CHAPTER NINE - TILTED

Who knew physical acceptance was more than skin deep?

“You’re tiny!” CB exclaimed as she walked behind me, following me up the stairs to my apartment. “What do you weigh? One-twenty?”

CB is one of my oldest friends, who had come over for a post-separation check in and take-out sushi. We’ve known one another since we were five-years old, schoolmates back in New York City. She’s a career trophy wife, and maintains five percent body fat, so if she says you’re tiny, you’re tiny.

“Divorce is a great diet!” I sang back, another one of my now constant refrains.

CB wasn’t the only one to notice the rapid weight loss. Others had made mention of it, and, of course, I had noticed it too. I spent most of my life between one-twenty-five and one-thirty-five, and I was happy there. After having children, however, I struggled. No matter what it did, I was stuck… trapped at one-fifty. I started buying drapey, over-sized t-shirts and fashionably loose onesies to hide what I couldn’t ever seem to run off or lift away, and sadly, told myself - like a lot of things - that this was just my life now.

About a year ago, I finally caved and did the whole Noom thing. After nine long months, that got me down to a shaky one-forty. After leaving Paris, I dropped ten pounds in two weeks. Food just lost its appeal… that, and I have been really fucking busy.

But don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. It feels like a cosmic gift from the universe to this newly single mom. Like those dreams where all of a sudden you have your twenty-five year old body again, with a little note that says, “You’re welcome. Try not to fuck it up this time.” And I will… try not to fuck it up, that is. But weight loss isn’t the only physical change I’ve gone through…

As I mentioned - and will mention again, no doubt - having sex with Romeo again was bloody fantastic. It was, however, a bit intense. Since I first started having sex at sixteen, I noticed that often times the guy would “hit bottom” - kind of ram into my cervix - which has always been jarring and uncomfortable. Friends I spoke to about this didn’t seem to share the experience, and so I reasoned I must have a “short vagina”.

But that wasn’t the only sexual issue I was dealing with back in my teens. About half the time I had sex, the soft skin inside of me would become irritated and swell.

“Use an ice pack after sex!” A stupid male Gynocologist excitedly advised me. Yeah, that’s sexy. Hey, that was awesome babe. Let me put this vag on ice for a bit, and we’ll go for round two.

“Maybe you’re just not wet enough.” Said another male Gynocologist, and we both instantly turned bright red. I was seventeen, not a post-menopausal crone. ‘Wetness’ was not my problem, and even if it was, I definitely didn’t want to talk about it with him.

“Yeah… you probably have vestibulitis.” Said a blessedly female Gynocologist a year later. I perked up. Finally, a diagnosis! “Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do about that.” I deflated. Hopes dashed.

Vestibulitis - or vaginitis, I think they call it these days - is a skin condition - a non contagious skin condition, mind you - characterized by stinging, burning, and swelling of the vagina during sexual intercourse. There’s no cure for it, and sometimes its an issue and sometimes its not - much less so in my adult years. But, as a teenager who had already diagnosed herself with a short vagina, having vestibulitis on top of that, sent me a very clear message: Sex is not something you are built to enjoy. And so, I turned it into something nice I could do for other people.

And that’s what I did. I did nice things for people. A lot of nice things for a whole lot of people. And because I had pretty much given up on the notion of having an orgasm, or even good sex, it didn’t matter what I was getting in return while I was doing those nice things. I made sex about my partner, worked to get them off as quickly and efficiently as possible, using a bunch of tricks I’d devised, to kept them coming back. Sex became a tool, something I used to make men feel special. To get them to stay and keep me in the light of that seductive, hungry, male gaze.

It wasn’t until J, a college boyfriend of mine, became determined to give me my first orgasm, that I realized there might be more to this whole sex thing than I thought. He worked with me, the limits of my “short vagina”, incorporating foreplay so the vestibulitis wouldn’t be aggravated as much, and talked to me the whole time. It was so sweet. The first time I ever came was to the chant of, “I’m right here. You can do it. I’m right here.” Some men are really just fantastic.

If J was sexual discovery, Romeo was a sexual awakening. Not only did he take stock of the whole ‘hitting bottom’ issue and skin condition, he was constantly gathering intel. Each time we had sex was an opportunity to learn something new about what I liked, what I didn’t, and what I could do. He was an eager student of my body, and as it turned out, there was a lot it was capable of - including female ejaculation. That was a surprise.

The last time I had sex with Romeo a few weeks ago, however, we had both forgotten the old lessons. As I mentioned - and will most likely mention again - Romeo is well endowed. There were no problems with the vetibulitis - I was well lubricated from days of fantasizing about him, not to mention the fifteen minutes of head I got before hand - but he was hitting bottom all over the place. I thought it was because my body wasn’t used to his anymore, or anyone’s for that matter. I was out of practice, and this was just part of the rocky road back to sexual stardom.

It wasn’t.

