I thought I was done with sex. My doctor apparently hadn’t cleared that with my vagina.
What I love about my primary care provider is she’s to the point. But when she prescribed me a vibrator, saying, “You either use it or lose it,” I was taken aback for once, and confused.
I haven’t had sex since 2022, when my marriage ended. I also haven’t missed sex, and have relished being liberated from my husband’s Hungryman appetite. I reason I’ve had a good run over the years. (According to my ex-husband’s creepy record-keeping, we had sex 263 times in 2010.) So sitting there on the edge of the cold examining table in my blue paper gown, I wondered, how is it my doctor’s place to suggest I buy a vibrator?
I was confused because I wasn’t certain what she meant by it. Did it refer to my sex drive? Sorry, but Elvis has left the auditorium. (Thank you, menopause!)
“Lose what, exactly?” I finally asked.
“Your vagina. Specifically, your vagina’s pliability,” she explained. “The longer you go without penetration, the more it will dry out and contract.” I pictured Eve’s half-eaten apple lying in the sun, shrunken and dehydrated. “Some people even require spacers,” she added. “And you don’t want that.”
What “Use It or Lose It” Means After Menopause
Spacers—or vaginal dilators—I would later learn, are tube-shaped medical devices that come in sets of gradually increasing sizes. They may help to stretch, relax, and rehabilitate vaginal tissue, reduce pain during penetration, and maintain or restore the structure and length of the vagina.
How was it, at age 64, this was the first time I had heard about this aspect of the aging process, its withering effects, and spacers, which sounded to me like braces for the vagina?
Still, a vibrator? Been there, didn’t do that. I’d been gifted one by a friend after my first divorce but never worked up the gumption to use it. The vibrator was clunky, mechanical, and noisy. Anything but the natural approach to health and hygiene I generally opt for. If I haven’t subscribed to fountain-of-youth injections, hormone replacement therapy, or dyeing my hair, why would I ever put a battery-operated machine in my cooch?
And yet … I was still relatively young, had many years to look forward to, God willing, and maybe even a relationship or two left in me. Did I really want a part of me to shrivel up and die before I did? I agreed to fill the “prescription.”
What to Know Before Buying Your First Vibrator
When I walked into Lovers, I donned imaginary blinders and headed straight for the sign to my left that blared in three-foot block letters VIBRATORS AND DILDOS. A friendly salesperson asked if I needed help. Yes, I thought. Help me get out of this store with a vibrator in hand in under 30 seconds. I nodded instead.
They proceeded to ask me a series of questions, my mortification growing with each one: What’s your budget? Is noise a factor? Are you looking for internal or external stimulation, or both? Then, they asked if I’d like to test some sample vibrators. Here? I thought. Is there at least a dressing room?
There was no dressing room. Only a drawer behind the counter with a rainbow array of options, all with slightly different features and settings. Immediately, I ruled out the two with more bells and whistles than a top-trim Mercedes-Benz. I didn’t have the time for a Ph.D. in robotics. One that rotated like a Tilt-A-Whirl was sold out, so instead I selected the quietest, most basic—without being cheap—vibrator in a color I’d never heard of before: “Labia pink.” The kindly salesperson upsold me on some water-based lubricant and a “gentle” cleaning solution, then rang me up, placed my purchase in a plain brown paper bag, and told me, “Have fun!”
Oh right, fun! I’d been so focused on not losing “it” I’d forgotten that other people buy these things for pleasure. This will be fun, I told myself unconvincingly.
When I got home, my adult son who lives with me was watching TV on the living room sofa, with his back facing me. I felt like a teenager sneaking weed past my parents as I scurried by with my nondescript bag. Once in the bedroom, I locked the door behind me and unboxed my new vibrator. I then placed it along with the lube and cleanser in my nightstand—which conveniently has a hidden drawer.
Can a Vibrator Help You Sleep?
That night, I waited until the house was quiet. Then I took out the vibrator, applied some lube, and pulled up my nightgown. I’m not sure what it’s called when a woman comes that fast, but whatever it’s called, that’s what I did. We’re talking seconds.
Wow, I thought, Elvis lives on.
That night, I slept better than I had since hot flashes began pickpocketing me. I’ve stopped taking melatonin altogether, and wake up refreshed and, well, unburdened is the best word I have to describe the new me.
Can a Vibrator Replace Intimacy?
In her recent essay in The Atlantic, Sarah Hepola warns that while the mainstreaming of vibrators represents a golden age of female pleasure, easy “on-demand” orgasms may result in a retreat from genuine relationships. My guess is her doctor has never mentioned spacers.
I’m not all that worried about dying alone with my vibrator in the cold clutch of my dominant hand. I chose a solitary life (for now). It didn’t choose me. And, while I like having the option of a vibrator, it’s like getting a foot massage through latex gloves. Both feel good, but one is better by far.
I do intend to reenter the game of messy, real-world intimacy again someday, but for now, I stand on the sideline, ready, willing, and dilated for when circumstances call me back onto the field of play.
