The 37 Year Old Virgin

 
(WARNING: TMI Ahead)

Guess what ladies? I’ve been fitted!

No, not for a beautiful gown, a pair of glittery heals, or a diamond tiara. Alas, those times have long passed. Instead, a 37 year-old married woman who's been on The Pill FOREVER and who has blood pressure concerns and migraines gets fitted for something even more spectacular: a diaphragm. (Prolonged birth control usage = Higher blood pressure + Migraines = Bad News)

It’s my first. In fact, you could say I’m a diaphragm virgin -- a phrase I actually used in the doctor’s office.

My doctor is a 55-60 year old male with a deep baritone voice that vibrates through walls. He sounds like a cross between Yogi Bear and Bing Crosby. If I care to, I can hear words and phrases coming from the next room as he talks to his other patients.

Yogi Bear says: “Take a deep breath in...”

Bing Crosby croons: “Bend over and cough...”

So talking with him about sex makes me a little light-headed and gives me a bad case of the giggles.

“Is it spontaneous?” asks Yogi Bear.

(giggle) “What?”

“Do you ever have spontaneous sex?”

“Well, yes. We never know when our girls are suddenly going to take a nap and we think ‘Hey, let’s do it now while we can.’ -- It’s spontaneous like that.”

He looks at me. “I mean, are you usually at home when you have sex -- as opposed to doing it in elevators or stair wells.”

“Oh. Yes. At home. The garage counts as home, too, right?”

He looks at me. Then Yogi Bear presents all of the non-hormonal options -- the ones that supposedly do not mess with my emotions or blood pressure.

“Condoms?” asks Yogi Bear.

“Uh, no. I’m more of a... people person, if you know what I mean.”

“Yea, me, too.”

We decide that IUDs are too invasive and risky (for me) and that a vasectomy is out (you know, because I'm a woman and because if we won the lottery tomorrow I might lose my mind and want to have another kid).

“So Diaphragms...” suggests Yogi Bear.

“How do they work?”

“First you take some spermacidal foam or gel and put it on the diaphragm,” explains Yogi Bear. He illustrates the procedure with gestures and diagrams, making ring shapes with his fingers, squeezing them together and forcing them up into an invisible vagina floating in midair.

“They come together?”

“What?” asks Yogi Bear.

“The spermacide and the diaphragm -- in the same package.”

“No, you buy them separately.”

“Wait -- the spermacide doesn’t come with the diaphragm? Shouldn’t they come together in some sort of kit? I mean, why make it difficult?”

Yogi Bear looks confused.

See, at the time I’m thinking a diaphragm is disposable like a condom and that I would buy a whole stack of them in boxes of ten or twenty -- kind of like chips inside a can of Pringles. Time for sex? Just pop-the-top! Once you pop, you just can't stop!

He continues, “Sooo... you put the foam on it, fold it, insert it into the vagina and it expands to cover the cervix.”

“Kind of like a pop-tent!” I exclaim eagerly like a fifth grader trying to impress her teacher.

“Something like that.”

“Where do I get diaphragms?” Costco, right?

“First you have to be fitted. They come in different sizes. We measure your cervix to determine the correct size and fit.”

Sort of like contact lenses, I’m thinking. They determine my prescription, and then I order a new set of disposables through the mail every month or two...

“Afterwards you wash it so you can use it again.”

Use it again? Slowly, I hear a distant sound -- like tiny little bells that chime louder and louder until...

“Wait -- I only need one diaphragm?”

Ding, ding, ding! She wins the prize!

“Yes. I write a prescription for it.”

Oh, ha, ha. I knew that.

“Actually,” Yogi Bear continues, “I’ll prescribe two -- in case you want to keep one in the glove compartment.”

Can I jump through the window, now?

“Are you sure it’s not going to be a huge pain? You know, awkward?” This whole thing is starting to make me nervous. Sex for parents is hard enough -- I don’t want to make it more difficult. I mean, wouldn’t parental sex be better if everything came in a kit -- diaphragm, spermacide, babysitter?

“Well, it will be awkward the first time.”

“Yea. I guess so. And then, after that I’ll get better?”

“Yes,” reassures Yogi Bear.

“Then, pretty soon it’ll be like a magic trick, right? 'Notice, there's nothing up my sleeves.' Then voila! It disappears!”

Yogi Bear chuckles and shakes his head as he leaves the room to schedule my fitting.

I return the following week, nervous and full of teenaged anxiety because this is completely new to me. I try to embrace this virginal naivety that doesn’t occur very often for married mothers, but I know I won’t feel better until I’ve practiced and perfected the magical diaphragm disappearing act. (I bet David Blaine never did anything like this before.)

Everything goes as well as can be expected during my exam and fitting. My “size” is on the small-side and I have to admit that I take a bizarre pride in this fact -- as if I had anything to do with it or that it means anything. But after two children and 16 years of marital sex, I feared my doctor would have to return to the diaphragm storage closet. Here, let me get the jumbos...

Now, of course, I have to do the work -- there is all this practice I need. But first, perhaps I should check out Wikipedia or (dare I say it?) YouTube? Because hand gestures and vivid descriptions from Yogi Bear are one thing, but I need more information. Why couldn’t they give me a pamphlet or book ("How to Erect Your Pop-Tent”). Or maybe a video? Why do they have to make it difficult? I mean, wouldn’t it be better if everything came in a kit.