(If the following reminds you at all of an SATC episode, I apologize in advance. In my circle of friends I'm ALWAYS the Samantha.)
All weekend long I did nothing but sleep, eat, shower occasionally, discover the miracle that is Hulu Plus, turn off my cable, and attempt to get my life in order. That's what weekends in the winter are made for. I imposed a bedtime/curfew for myself for school nights so that I could ensure maximum calm and positivity at work the next day. I stayed up and slept late most of the weekend. Now, here it is, the night before work resumes and I can't sleep. As I often do, I reached into the bottom drawer of my nightstand to grab my pocket lover/sleep aid so I can rock myself to sleep. 5 attempts later, I was sweating like a whore in church and no matter how I tried to relax and access the top shelf of my Spank Bank, I could not achieve my petit mort. I kept having the petit mal version of an orgasm. It's like I'm almost there and then it disappears.
At first I blamed the weight of my layers of blankets which I threw off of my person with the ferocity of a Spaghetti Western villain's entrance. When the cool air washed over me, the familiar rigor mortis began to set in. My toes curled tighter than pig knuckles, I held my breath and then.....nothing happened. It's like waiting for the guest of honor at a surprise party to come in and yelling surprise to the wrong person. After stop starting so many times, no one wants their lady parts to feel like a dead car battery, I finally just gave up for the night and fought with my sheets and pillows for the rest of the night like Nia Long in Love Jones when Laurenz Tate is sleeping on her couch.
This unfortunate phenomenon happened to me a few times before. An episode that stands out most happened with the 2 year lover, the one whose mind & nookie I adored. He and I talked a good game about what was going to go down when we got to my place. We'd gone to see a show that night and shared many a naughty stare and text. I was feeling particularly grown up that evening as we prepared to do the grown up, so I put on Nina Simone. Grown ups screw to jazz, right?
While I got my playlist ready, he took an urgent phone call in the other room. I didn't mind the additional prep time his call allowed me. I tend to like to set a scene. Blame the theater nerd in me. I did some yoga stretches while I waited and sang See Lion Woman. I'm far from a yogi, but I thought seeing me contort my limbs at odd angles in a dimly lit room would suggest I was ready for whatever was to go down.
And go down it did, except that what should have been a remarkable encounter turned out to be a tragic disappointment by no fault of his AT ALL. What usually and unusually worked with us suddenly didn't. It was as if I was totally into it in one second then something flipped a switch in my body and suddenly, I was not. Though I tried to win an Oscar for my performance of a woman thoroughly satisfied for his sake, because he really was doing ALL the right things, he remained unconvinced so we stopped. Being the sensitive and attentive lover he was, of course he wanted to know what was wrong. I racked my brain as I lay there sprawled across my bed with the sheet draped across me and could only blurt out one thing.
"I think my vagina is broken."
I didn't mean this to insult or praise him.
I didn't mean this the way braggadocious rappers talk about beating it up or knocking the bottom out of it.
I simply meant that whatever the reason, she, my love below, was not here for his or anyone else's reindeer games.
Every once in a blue moon, no matter how much I want to or how ready I may be, I suffer from female erectile disfunction. Is that a thing? Seriously.... I need to know because periodically, my body, mind, and chocha just aren't in sync.
What happened last night though? Is it the fault of the bottle of wine I downed? No. I've consumed far more and had far greater pleasure, alone and otherwise.
Was I stressed out? Stress makes me not want to physically eat, but I rarely lose my appetite for....ahem, especially since I said "hi" to my mid thirties.
After careful OCD observations,(read: staring at my ceiling for 3 hours) it occurred to me that this "female erectile disfunction" is really the hormonal seat filler (eew) for my period. Yup, my uterus the hater of all haters, queen of cblocking that she is has now added disorienting hormonal announcements to declare her arrival. It's like my body is sending me a save-the-date card for the sex I won't be able to have. Knowing she's coming (pun intended) isn't enough, so now she likes to give a little prequel, a sneak preview, if you will of the coming "attraction."
Why am I (over) sharing this? Because in addition to not "finishing" I also can't sleep and feel like Tanisha on that old season of Bad Girls Club. Really it's because I promised honesty to you in this space. The older I get, the more i discover about being a woman that regardless of how open an honest a relationship you have with the women in your family, your gyn, and your multiple copies of Our Bodies, Ourselves, there are SO many things you have to learn about your body and yourself on your feet, or in this case on your back. Thank me another time. I'm gonna try and sneak a nap under my desk.