‘My vagina is letting me down’ by Guest Contributor Proudly Ugandan

“Is my vagina wide?”

“What?”

I had to change tactics.

“On a scale of wide, average and tight; how would you rate my vagina?”

This was seconds after he had orgasmed in his palm. We had both taken E. My only drug of choice and one that he sometimes indulged in (often preferring the more predictable alcohol and weed). He had taken his earlier to go for a techno thing. I had opted out of the techno and timed my ecstasy swallowing for an hour before he returned home. The joys of dating a younger man. That night we talked as we one can only while on E or after a fight. We danced in the garage, drunk way too much and rushed upstairs to have sex. Loud sex.

We almost never have loud sex. I do not understand why (a lot) of men need that kind of verbal assurance. I will damn well sigh if I want to. That night though, I was loud. From both laughter and multiple orgasms-often at the same time. He couldn’t cum and at some point we had to drag the mattress to the floor because of how hard he was thrusting. It was more out of frustration than pleasure on his part. For some reason, when on E he takes for ever to cum. Also for some reason his penis shrinks up and turns a weird colour. Logically I should have remembered this because it is not the first time it had happened. All I could think about was how wide and repulsive my vagina was.

The longer we had sex, the more the walls seemed to stretch; as if a victim hiding from a bully. I tried to do on-spot Kegels but my face crunched up until he had to ask if he was hurting me. HOW CAN YOU HURT ME WHEN I CAN BARELY FEEL YOU? Of course, I could feel him. I just wanted it to hurt. I wanted him to have trouble getting inside me. Every.Single.Time.

The irony is when I squirt, I get so tight that I actually push him out. But I wanted to push him out all the time. I wanted us to never have sex again if it meant I was tight.

Eventually he came. He had to rub one out while I cooed some encouraging words. As soon as he reached for the bedsheet to clean himself, I asked my question.

“Is my vagina wide?”

“What?”

I had to change tactics.

“On a scale of wide, average and tight; how would you rate my vagina?”

(Insert dramatic pause and a kiss from him)

“Tight on the side of average”

Now Maybe he said…

“Tight but closer to average”

Or…

“Tight leaning on average”

Regardless, all I heard was WIDE WIDE WIDE WIDE WIDE. Which is exactly what I repeated to my friends in a phone call after he drifted off to sleep. It was all I thought about in the following days during my post E depression. I focused on it so much that my vagina got post-traumatic stress.

Suddenly my 30 years seemed to hang over his 27. I started to make excused to not have sex. My handjob-swap-blowjob technique improved. I coaxed him into skype sex minutes before he was set to come to my house and when that did not work, I encouraged him to watch porn in my room while I tempted to do with my hands what the girl in the video was doing with her body.

I don’t know how long this charade went on for but one day he kissed me on my ear. He kissed me on my ear and whispered that when he is inside me, he fits like he has never fit with anyone before. To be fair, apart from a handful of experiences, he had only been with one other woman. She was even much older than I was and hopefully much wider.

“Yes.” He agreed. “She was much wider but I doubt that I will ever fit as perfectly with anyone else as I have with you.”

We are broken up now and the verdict is still out on that one.

The Irony is that even with all those moments of self-doubt, I never felt sexier. My breasts were firm, my waist slim and my thighs had just the right amount of jiggle. He told me every day how beautiful I was and although I would like to think that I didn’t need the reassurance, it helped quite a bit. He loved my dark skin and the smell of my body. Mostly he taught me to love myself enough to leave him.

Sometimes I catch myself doing a quick Kegel in a taxi or during a meeting. I catch myself with that weird expression on my face that must surely give me away. Mostly though, on most days, I catch myself smiling at how firm my breasts are and how slim my waist is. Because fuck it; my vagina is letting me down. Literally.