Moose in the Kitchen

(This is a series. If you’re trying to read this backwards on Google Reader, you may want to start here. Story officially begins here.)

I come from sturdy peasant stock, the kind with thick ankles who squat in the corn fields to give birth. No sissy HMOs for us. So I was startled to discover that sex was about as pleasant as a nail file being raked down my cheek. With my bone structure I should not only be able to have sex, I should be able to give birth to a Volvo while casually discussing the peccadilloes of Jerry Springer. My farm-bred ancestors whirled in their graves.

Sex doesn’t exactly rank up there with oxygen or a block of cheddar or the life-giving liquid properties of coffee. (Or water. I GUESS.) You won’t die without it. But you sure will get cranky. Your face will start to pucker and your mouth will turn sour and you’ll become a wrinkled hag at the ripe old age of 24. Not really. My cheeks remain as silky as ever. But I did feel extraordinarily bitter whenever I ventured out-of-doors and saw people, people everywhere, people who can have sex. People who might have just had sex twenty minutes ago. Or are going home to get it. Bastards.

I didn’t realize then that I wasn’t THE ONLY PERSON IN THE WORLD with this problem. I suppose it was vestiges of my angst-ridden, teenage NOBODY UNDERSTANDS ME, complete with rending of oversize plaid flannel shirts. But no one ever talks about this. Anywhere. I didn’t know it existed. My doctors didn’t know it existed. It’s easy to fall prey to garment rending. (If you’re of a certain temperament. I don’t want to tar you all with my over-emotional brush.)

As previously stated, I was a late bloomer. I was smack in my mid-20s before I found someone who didn’t see me as Girl #3, to be called at 5 p.m. on Valentine’s Day when your first (and possibly second) choice cancels. (You’ll be glad to hear that I have some pride and said I was busy. I didn’t say I was busy finishing an episode of Seinfeld.) I did meet a few people who were probably interested in me as more than the American Flavor of the Month or Girl # Let’s Not Think About How Many Girls There Actually Were. But I wasn’t interested in someone who wanted to take me out on Valentine’s Day and buy me roses and golden cherubs and, I don’t know, whatever it is girls get on Valentine’s Day. Because I’m contrary like that. Some might even say ornery.

And when someone says they have zero interest in meeting me, HOW CAN I RESIST? I’m helpless in the face of such charismatic honesty. After I used my wily wiles and secured a meeting, I was charming and displayed the proper brand of unfortunate humor. It all floated along quite nicely. Until I decided to release all my carefully constructed neuroses and let my proverbial hair down. (Oh, who am I kidding? My neuroses have gone nowhere.)

Sometimes it hurts the first time. We all know this. It’s fine. Not the stuff of bodice rippers, but I don’t think there’s a soul alive who expects reality to match a story featuring brawny men with flowing locks. Locks that obviously require a little too much conditioner and blow-drying for him to be of any use to the wilting female in his arms.

When it still hurts after the first TEN times, your brain flops meekly in the direction of “What the hell?” Later, when asking someone about the first three months, your subtext vibrates with a militant “WHY THE HELL DOES IT STILL HURT?” A few weeks later, you’ve given up on being polite and shriek, “HELLO! STINGING NETTLES OF SATAN HERE!” And there is no subtext.

About six months later, after some depression and a lot of prodding, I turned to the medical industry for their sage advice. Unfortunately, my HMO was utterly baffled by my vagina.