In the days that followed, I noticed a distinct discomfort in my uterus. It felt like it was swollen and bruised, like it had gotten in a bar fight and came limping home for care. The sensation reminded me of when I had taken Clomid - a fertility drug that stimulates BIG ovulations - back when I was trying to get pregnant with Little. I thought, what the fuck? One time with Romeo and my body is just dying to make babies with this man?

This seemed too ironic to be believed, considering the fact that Romeo and I had discussed this very thing. In the eleven or so years since we had last seen one another, Romeo had gone through chemo for Hodgkin lymphoma. It wasn’t severe, his life was never in immediate danger, but the treatment left him with the possibility of being infertile.

“I don’t want anymore kids.” I belted involuntarily. This was one thing I just could not bend on. No way, no how, was I having another child. Not with Romeo, not with Ryan fucking Reynolds for five million dollars. I. was. done. making. people.

“Okay… well, I don’t even know if that’s in the cards for me…” He had said, but it was clearly something he thought about. Maybe, I figured, something he would regret not having done at some point down the line, if he was, indeed, able.

Was it possible now that my body was sending me a message? That I should reconsider my blanket statement of no-children-again-ever-ever-ever by literally firing off a massive ovulation just days after Romeo reentered my life - and her territory? Or, worse, had we somehow conceived? Maybe Romeo didn’t have the kind of control he thought he did, and that stupid prank I played on him back in 2006 was about to become a horrifying reality… Or maybe, it was something else.

So, I did what I always do when things get wacky, and consulted doctor Google. But, as it turns out, “swollen uterus after sex” is not a very well researched area. All I could find was something about women with retroverted uteruses… and that something sounded awfully familiar.

When I was pregnant with Little, my obgyn mentioned something about me having a tilted uterus, but that it didn't mean anything in terms of the pregnancy. When you’re cooking a human, there are so many little things to worry about. If a doctor says something doesn’t matter, you immediately put it out of your mind and move onto the things that do. But having a tilted uterus does mean something. It means a whole lot.

“You have a tipped uterus.” Doctor Kardashian had said the other day, in her constant, semi-annoyed vocal fry, while her fingers were buried inside me.

There it was again! That retroverted, tilted, tipped uterus thing! I jumped on it.

“Yeah…” she said, bored as fuck, “it can make sex uncomfortable.” That was it. Just like all those fucking male gynecologists from my teens. Suck it up, kid. Sex is just going to suck for you forever. Pay at the front, please.

But suddenly, after twenty-two years of being sexually active, the pieces started to come together. I don’t have a short vagina. A short vagina isn’t a fucking thing. I have a tilted uterus, which, according to the brilliant Doctor Google, means she gets easily bumped into in certain sexual positions, and then she gets pissed, and swells. It wasn’t some crazy bout of extreme fertility brought on by Romeo’s fabulous penis - and thank goodness, because that would be weird.

Armed with this new information, I jumped on the internet and stumbled upon a treasure trove. Apparently, tilted uteruses are pretty common. It is well known that certain sexual positions are uncomfortable people like me, but there are a whole bunch that are just fantastic. I scrolled through the various sexual positions, and I shit you not, I recognized every single one of them. They were the exact same positions Romeo had devised for us sixteen years ago. He had no idea that I had a tilted uterus, what that was, or what it meant, and yet, in just a few months, he had worked out what it has now taken me over two decades to understand. That I am absolutely built to enjoy sex, it just needs to be the right kind. It’s not something fucking nice I can do for someone else, it’s something amazing I can share with another person who understands and cares for my body. (Argh... Why is this making me emotional? Damn it!)

But discovering I had yet another chronic condition wasn’t exactly comforting. I had begun adding up all the various pieces of luggage I now carried with me, and my dating show introduction was starting to sound pretty grim.

“And next up we have Juliet! She’s a single mother of two with a depressive ex, herpes, tits like old beanbags, and a tilted uterus. Who wants in?”

Crickets…

Despite the beautiful, skinny body I had been gifted since leaving Paris, these were things I was suddenly having a lot of trouble getting around.

Sure, Romeo thought of me as the one who got away. The one who got away when she was childless, untethered, and STD free. This Juliet was someone else now, and someone I feared no one in their right mind would ever want. I had dreamed of being on my own for years when I was with Paris, having the space to be myself, without anyone to disapprove of me, tell me what to do, or give me a hard time. I fantasized about being completely alone. But after my week with Romeo, I was beginning to realize, I didn’t want alone to last forever.

Like I said, I think I’m exceptionally charming. But is charming enough to off-set diseased, tilted, doesn’t-want-to-have-more-kids, bean-bag tits? I don't know...

And just when I was at a particular low - Big and Little hashing it out over the last piece of homemade pizza in the living room - I noticed I had a Facebook message.

