Uncomfortable, awkward, painful. Ask women about their 'first time' and you'll likely hear some, if not all, these descriptions. Fortunately, for most, a combination of time, practice, maturity and the right partner will see sex transform into a pleasurable act.
Imagine, though, a life where sex remains as difficult as it was that first time - or worse, completely impossible.
That's been the case for me ever since I lost my virginity 20 years ago, thanks to a little-known condition called vaginismus.
Put simply, it's where your vaginal muscles involuntarily tighten whenever you attempt penetration. When it happens, no matter how much I try to tell my body to relax, there's nothing I can do about it, and continued efforts only cause more pain.
From having sex and inserting tampons to smear tests and giving birth, vaginismus can strike in a number of different scenarios, leaving sufferers distressed, confused and - as I know from my own experiences - traumatised, too.
Though it's believed to affect around one in ten British women, it is shrouded in shame and secrecy, with few women prepared to admit to such an intimate condition which can wreak havoc on relationships, mental health and even plans to have children. It's something I've struggled to share even with partners and close friends.
And it's not just sufferers like me who are confused by it. Over the years, I've encountered countless medical professionals completely unaware of vaginismus's existence and its debilitating effects. Their ignorance and dismissiveness only adds to the physical and emotional burden I have carried.
When I lost my virginity, it was memorable for all the wrong reasons. Painful and devoid of pleasure, I didn't really know what I was doing - yet I wasn't troubled by that experience. None of my friends were having mind-blowing sex the first time around and, like them, I felt sure that it could only get better.
It did not.
By 19, now at university, I was in my first serious relationship, but sex was still very painful and, at times, simply not possible at all.
I had genuine feelings for my then boyfriend and was physically attracted to him, but lying in bed with him, despite desiring intimacy and my heart and head feeling at ease, 'down there' it was a very different story.
I can't feel the muscles tightening when vaginismus strikes, which would mean I would only realise when penetration wasn't possible.
In those moments, when we simply couldn't sleep together, I felt confused, anxious and embarrassed, despite my boyfriend not placing any pressure on me about it. Neither of us understood what was going on with my body.
Even when penetration was possible, sex was usually sore and uncomfortable - and my mind was not able to understand why this was happening when, as far as I was concerned, I wanted to have sex.
With friends enjoying relationships and flings, if talk turned to sex over a couple of drinks, I simply couldn't find the words to admit what was going on in my private life. How do you bring up the fact that your body doesn't want to have sex?
Desperate for answers and a solution, I decided to seek medical help. Surely the answer lay there.
Several times I went to my GP practice, seeing different doctors -both women and men - every visit so I was forced to explain over and over what was happening; not easy when you're still a teenager and already feeling embarrassed and confused.
Their utterly unhelpful advice ranged from the bewildering: 'Have you tried swimming?' to the shocking: 'Have a bottle of wine before sex.' While I was also referred for several smears and physical examinations, these revealed nothing untoward; only causing me to suffer further pain and anxiety.
No one knew what was 'wrong' with me - and that only added to my own distress and shame that I just wasn't 'normal'.
Outwardly, I had a great social life and was loving my time at university. But behind my bedroom door, I felt powerless and lost.
It was only after stumbling across an online forum when I was around 20 while trying to research my symptoms that I learned for the first time about vaginismus.
Reading other women's experiences was a lightbulb moment. How I felt during sex had a name; it was a medical condition; I wasn't alone in experiencing it. The relief was immense.
It also prompted me to realise this problem had been with me even before I became sexually active.
I'd always struggled to use tampons since my early teens, finding them unbearable, but had simply believed I wasn't doing it correctly or had a low pain threshold.
Returning to my GP armed with this information, they still didn't appear familiar with vaginismus but agreed to refer me for talking therapy acknowledging that physically there was nothing wrong with my body - this needed to be addressed psychologically.
At first, I was unsure how talking was going to help me when it came to having intercourse but I found it a positive experience.
With no trauma or abuse in my past - which can understandably be a trigger for vaginismus in some women - we spoke about sex; my feelings during it; the anxiety I now experienced in the build-up to it. No 'cause' was discovered and I had to accept it was just one of those things that couldn't be explained.
Around that time, I split from my boyfriend. The issues in our sex life weren't the main reason we separated but it had put a strain on us.
