Perimenopause Part 1

I’m 41 and believe myself to be in perimenopause. I’m on the younger side, sure, especially for natural menopause not caused by surgical removal of the ovaries, but there’s no test for it so no one can really refute it.

And while I’m calling this part one, it’s only because this is the first time I plan to officially talk about it (oh, there will be more). I have unofficially talked about it before. I’ve had the rage. I’ve skipped a period and had other period weirdness after a lifetime of the most predictable periods ever. I haven’t been on any hormonal birth control or other supplements in a dozen years and have tracked my period, moods, and symptoms for a fucking long time.

And one of the things I’ve learned is that my ovulation week makes me randy. You know those videos of the lioness in heat shamelessly flirting with the males? I get so distracted by horny thoughts that week. I’m constantly checking husband’s calendar to know when he’ll be home. I’m walking around in my best underwear or laying across the bed. I’m going braless or wearing my lace work-from-home bra with a see through top. I want to make out. I want to be touched and squeezed and licked. I want to be pounded into the mattress. I even want to ride him on the couch, which is very not comfortable for that.

And the weird thing is I can do all the things that I think will make him want to have sex with me and half the time the best sex we have is when I haven’t washed my hair in two days and I’m unshaven, very often first thing in the morning or when we’re exhausted late at night. Men are a mystery. And so is the shared schedule of two independent and busy adults.

If it doesn’t happen during ovulation week I’ll often take care of things myself just so I can sleep, but that only makes me twice as thirsty the next day. I feel like my heart rate never drops below 100. Even when sex that week is incredible and thoroughly satisfying, I’m still distracted replaying the highlights in my head for the next couple of days, wanting to turn it into a written sex scene. We’re well past our early days of ripping each others clothes off each time we’re alone but this is the week every month I’d eagerly bank three or four times if schedules, energies, and body elasticity allowed. Husband is objectively very attractive, but when I’m ovulating he’s fucking fine, even when he’s not running or working out.

But in an unfair twist, I’ve noticed that ovulation week is also when I break out. Face, neck, shoulders, back, arms, I’ve even had zits on my arms and legs! I’m feeling most like I want to be sexy and least like I am sexy. It’s an unpleasant mental game. It’s only because hormones are surging that week and I haven’t yet gotten around to buying a medicated face and body wash (one of those things that’s a little harder to buy when you don’t shop on Amazon or at Target). So far husband hasn’t seemed to mind, at least not enough to stop. But it doesn’t help me get out of my head mid-coitus.

In another unfair twist, I’m also noticing that orgasms are getting a little harder to come by (all the intended puns). Even when I really want to have sex, even when I’m super horny, even when husband does all the right things, sometimes it just doesn’t happen. I wish I were secure enough to brush it off and try again the next time, but I can’t help but worry that it’s a sign of more changes to come, especially when it happens a few times in a row. In my bid to know as much about perimenopause as I can, since most doctors seem to have skipped that day in med school, I know that a drop off in desire and sexual satisfaction is a major symptom. And I know that it causes a lot of marital problems. And I know that men also experience a drop in testosterone in their later years, which means that I could have a lack of desire for a decade that finishes up just when husband’s lack of desire is starting. And that’s how old married couples stop having sex altogether. Maybe it’s natural but I don’t want it.

But for now, I tell husband when I’m ovulating so that we can have our sterile romps more reliably that week (which gives me a chuckle that I’m still tracking ovulation and trying to have sex during that window just like so many couples who are trying to get pregnant) and we’re talking more openly about what we want. And I’m hoping that perimenopause isn’t as rough as it sounds, or that I can skip some of the worst symptoms, or that I can get HRT and testosterone if things do get bad.

Side note: I spent a lot of time in my early 20s thinking about sexuality and sexual preference, coming off of being Catholic and grappling with what I believed versus what other Christians say. I never bought into the idea that being gay was a choice people made, especially not one that people made specifically to spite god.

I’d always been attracted to men but also always thought women were beautiful. I can notice and admire a gorgeous woman with stunning curves and a beautiful face. No surprise, everyone does. But even women who aren’t traditionally attractive are usually still beautiful in a way that men aren’t. Women are just more attractive than men, full stop. 

It made me wonder how straight I really am. If sexuality is a spectrum, where do I fall? Am I conditioned to find men attractive or do I genuinely feel that way? The line for me, I figured, is sex: I can find all the women in the world beautiful and attractive and want to look at them, but I don’t want to touch. The thought of touching someone else’s breasts or labia just… not a turn on at all. Even kissing another woman seems awkward and unpleasant in my head.

But penises? Yes please. Even though they look like alien appendages, I’m very into dicks. During my ovulation week I become a little obsessed thinking about them. Well, one. But if I were to have a three-some it would be the devil’s variety. So I think that means I’m pretty straight. And maybe that means a lot of the people who claim it’s a choice either have never really thought about it, or think that by calling it a sexual preference means that you like all sexes but simply prefer one (true for some, not for most), or they’re closeted and self sabotaging. Even in my most devoutly Catholic years I never understood why so many religious people cared that much about the bedroom activities of strangers. Let that be between them and god, if you really think that god cares about it.