But I was actually living with a rare and confounding condition that made sex impossible. The victim is a virgin. We tried dozens of times to have sex, but I was impenetrable. Romantic, lusty, playful, slow: Neither setting nor method seemed to make a dent. I wondered if my conservative Hindu upbringing could have made me fearful of intimacy. I was curious about sex, but my own body seemed to be vehemently against it. We began to find ways to avoid each other. In public, I played the role of a gregarious and impassioned feminist artist, just starting my art career.
At home, my body rejected what my heart desired. Whenever I tried, it would be fine for the first centimeter, and then my body would shut down and squeeze tight. At last, I had a name for what was happening. For example, some women experience vaginismus after childbirth. Unfortunately, the diagnosis arrived too late to save our marriage. Finalizing the end should have been straightforward: We would have qualified for an annulment, but the label terrified me.
To have an annulment would be admitting I was a sexual failure. I was oddly thrilled when the divorce papers were signed: I could keep my secret. I emerged into the post-divorce-apocalypse of New York City a twenty-seven-year-old neophyte who had never been on a first date.
When I did, I met an Italian epicure. He was romantically inexperienced; I was physically inexperienced. He surprised me by baking chocolate lava cakes while I was washing my hair in the shower. Wounds from the harsh words and humiliations of my marriage were fresh, so I sought solace in kindness and those fudgy pastries.
My heart and waistline grew. Yet progress on the sexual front was still slow. The epicure had to move to California to care for his ill sister. The timing seemed tragic. Just as I identified the treatment I needed and had the strength to pursue it, the Italian was far away. The day he arrived, we had a therapy session together. Short and sweet is perfectly sufficient.
