Rebecca Martin

My vaginismus sucks. But in coping with this condition, I’ve tried to find the positive — and for me, that positive is experimenting with new sexual acts.

If you talk about sex, you automatically become “the sex person.” Suddenly, I am no longer a prospective engineer or an amateur singer, but I am merely conflated to “that person who overshares her sexual experiences.”

The truth is, even though I was probably afraid of penises most of all, I was still pretty terrified of bodies in general at that point, including my own.

There’s also tends to be a lot more stigma surrounding masturbation for people without penises, like it’s somehow uncouth to touch yourself if you’ve got a vagina.

I don’t trim, shave or wax because I don’t like to — it makes my whole downstairs area super itchy and uncomfortable.

Much like the G-spot, squirting is like an elusive unicorn of sex — many people think it’s like a mythical creature that exists only in unrealistic porn depictions.

Not all dicks are the same. There are many different types of penises, there are many things you can do with them, and all of them are wonderful and fun.

Partners that respect one another harm and dominate each other safely, sanely and consensually — and then extend that respect further through the aftercare that they provide each other.

I hope that I can experience sex. I want to. But I’m also trying to be kind to myself and my body and to accept it as it is.

Choosing to disclose virginity status is a very personal decision, and it frustrates me when people try to make it for me. As a virgin, it’s up to me to decide when, how and why I do or don’t want to disclose to a partner.