The Pill & The Poof

My anti-depressant is great. It's an SSRI. That means it inhibits the flow of seratonin, which maybe my brain squirts out a bit too freely. Or something like that. It's Prozac, only not. How ordinary of me. The theory is that the anti-depressant helps with depression, and it does. But where's my orgasm? (As you read that, please imagine it asked with outrage, in a loud voice that has a bit of wail, similar to a cat's, mating in the distance.) It seems to have gone the way of bikinis, abdominal muscle, and regular periods. Let's not get the issues confused, though. The peri-menopause has not taken my orgasm; the yellow pill I take twice a day has taken my orgasm, and even the requisite great feeling right before the orgasm, and deleted it from my hard drive.

Now Chrystal would say "forget the drug! Embrace your depression and get the orgasm back!" That's why I don't ask Chrystal about this particular issue. I don't ask anyone. It's the Catch-22 of My Pathology, or one of many, really. If I don't take the meds, I will not want to have sex. I will not want anyone near me. That's my guess. If I do take them, I am vibrant, exciting, a regular Bugs Bunny, but female, and not a cartoon, and with just a tad more depth and better ears.

I do think about sex, and the interest is there. But I suppose it's not as there as some people have it there. And then what is strange is that if I do engage Ball & Chain, or he engages me, or, more to the point, we are doing it, I do not end up frustrated, the feelings simply disappear, mid-heat. Every appropriate cell is aroused, everything is in place, and when I say "thing" you know what I mean, and matters are proceeding as they have throughout time, except those folks probably hadn't had their husbands spayed to avoid worry about pregnancy, and then as I approach the moment, poof. Poof, truly, that's all. The SSRI is in there somewhere, a little mad scientist with troll hair and a polka-dot dress running through my bloodstream saying "she cannot have the orgasm - it is the price she pays!" and the demon turns off some switch. It's like going to a great film with a terrific soundtrack, and suddenly you're watching old black & white home movies of a distant relative serving himself macaroni salad. The soundtrack is gone and there's just a crackle.

Ball & Chain has been understanding. After all, his bloodstream is not poisoned. What's to understand? He saw the whole movie, including the credits and the little tiny extra if you wait until the very end, and I listened to some old guy gumming macaroni. Should I talk to my doctor about the macaroni? I dunno. Other than the sex part, my medications are working well. I'm caught in the 22. In the past, when on an SSRI, once I have manage to have one peak experience, as it were, that was it, the Polka-Dot Lady was gone, and I could do it again and again. Like magic.

For now I'll have to hope that Ball & Chain can come up with a few tricks. He does have some talent, so we'll see what happens. I'm not about to stop the SSRI. I suppose chastity would be a bit extreme, and I do still have an appetite. Only not for macaroni salad.