Book Review: Pointe of Pride by Chloe Angyal

I’m a firm believer in romance novels as a tool for self-exploration. I think these books are an invaluable way to discover things about your body and sexuality in a manner that is virtually risk-free, whether that be in regard to who and what turns you on, what kinds of activities or types of relationships you might be interested in, and also to explore and discover things you’re not interested in. Romance novels are also a great way to further representation – of unconventional relationship styles, of good communication within relationships, and of lesser-known sexual orientations and preferences (like asexuality or polyamory, for example).

“Representation matters not just because it matters that you see yourself in the world but because it matters that you see yourself positively in the world.” ― Laurie Frankel, Family Family.

Representation—and I mean good, thoughtful, well-researched representation that actually affects a character and her arc—is a valuable thing. It shows us that the things we’re experiencing and feeling aren’t wrong, and that we aren’t alone in those experiences and feelings. It also shows us all the things that are possible in this world – wonderful possibilities that we might not even be able to imagine for ourselves. And in dark times, it can show us that there is light at the end of the tunnel.

For all of these reasons, I was beyond thrilled to hear of a romance novel featuring a female protagonist with pelvic floor dysfunction: Pointe of Pride by Chloe Angyal, which features a protagonist with dyspareunia, a.k.a. lasting or recurrent genital pain that occurs just before, during or after sex.

I’ve dealt with vaginismus (a form of dyspareunia that is caused by an involuntary tensing of the pelvic floor muscles, which can affect many areas of life but typically makes sex in particular extremely painful or impossible) for most of my life, and it took me well into my twenties to find a doctor who understood my problems and could actually help me overcome them. I like to think that if a book like Chloe Angyal’s had existed when I was younger, I would have had the knowledge and the vocabulary to find help much, much sooner – and it makes me so happy to know that women today are likely far better off than I was as a teen and young adult.

Pointe of Pride is about Carly Montgomery, a ballerina in the corps of the New York City Ballet with two big current goals in life: 1) to get out of the corps and become a principal dancer before she has to retire, and 2) to work through her dyspareunia (through physical therapy with a PT and by dilating on her own at home) so she can finally have enjoyable, pain-free sex for the first time ever.

While traveling to Sydney, Australia to be the maid of honor in her best friend’s wedding, however, Carly is forced to work together with the best man, Nick—a retired dancer himself who’s struggling to find a new identity as a dance photographer, and with whom Carly immediately gets off on the wrong foot—to not only make her friend’s wedding a success, but also to help boost Carly’s profile as a dancer (via Instagram virality) in the hopes that it might help her get promoted to principal.

I won’t go into the plot too much, except to say that I thoroughly enjoyed this (fairly light) enemies-to-lovers romance. Carly is a fiery, outspoken heroine who can’t help shouting about her “broken vagina” in airport lobbies (and don’t worry – she discovers her vagina isn’t actually broken at all, just in need of some physical therapy and an understanding partner), and Nick is a thoughtful, more reserved foil to her (though not without a temper of his own, which Carly can’t seem to help but bring out). As the pair trek around Sydney in search of perfect locations to take photos of Carly’s dancing, we’re treated to gorgeous descriptions of the country that make this book a perfect vacation read.

But of course, the thing I was most interested in was how Angyal would approach Carly’s dyspareunia as part of the romance. And let me tell you: I could not have been more satisfied.

To say that I related to Carly’s story feels like an understatement. I felt her story in my fucking bones. (Former ballerinas with tight pelvic floors, please stand up!) And not only did Angyal’s portrayal feel incredibly authentic (which makes sense, as I’ve read she based the story largely on her own personal experiences), delving into the physical and emotional pain that this type of disorder can put a person through, especially when you’ve dealt with it for the larger portion of your life – but it was also reassuringly optimistic. Because there are solutions to these problems, and your body is not broken.

Beyond this point, there will be spoilers! You’ve been warned.

First off, Carly’s experiences within the health care system rang excruciatingly true to me. As a teen, she seeks answers from various doctors and gynecologists for why sex is so painful for her, and time after time she is met with clueless, careless responses: You’re too young to be having sex; you just need to relax, have a glass of wine; you’re not turned on enough; your pain threshold is too low; here, try this numbing cream. Basically all some version of: You’re the problem, honey. It’s just you.

From the time I tried (and failed) to use a tampon at the age of fourteen, I was pretty sure there was something “wrong” with my body, though I didn’t know what. But that pain and fear followed me for years, and a part of me always knew it would be a problem whenever I finally found someone with whom I’d want to have sex for the first time. That fear only grew, and grew exponentially, the more I spoke to doctors – doctors who couldn’t, or wouldn’t help me. Doctors who made me feel like I was the problem, that there was something ridiculous and unsolvable about me that I should be able to simply get over with a glass of wine.