We were both so young to be dealing with something so serious, and I understand that the expectation at that age is that sex is something that's easy and uncomplicated.
Over the next few years, I experienced the rollercoaster that living with vaginismus can be.
The empowerment of my diagnosis and the effects of therapy made sex with the guys I dated during this time easier if still not effortless which brought me hope that I was on a trajectory to a normal sex life. But then, during two back-to-back long-term relationships from around the age of 23, it returned with a vengeance.
With the benefit of hindsight, I believe my body was waving a red flag that they weren't the right men for me. I certainly wasn't happy with them by the end but perhaps my body knew that sooner and was stopping me from sleeping with them as a mode of self-protection.
When sex was impossible, lying beside a boyfriend in bed I'd feel despondent, frustrated and embarrassed. My coping strategy was to simply shut away my emotions and hope that next time would be better, which I don't think was particularly healthy. By this point, I was no longer having therapy.
Never having a 'why' for the condition was frustrating; I had dark moments contemplating whether something terrible had happened to me and I'd blocked it from my memory.
The uncertainty of when vaginismus would strike was exhausting; I felt like there was this invisible barrier around sex that I may or may not be able to scale; my body beyond my control.
By my mid-20s, I decided to focus all my energies on my corporate career and stay single for a while. I needed a break from thinking about vaginismus and to focus on myself; my wellbeing; my work. I also had some more talking therapy.
Life was good. Given that sex had become something that mostly caused me only anxiety; pain; sadness it was empowering to lean away from it - and I believe taking this break was one of the most beneficial decisions I've ever made.
After around two years happily on my own, I tentatively began dating again and sex felt easier; more natural; even enjoyable. This was revolutionary for me.
Mentally there’d been a shift and while I didn’t dare believe I was cured I felt more positive and hopeful.
When I was 28, I met my husband. We quickly forged a deep connection. I was open about the struggles I'd had but with him I was relieved when everything felt normal. I was pragmatic enough by then to know that vaginismus was still with me and probably always would be but in this relationship it was quiet and I felt grateful and happy about that.
We married when I was in my early 30s. Yet becoming a mother would see vaginismus make an unwelcome return. Long before meeting my husband, I'd worried the condition could stop me having a family. Even if I could have sex to conceive, could I really cope with things like vaginal examinations and normal labour?
The prospect filled me with horror; my memory flashing back to the nightmarish smears I'd been subjected to when I first started seeking help.
However, I loved my husband and wanted a family with him. I refused to allow vaginismus to take that away from me.
So, when I was 15 weeks pregnant with my first child, I asked for an elective C-section and,to my relief,the consultant obstetrician agreed immediately.For the first time,I felt properly listened to by a medical professional.
The birth was perfect,calm and straightforward -but the aftermath was traumatic.I'd been catheterised after my epidural,so I hadn't felt it or really been aware of it happening.
When it was time for it to be removed,the anaesthetic had worn off and I was faced with the nightmare scenario of nurses attempting to take it out while my vagina tightened,cause indescribable agony.
As if that wasn't bad enough,my bladder wouldn't empty and I was told I needed to be re-catheterised.I tried to take myself to a deep place in my mind,but screamed throughout.It was an awful experience,stealing from me the precious early moments with my new baby,time I knew I would never get back.
Leaving hospital a couple of days later,I felt torn between my joy at becoming a mother for the first time and the trauma I'd experienced in the process.
Naturally,I feared what had happened would see the condition seep back into my sex life,but thankfully it didn't.
Like most couples,we didn't rush back in to having sex.But when we did,to my relief,my vaginismus didn't plague me.When I became pregnant with my second child three years later,during request for another C-section being agreed to,I felt lot more trepidation knowing would have be catheterised,and,worse,having removed.
I lay hospital bed maternity ward only curtain separating me other new mothers,and screamed pain – despite given gas air numbing creams applied – catheter painfully withdrawn.
I humiliated felt as if cared,nobody despite telling anyone listen vaginismus.
Almost year this,my sex life continues normal one.Thankfully,family complete,but still retain deep fear medical procedure waist could once again trigger condition.
I wish could released grip,but nonetheless feel hugely grateful that—thanks loving marriage,therapy refusal give sex—vaginismus no longer plagues personal life.
Its invisibility unpredictability over past two decades hard bear,but hope experience overcoming gives hope other women fear they may never able enjoy—or even have—sex.