The Threesome That Fucked Up my Vaginal pH

I experienced my first threesome with my boyfriend and one of my childhood friends. It was neither entirely spontaneous nor entirely planned. It hung in the air after we found ourselves in the same room for some time.

Before taking the plunge, we mutually decided not to use any protection, as we had all recently been tested for STBBIs.

It was the first time that I had sex with another woman. In this exchange of energy, caresses, and pleasure, we also exchanged bodily fluids.

A few days later, I started feeling uncomfortable down there: a familiar tingling, a twinge. I knew I was about to have vaginitis.

At first glance, it was nothing unusual. Vaginitis, along with urinary tract infections, was an expected feature of my new sexual partners “starter pack”.

This usually happened to me at the start of a relationship, when my lovemaking was a bit too frequent for my body to keep up. I was never really sure if it was a matter of unbalanced pH or repeated rubbing, but it normally cleared up pretty quickly.

I never suspected  that I was about to begin a year-long fight against my vaginal flora.

Vaginal flora. While this term is often illustrated by a uterus decorated with delicate flowers (a quick search on Google Images will show you exactly that), mine would gradually transform into a cannibalistic plant that would consume my mental and physical health with its tiny teeth.

I could also have compared it to ragweed, but I find the image too disturbing…

Hello Canesten, my old friend

As usual, I armed myself with an over-the-counter treatment that can be purchased at the pharmacy, a small intravaginal tablet that leaves a chalk-like trace at the bottom of my panties. However, the discomfort persisted, and my itching intensified.

So, back to the pharmacy I went, this time to buy the internal and external cream combo (fun!). I waited impatiently for a few days, hoping that, this time, the treatment would take effect.

Then, I felt hot discharge between my legs. I ran to the bathroom and spread my knees. At the bottom of my underwear was a secretion that I had never seen before. It was like expired skim cottage cheese in Pantone Bright Chartreuse green.

That’s when I realized that I should probably speak to a healthcare professional.

Oops, Canesten was no match

I started taking oral treatments, for which you first need to consult a pharmacist, but I eventually reached the maximum number of tablets I could take without a prescription. While I was waiting for my doctor appointment, in a fit of itchiness and despair, I visited other pharmacies incognito to get some more.

What ensued were several slightly despair-tinged months during which I repeatedly took antifungals, inserted two different types of probiotics and boric acid tablets intravaginally, compulsively got tested for STBBIs (the results were always negative), and took antibiotics for vaginosis, just in case, even though I knew it wasn’t it (note that antibiotics can cause VAGINITIS. FUCK!).

Each treatment was taken a few weeks apart; each time, I thought I had finally conquered my problem, but the infection came back to taunt me. I would feel an unpleasant twinge in my lower abdomen and tears would stream down my cheeks.

Time goes by, but the itchiness remains

During these months, my daily life was peppered by bouts of itchiness, and all I wanted to do was rub a cheese grater between my legs to find relief. It would hit me at any time, like long electric shocks: during in-person team meetings, while feeling avocados at the grocery store, or while waiting for the metro that was coming in nine fucking minutes. I endured in public and scratched myself raw in private.

During these episodes, I went commando as often as possible to avoid any friction that could trigger itching.

One afternoon, while I was wearing a skirt with nothing underneath, my roommate had the misfortune of making me laugh. Right then and there, we heard a noise: a plopping sound. When my body contracted with laughter, a lump of secretions had shot out of my cavity and splattered against the hardwood floor, right before our astounded eyes.

I was always feeling a bit disgusting and self-conscious, but my partner never made me feel undesirable or repulsive, and it never stopped us from making love. When things were at their worst, we started wearing condoms again to give ourselves the illusion that it was more hygienic. Props to you, my love.

The miracle of the lake

It had been a few weeks since I had any problems. My boyfriend and I were in the Eastern Townships, on vacation at a cottage by a lake. I had taken all possible precautions to negotiate peace with my flora: thoroughly drying myself after swimming and wearing loose clothing and cotton panties.

During a canoe trip, we felt like having a quickie on an island. Nature was watching us. Its textures rubbed against us as we rubbed each other: dirt, moss, and bark stuck to our skin. I then saw my own textures covering my boyfriend’s member; these dense, lumpy textures that I knew so well and that signaled that my vacation was ruined.

In a fit of desperation, I stopped at a pharmacy to buy a tablet treatment, knowing full well that the chances of it working were slim.

It may have been the miracle of the lake, but the treatment worked.

Actually, I haven’t had an infection since that last one, two years ago.

I’m not exactly sure what first caused the cycle.

Did my friend’s bacteria encroach on mine that time we had a threesome? Did my stubbornness in improvising my treatments lead me into a vicious circle during which antibiotics remained ineffective in the face of my increasingly severe vaginitis?

I’ll probably never know.

All I know is that I left the cottage with a swimmer’s itch. It continued to itch, just elsewhere.