THE PENIS IN THE DESERT
- Jul 22
- 6 min read
Sex.
This needs talking about. And instead of giving you a lecture about vaginal atrophy and genitourinary syndrome of menopause — which are real things and important things but also the least sexy words ever assembled in the English language — I am going to tell you a personal story.
Settle in.
Nick came through the door. He had been away working for three weeks, and I had been thinking about ripping his clothes off for most of that time. In fact it had reached something approaching blue movie territory in my imagination. I hadn't told him this because he would not have been able to follow up that extremely high bar. He would have spent the entire three weeks sending me aubergine emojis, taco shells, and three drops of water — his preferred method of communicating that he is thinking about me sexually, which he finds deeply amusing and I find deeply ridiculous and here we are.
Now I need to explain that this state of wanting — this actual, present, arrived-uninvited desire — was an event. A significant event. Because since my menopause kicked in, my libido had firmly kicked out. It had returned to Libido Land and I was genuinely uncertain when, or whether, it was planning to come back.
For context: whilst Nick lies in bed with what he considers to be a considerable erection — and I will say considerable because I would like to remain married — I am lying next to him mentally plotting where I might find elderflower to make those delicious cupcakes from the monthly edition of The Simple Things magazine that had just arrived through the letterbox. Sometimes, if I was feeling generous, he would get a blow job, and his subsequent elation was not unlike Presley's when we take him for a river swim in the Aire — big smile, big shake, big sleep, everyone perfectly content, and I get to dream about my cupcakes in peace. It was, in its way, a workable system.
But today was different.
I wanted him.
He came into the living room. I kissed him. I tore his shirt off. He looked genuinely startled — the expression of a man who has not been expecting this and is not entirely sure his nervous system can handle it.
"The curtains are open," he said. "Everyone will see my widgy."
Nick believes his widgy is roughly the size of the transmitter mast on Emley Moor. I do not challenge this belief because believing in yourself is important and I am a supportive partner.
He closed the curtains. We ended up on the living room carpet. He was tired from travelling so out of pure kindness I decided to go on top. I straddled him. He entered me. I pushed down.
He let out a scream.
Not a small scream. The scream of a man whose world has fundamentally changed. The specific scream — and I say this with complete accuracy — of Presley when one of us accidentally steps on his paw. High-pitched. Immediate. Absolutely committed.
"GET OFF. GET OFF. I think my widgy has snapped in two. CHECK IF IT'S STILL THERE."
I was thrown across the living room. He was in the foetal position. I looked over and clocked the two enormous carpet burns on his bottom.
What the absolute fuck just happened?
Dry vagina. That's what happened. The small, neatly maintained, completely unsuspecting situation that had, without my noticing, been living in the Sahara Desert for the last six months and had told nobody.
Something else that nobody prepares you for. Nobody sits you down and says: by the way, when your libido eventually does make a surprise comeback and you launch yourself at your husband with genuine enthusiasm, the results may be catastrophic for everyone involved, including the carpet, and you will need contingency plans.
Nick got up. Sat on the sofa. Immediately jumped back up again. Grabbed his bottom with one hand — the other was still tenderly cradling the crown jewels — and announced that he had been stung.
"I think you might have carpet burns," I said.
He was convinced the widgy would never work again. He kept saying look at it, look at it, do you think it's broken or just sprained? He wanted to go to A&E. I said we were absolutely not going to A&E. He has always been dramatic.
So. While Nick sat on the sofa nursing himself with a bag of frozen peas — and yes, that is a true sentence about my actual life — let us talk about the dry vagina. Because someone has to.
THE DRY VAGINA: A FRANK AND NECESSARY CONVERSATION
Here is the reality. When your libido has fucked off to wherever libidos go when they abandon you, and you do eventually have a moment of genuine, welcome desire, attempting to act on it without preparation is not going to end well for anyone. It feels — and I want to be medically accurate here — like someone is inserting a marrow that has been lined with sandpaper and filled with grit into a place that was not consulted about this plan.
It is awful. Not just for Nick and his widgy. For me as well.
But here is the actual good news, and I mean this:
You can do something about it.
1. Lube is not a last resort. Lube is a lifestyle.
There are extraordinary lubricants available now that will make your vagina feel like it has been personally invited to Studio 54 in 1977 and is having the absolute time of its life. Water-based, silicone-based, warming, cooling — the options are genuinely impressive. Get one. Get several. Put one on the bedside table. Put one in the drawer. Put one in your handbag if that's the kind of life you're living and honestly good for you.
Lube is engineering. It is the solution to a supply chain problem. Your vaginal tissue has stopped producing lubrication because oestrogen is no longer telling it to. That is not a personal failing. That is biology. Fix it accordingly and without apology.
2. Get yourself some vaginal oestrogen and stop being embarrassed about it.
This is the thing I wish someone had told me six years before they did and I am genuinely furious about the lost time.
Vaginal oestrogen — cream, pessary, or ring — directly addresses the tissue thinning and dryness that menopause causes. It works locally. It is not the same as systemic HRT. It has been used safely for decades. It is extraordinarily effective. And the number of women who have never been told it exists, or who know it exists and are too embarrassed to ask for it, is one of the great tragedies of female healthcare.
Go to your GP. Say out loud, with your actual mouth: "I have vaginal dryness, it is affecting my sex life and my daily comfort, and I would like to discuss vaginal oestrogen." They may look mildly startled. That is their issue. You deserve the conversation.
It takes a few weeks to work. It is not glamorous. It is a game changer.
3. The warm-up is now non-negotiable. You need a full bloody rehearsal.
Your vagina is now a vintage car. Magnificent. Capable of remarkable things. But you cannot just turn the key and floor it. You need to warm the engine. You need time, patience, and foreplay that is actually foreplay and not just an optimistic overture before someone assumes we're ready to proceed.
Tell your partner. With words. Before you end up on the living room carpet with a bag of frozen peas involved.
4. Get reacquainted with yourself first. Before you involve anyone else.
Masturbation maintains vaginal tissue health, increases blood flow, maintains elasticity, and reminds your nervous system what pleasure actually feels like — which it may have somewhat forgotten. This is not a nice-to-have. This is maintenance. Physiotherapy that is considerably more enjoyable than physiotherapy.
A vibrator is not a consolation prize. It is a piece of excellent equipment. Recommended without reservation.
5. If it hurts — stop. And then go to your GP.
Pain during sex after menopause is common. It is not something you are supposed to endure. It is a symptom with treatment options.
Vaginal oestrogen is one. A pelvic floor physiotherapist — an extraordinary human being who has dedicated their career to exactly this — can be genuinely transformative. You are not supposed to be in pain. Get help.
6. Adjust your expectations. Then quietly exceed them.
Here is the thing nobody tells you.
Sex after menopause can be better.
Because you know yourself. Because the people-pleasing has evaporated. Because you know what you want and you're significantly less willing to fake it. The menopause doesn't end your sex life — it renegotiates it. And the renegotiated version, with the lube and the preparation and the honest conversation and the vaginal oestrogen, can be more honest, more pleasurable, and more genuinely yours than anything that came before it.
Also — because I know you're wondering — Nick's widgy is not broken. It was never broken. The carpet burns healed. He has been restored to full working order and is once again sending me aubergine emojis.
We did not go to A&E.
All things considered, a successful outcome.
Women who refuse to suffer politely live here.
Love from Missy Moo x
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