A TMI Vajayjay update. Reader discretion advised.
Today was a hard one. Fever, chills, and my first two dilations on my own. The fever is normal, just hormonal imbalance, but it made my already weakened body nearly incapacitated. I slept for a good part of the day, during which I had the most epic fever dream...
I dreamt that a woman snuck into my room and bound me to the bed. I was already blindfolded because I wear a sleeping mask like all appropriate divas. This woman cloaked in shadow pulled down my lower lip and poured a bunch of pills into my mouth, pain killers, sleeping pills, hormones, and then started massaging my vagina. She was kneading into me and I could feel every explosive sensation, and I was moaning and laughing and also trying to fight her off because the pain was tantamount to the pleasure. My clitoris and urethra are made from erectile tissue, so once I was aroused the raw swelling was nearly unbearable (hence the doctor's instruction to avoid sexual thoughts for two months. Sure.)
But this was one of those dreams where your body is just stuck. I felt myself pinned down, writhing, and in my dream I started screaming "I want to see someone from the clinic! I want to see someone from the hotel! This is my third day with a pussy, i cant do this!"
And when i finally woke up I was sure I'd been violated by some deviant spirit, the dark and lusty side of femininity that is just as carnivorous as the horniest part of man. I was shivering and sweating, but at the same time I knew it was also a blessing I had asked for: To be filled with the power of pleasure, as if a dark, stealth, and mystic goddess had branded me, packed me full of orgasmic capacity.
I had to wait until the fever subsided to do the second dilation. It's a long and laborious process, and you have to be careful, meticulous, and daring. Basically it involves lubing up a 3/4" diameter, 8" long lucite dildo and pressing it into your new vagina as deep and as hard as you can, then holding it there in place for for 30 minutes. My current goal, as assigned by the nurse who taught me how to do it, is to get 7 inches of depth, which to me is laughable because I've been with plenty of men and very few actually make it to the Beyond 7 club. But hey, wishful thinking never hurts, right?
Wrong.
And don't worry, this is only the medium sized dilator they've got me started with.
I had everything set up, the mirror, the lube, the padding to absorb the blood, and just as I was psyching myself up to begin I got a FB message from an old fiend I hadn't talked to in years. It was a paper image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, crowned in flames, pierced by the beak of a humming bird, and in beautiful script said simply "Hola Corazon". I reached to my phone, with rubber gloves on already, meaning to message him back, but ended up calling accidentally. It was nearly 3am in LA. We talked, he told me he was proud of me, I cried with an iPhone in one hand and a dildo in the other. We were trying to remember the last time we'd seen one another face to face, and he told me it was when I was teaching him to float in the swimming pool in my grandparents back yard in Long Beach.
And then I lost it. The tears, my grandma and papa, gone for 7 years now. And suddenly I missed them with every fiber of my being and wept on the phone with this distant friend who somehow knew to remind me of those with me on the other side.
It took me 10 minutes to get to full depth (and even still I think I was only cheating with 6 and three-quarters). After 20 minutes of pressing and breathing and trying to keep my pelvic floor relaxed, I thought I was gonna die. I grabbed my rosary and started yelling Hail Mary's and Our Father's. The pain was so intense that sometimes I forgot the words and had to start over. I was also watching season 1, episode 3 of Six Feet Under, the one about the severed foot.
There was a lot going on.
I think this is worth recapping just to get the complete mental picture: Me, sitting in bed in my Thailand hotel literally jamming an 8" lucite dildo into my new hooha while clutching an old wooden rosary from Mexico and screaming catholic prayers while watching someone accidentally got chopped up in a bread dough mixer, which coincidentally, was pretty much how my insides were feeling at the time.
Afterwards, as I trembled in the shower with victory and exhaustion, I thought of The Wizard of Oz, and the journey to the Emerald City.
Dorothy: It's dark and creepy.
Scarecrow: Of course, I don't know but I think it'll get darker before it gets lighter...
When I look at it in the mirror, i see swelling and stitches and dying skin and discharge, but I also see a Vagina, and that's the point, isn't it?
Despite my absolute fatigue, I have a beauty rule that I don't think I've ever shared publicly, and it's this: One must never waste an opportunity to walk down a staircase. Please, when descending stairs, remember to be regal.
Well that was my exercise for the day. An elegant trip down and up two flights of a spiral staircase. The blonde wooden handrails had just been polished and the silky touch and lemon scent helped me to regain some semblance of elegance. Even if I was wearing a muumuu and flip flops, true to my oath, the opportunity was not wasted.
There were also some lovely interactions today as well... One of the other ladies here, Julie, went out and bought me some granny panties that I wouldn't mind bloodying up since i'm still too swollen to fit into my own. Toni, the newly vagged surfer chick here with her wife and kids went back to Australia, and the delightful ex-speedway racer Deanne also returned to the UK, where she plans to reunite with her estranged daughter. I met two veteran Supornistas from Israel, one of them basically the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, and she wants to take me wig shopping. They all want me to have the hair, and I've tried wigging before but I always end up feeling like a drag queen. Bald is my Butoh, my punk rock, my gender anarchy. And like I always say, "what's the point of having hair if you can't pull it during sex?"
Maybe though, one day you'll see me with long flowing burnt orange locks, flecked with bordeaux low-lights, hair like New England trees in autumn. I think that would be my look. Any hot wig designers out there?
Finally, at the end of this grueling day, with my body on fire and my yoni throbbing, my new friend Aom, the physiotherapist from the hospital, came to my hotel room with wonton soup and Thai tea, and again I cried and thanked her and all my guardian angels for taking care of me on this journey.
Now, at long last, I'm putting myself to bed in hopes that I don't spot through onto these crisp white sheets. (Why white sheets in a vaginoplasty recovery hotel?!)
I've got 20 more days in this room, banging myself and facing myself like Bastian at the Southern Oracle, who sees in his reflection the Childlike Empress pleading for her name.
Dr Suprorn's last patient for the season went into surgery today, so the ladies at the hotel will slowly start to depart like contestants on Survivor, which in fact, we are.