Like A Virgin: Post-Op Sex
The birds and the bees and endometriosis
People undertake reproductive surgery for various reasons. This article is about recovery after laparoscopic surgery for endometriosis, but contains advice for any person with female reproductive organs who feels just about ready to get back out there!
Some women* decide on surgery hoping to make their tricky sexual lives easier after getting some of the endometriosis removed from their bodies. Others don’t have sex in mind at all as they embark on this medical journey. The consequences for both are the same.
The birds and the bees and endometriosis
I have a friend, let’s call her Mel, who also has endometriosis. Her main symptoms were different from mine: while I feared my next period might kill me, Mel was enraged that sex was getting more and more painful for her after each cycle. We both had our reasons for deciding on finally getting our first laparoscopies. We went into surgery a couple of weeks apart from each other. We were both given the same vague post-op advice: listen to your body, get back into sports and sex when you feel ready.
What is ready?
Priorities…
Each tucked in her own bed, we were texting throughout the recovery period. We were updating each other on our physical movement, pain levels, quality of our poop and how our bladders were doing. We each had our priority. While my libido was non-existent and I was just counting the days until my menstruation to see if I’ll finally be able to take it on my feet (literally), Mel couldn’t wait to heal enough to finally have sex.
Mel did it first. She was underwhelmed. She said it still hurt, it felt weird and the whole situation was awkward, resulting in “vanilla sex” she so badly wanted to get away from. She said she couldn’t get out of her own head — fear, anxiety, expectations... it was all too much. She couldn’t climax. She was disappointed.
I did it much later than she did. I was petrified. The sex felt like losing my virginity all over again: we were both nervous, expecting a scream of pain to cut it short. I was still and awkward, afraid to move. Orgasming was out of the question. It all felt very forced, like a milestone I was obligated to get over.
Neither Mel nor I had sex for a while after that. Today, I’m sharing all the wisdom we collected from our experiences.
First assessment
Do your scars hurt when you move? Are you so fatigued you need to take naps between walks around the apartment? Are you scared of doing sit ups because you have the irrational fear you’ll break an ovary? If the answer to any of these questions is Yes — you’re not ready for sex.
Do you feel sexual intercourse is a test to see how far you’ve come healing-wise? Are you putting pressure on yourself to do it? Is somebody else putting pressure on you to do it? If the answer to any of these questions is Yes — you’re not ready for sex.
A drop of trauma
Sex is scary after surgery. A drop in libido is perfectly normal for several reasons.
Firstly, people literally put mechanical tools inside of your body and tossed and turned your ovaries and uterus around, look for tissue to get rid off, drilling into some of your organs, scraping parts of your pelvis clean… Your body is traumatized. This traumatized body not only fears more trauma, but it’s not producing hormones in a balanced way. A drop in libido is medically unsurprising.
Secondly, everything described above is processed by your mind as well. Just like Mel described, it’s perfectly normal to be “in your head”. No matter how minor medical professionals claim this surgery to be, it’s still surgery, and it’s in an area that was already an incredibly sensitive spot, both physically and mentally.
DIY, darlings!
If your favorite toy is being rejected by your vagina — so will any penis.
Mel was mentally ready for sex, but her body didn’t follow. I wasn’t mentally ready for sex, but my body started waking up. The solution was the same for both of us — try it yourself first.
You’re always safest and most relaxed with yourself. Play around at your own pace. Stop when it hurts, keep going when it feels good. Remind yourself of your sexuality. Give your body and mind time to remember the pleasure of sex. Without the freedom of orgasming by yourself, you won’t feel comfortable enough to let go and climax with another person either.
Communication is key
This is such a worn out statement that even I rolled my eyes a bit as I typed it — but it’s just so true. Whether you’ll be having your first post-op sex with a long term partner or a new one, you need to tell them what’s going on. Take control. State your limits. Take it slowly and feel it out. Maybe the sex will be disappointing and you’ll decide to stop after a short while feeling uncomfortable, or maybe things will take a turn and you’ll be jumping on the cowgirl seat within minutes — no one knows, and that has to be ok.
Mel and I are both having satisfying, functional sex-lives again, thanks for asking! We did well. We hope you do, too.
*I acknowledge that not all people with female reproductive organs identify as women; however, this text was focused on the experiences of two heterosexual cisgendered women, which is the reasoning behind the terminology used