Shortly after writing Chapter Three - A Hard Truth - I decided to reach out to N. I know, it sounds nuts. I hadn’t spoken to him since 2009. (Yes, we maintained a friendship even after he infected me. I had problems, okay?) But - as per the entire purpose of writing this blog - I was discovering things about myself, and one of them was the true depths of pain this virus had caused me. I didn’t know what I wanted, but I figured, what the hell? If you don’t speak your truth, you’ll never know what you could have gotten in return. And so, I wrote this:

Hi [N],

this is admittedly out of the blue, I know, but I'm working through some things. And let me preface this by saying that I'm not coming after you or anything. I'm a grownup now. I wish I was more of a grownup then...

As I said, I'm just working through a lot of unresolved issues, and I am actually hoping you might be able to help. I guess... I just want to know if you ever think about it. Giving me herpes. Because you knew, and you lied.

This sounds confrontational, I know, and maybe it is. I'm still angry and I don't want to be. But I would like to know why. Why you thought I was an okay person to do this to, and if you regret it. If you ever wake up today and think, fuck. What an awful fucking thing I did to that girl. Or if I'm just forgotten, carrying around your strain of this virus and trying my damndest every day to still feel worthy.

At the time, I was in so much denial about who you were and your willingness to pass this on to me, but I'm not anymore. You lied to me, and you lied to [L] right afterwards about the exact same thing. So I know, I know you knew. I also know you're not a bad person, which is what is so hard to reconcile. But you hurt me. For the rest of my life. And I think, after 12 years, I deserve to know why. I hope you reply.

- [Juliet] -

I was expecting one of three things. That he would just block me like a coward, send me some bullshit message about not knowing he had it back then, or - what I really did hope for - was that he would take responsibility in such a way that would help me let go. Let go of the fury and guilt and pain I’ve had to carry. This, Dearest Nurse, is what I got:

[Juliet],

First and foremost, despite anything, I take full responsibility and do think about you and the situation often. I was careless, selfish and cowardly. I realize there’s nothing I can say to make you feel better. It’s tough to look back and see how I could have displayed such a lack of character. I do think about it a lot, especially these days as I try to be a man of integrity, a husband and a father.

I’m not asking you for forgiveness or trying to throw bullshit psychology at you, but I hope the anger you feel over this goes away someday. It’s a shitty shitty thing and I’m so sorry.

[N]

A flood of sharp, garbled sensations ran through me. I trembled, gritted my teeth, and sobbed through them as quietly as I could so the girls wouldn’t hear me.

I had been right. All these years. I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew it. I knew it then and I know it now, without a shadow of a doubt - N knew and he did this willingly. What was also clear was that he was a person. Not a demon, or a piece of shit, or human trash. He was a person who had made mistakes and regretted them, and was doing his best to be better.

He didn’t have to respond to me. He lives in Texas now. He could have easily blocked me and washed his hands of the whole, dirty business. He didn’t. He took the time to respond and offered what he could in the way of an apology.

I don’t know if I’ll ever stop taking myself back to the moment before I slept with him and wishing to God - the Universe, the creator of the first time machine - I hadn’t, but I do think there’s a world in which I’m no longer angry. Where I don’t carry the burden of despising N and wanting to flay him alive. Because, what his letter to me made me face, was the fact that I’ve made some irresponsible, selfish mistakes as well. I slept with a few guys without telling them. Granted, I pounded anti-virals beforehand and made them wear a condom, but I did that, and I have to own it. I gave it to someone, too. He knew I had it, I told him, so he knew he was taking a chance. But still, I hate that I passed this thing on. And who knows? Maybe I gave it to that poor actor I was sleeping with before I knew what I had contracted. He never told me he got it, but I would be shocked if he hadn’t.

N was an asshole back then by his own admission, but I’m not perfect either. This, I think, is what I am:

I am a good person with a tilted uterus, bean-bag tits, herpes, two kids, and a depressive ex. Having sex with me is going to be a little different, but if you’re willing to work with my great, but funny body, it can be amazing and explosive, and all the things you’ve dreamed about. All the things I’ve dreamed about… I am charming - I don’t just think that, I am - and I have resting bitch face. I am a good writer, a hard worker, and a single mom who loves the shit out of her kids. I don’t always get it right, but fucked if I don’t try. And I am capable of great, impactful, lasting love. I just haven’t had the opportunity to go there yet. But it’s not too late. It’s never too late.

I treated myself to free Shakespeare in Griffith Park tonight, alone. I left at intermission, not because I didn’t love the show, but because it was getting late and I knew I had to write to you, Dear Nurse. I walked back to my car in the dark, alone, and I wrapped my arms around myself. I suddenly felt so small, and so perfect, in spite of everything. And I thought… you know what? Everyone comes with baggage. Everyone has their deficits, their quirks, and their bullshit. This is mine, and as much as it seems like it sucks sometimes, everything happens for a reason. Everything.

I have some homework to do on my tilted uterus, but she’s perfect, too. She gave me two beautiful babies, and I love her so much. Now that I know what her deal is, I’m going to do my best - just like Romeo unwittingly did all those years ago - to take care of her, and the rest of my lady parts too. Because she’s fabulous. All of her. All of this body. All of me. Tilts, tips, tits and all.

Sincerely yours,

Juliet