it, all of what he said. "People don't really do that."

"Yes, they do." I thought. "Yes, it's a movie. Yes, with actors -- or more aptly sexual athletes -- there's no way I'm limber enough to hold my body in some of those positions, are you? In adult film you can find the full range of completely normal sexual activities that people engage in to get each other off. Even if some people wouldn't want to try some of the things I've watched lately, I want to. That doesn't make me unusual, right? I want to experience what it feels like. I want to know if it's as exciting as it looks. I want to know if it will make me cum as hard as it did when I watched someone else doing it."

I love him. He's my best friend and I want nothing more than to grow old with him. The two of us -- wrinkled and hopefully wiser, walking hand in hand together, but the more I've had to care for my physical needs solo, it's become obvious that I need more. I need physical contact, contact that he is not able to give me right now, and more than that, I need to be able to explore my sensuality or I'll regret it.

The next evening when we spoke during our nightly video call, I brought up the topic of sex again. I was nervous. I was going to suggest we try having an open relationship, just until he was well enough to leave the house. At that point, it wasn't so much that I wanted to have intercourse with someone else, but I was very interested in seeing a professional Dom. I figured I could tide myself over with a porn subscription if I could at least be allowed to try out the other things I was interested in. I was even going to give him a say in who I chose as a Dom and was willing to compromise on what things I could and couldn't do with him. I had spent nearly the whole day preparing an outline of my points, trying to guess what his arguments might be, and how to respond to them. There was a roiling pit of dread and anxiety churning in my stomach, but there was something else -- excitement. My clit was already wet and tingling at the possibilities of what might soon be.

He sighed heavily, clearly annoyed the moment I changed the subject. The irritation was palpable in his voice when he interrupted me, "Can we cool it with the sex talk?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I let you have a few weeks to get it out of your system, but enough now. We don't need to talk about it every fucking night." He said sternly, considering the subject closed.

"What's wrong with talking about it? You're my boyfriend. Shouldn't we be able to -"

"It was kinda cute at first, but women aren't supposed to like porn." He explained.

"Says who?" I asked sharply.

"It's a little slutty. Women are supposed to like romance novels from the grocery store, not talk about licking butts and gang bangs." He said the last of his point in hushed tones as if someone might overhear him despite the fact that he lived alone.

"How is it slutty to be interested in sex? I thought you were excited that we were talking about it. Christ knows we haven't been doing it." I regretted that the moment it came out of my mouth. This is exactly what I had been trying to avoid -- making him feel defensive about the illness that kept him inside over the past three years, away from people long after most considered the pandemic over or at least manageable.

"I'm not going to risk being hospitalized again to fuck you." He gritted out furiously. "I'm especially not going to be doing any of that sadomasochistic sick fucking shit you keep going on about. Start acting like a girlfriend."

I felt like I had just been slapped across the face. He stared back at me, lips pressed tightly together, just waiting to argue back at whatever I had to say next. I looked down at my notes.

"I was going to ask you if we could try to work out some sort of compromise in light of... everything. But," I said slowly not believing the words I was about to say. "But now I think maybe we have a bigger issue. Maybe this isn't working anymore."

"What?" he asked angrily, not understanding.

I looked up at the screen, at his face, still twisted with irritation and anger. "I don't think our relationship is working anymore -- for either of us. There are things that I want that I don't think you'll ever be okay with even considering."

He just stared at me. I could see the fury building as my words sank in. I could see the angry tears in his eyes. I sat there waiting for him to say something. Instead, he reached forward and abruptly ended our video chat. The lack of response hurt way more than if he would have yelled or insulted me again. I tried calling him back. No answer. I sent a text message. No response.

I sat numbly in front of my computer screen for several hours before the tears started. It took that much time to fully grasp what I just happened. What the fuck did I just do? I screamed internally. We were supposed to grow old together. Did I just make a colossus-sized fuck up? I tried calling again, five times, ten, twenty. No answer. I sent emails and text messages. No response.

I was about to change back into clothes and drive to his apartment, and knock on the door until he either let me talk to him or until my hands were bloody from trying when my best friend called.

"Oh my God! What is going on with you?" She chided. "Jack just called me and told me you broke up. Why would you break up with a sweet man like that and with him being so sick? He's heart broken."

"I called him -- keep calling -- but he won't pick up and talk to me." I sobbed.

"Well, I wonder why when you're making him feel guilty for not being able to leave the house." She scolded.

"That's not what happened." I felt like the floor was going to disappear beneath my feet. "What did he say to you?" I'm not sure if I had meant that as a rhetorical question or not, but she responded.

"He said that you yelled at him for not seeing you in person. He said that you were talking about 'intimate' things every night. Why would you shame him like that when he can't leave the house?"

My tears stopped. This was some bullshit. I'm not sure what his goal was, but it only made me realize that I had not made a mistake at all.

"He's not telling you what really happened." I barely able to keep from screaming.

"Well, what happened then?" she asked.

"I'm not getting into that. It's private. If he calls again, tell him I said to go shove his dick up his ass."

"For Pete's sake!" she yelled, horrified.

"Goodbye." I said hurriedly as I hung up the phone.

I laughed. I couldn't help it. I imagined the two of them working themselves into a tizzy wondering how to solve a problem like me and it made me belly laugh. It was like an emotional orgasm -- the tension and struggle of several years finally released. It wasn't the resolution I had anticipated, but now I was free to explore whatever desires excited me, with whomever I choose. No more negotiating injured egos or dancing around the emotional eggshells. The Sisterhood hasn't sent my membership card yet, and there's still life between my thighs.