(For the record, a glass of wine didn’t cut it, so I tried having drunk sex just to “get it over with.” It was a horrific experience that I wouldn’t wish on anyone, and I condemn doctors who make this vague, useless suggestion to young women who are looking for real help.)

It felt like Carly’s experiences were plucked from my own brain, because I received so many of those same exact responses from doctors, over and over again. When I finally found a specialist who knew what she was doing, she confirmed that I actually had an extremely high pain threshold – and yet for years, so many doctors had gaslit and shamed me into believing I was just being a baby about my pain. Regardless, sex should not be painful for anyone, for any reason, and for doctors to suggest otherwise is both damaging and reckless.

In Pointe of Pride, Carly deals by gritting her teeth and barreling through sporadic, painful sex, and sadly–heartbreakingly–her partners are too wrapped up in their own experiences to even notice she’s in pain. Unsurprisingly, this leads to Carly feeling like men are scum and relationships aren’t worth the trouble. The one time she does open up to a boyfriend about how painful sex is for her, and the things she’ll need to do to get better (namely: not having sex for an extended period of time), her partner ghosts her, further leading her to believe that she’ll never find someone who will understand or find her worth the effort.

Thankfully, Pointe of Pride totally pushes back on this notion – and happily, I can, too. When Carly finally opens up to Nick about her disorder, she finds that he is more than happy to take part in the myriad other activities that exist outside of penetration with her:

“I want whatever you have. Whatever you can give me,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. His breath flicked against her ear as he spoke. “Whatever we can do together. I want that. I want all of that.”

Folks, there is so much more to sex than the ol’ in-and-out, P-in-V standard. Queer people have known this forever, and thankfully, some of the straights are starting to catch on as well. And Pointe of Pride proves this, several times over, with blazing-hot sex scenes that feature zero penetration. One of my favorite scenes in the book is the first time Nick and Carly get naked together; Nick asks Carly to tell him what she wants, and instead of doing that, she shows him how she likes to get off. It leads to a deliciously slow burn, super-hot sex scene that encompasses a whole range of activities outside the realm of penetrative sex.

The upside to having a pelvic floor disorder (in my personal experience) is that you get really, really good at figuring out all the ways your body can feel and receive pleasure, and really good at communicating those needs and desires. I found so many ways to feel good, alone and with another person, before I ever had “real” sex. By not skipping straight to P-in-V, and by exploring a thousand other ways to make each other feel great, my partner and I became incredibly, well, proficient in the bedroom. That meant that by the time I could have penetrative sex, we were pretty fucking ace at knowing how to make one another feel pleasure, as well as how to talk about it without embarrassment, which led to absolutely mind-blowing sex.

While I wish I’d been able to find help sooner, I also can’t say that I’m unhappy to know that my husband will stick with me through thick and fucking thin. That back when he was my boyfriend and I was still dealing with the uncertainty of possibly never being able to have sex, he still wanted to be with me, and he was more than willing to make it work, however it was possible, and pleasurable, for me. That he wanted to marry me despite that uncertainty still hanging over our heads. That we still loved and enjoyed one another in every way available to us, and that his ability to stick his dick inside a single part of my body wasn’t the be-all end-all to our relationship.

I especially love that Pointe of Pride ended with Carly still in physical therapy (on a trajectory towards total recovery), not having had penetrative sex with Nick yet, and he proposes to her nonetheless. I love that this drove home the point that there are men out there, and people in general, who will accept you for whoever you are and whatever you’re going through – and will not only accept you, but love you deeply and unconditionally, exactly as you are. It warmed my heart to see a story that mirrored my own so closely, and I hope it gives others going through similar things a positive perspective on what’s possible, and what we should expect from a partner and demand for ourselves.

I think I could ramble on about all the things I love about this book forever, but I’ll wrap it up with one last thing. Like myself, Carly spent most of her life keeping her pelvic floor disorder a secret from almost everyone, including her best friend. She finds that when she finally opens up about it to her friend, she feels a weight lifted, and she no longer feels misunderstood and judged for her history of short “flings” (really, relationships that quickly soured because of her inability to enjoy the sex she forced herself to suffer through). Her friend also gently suggests that perhaps if Carly had been more open with her ex-boyfriends about her disorder, maybe they wouldn’t all have reacted the way she assumed they would. After all, Nick didn’t have the reaction Carly expected.

There is so much shame wrapped up in a disorder that keeps you from having sex, from being “normal” like you assume everyone else is. But I’ve only found as I get older that no one is “normal,” and everyone has their own secret shames and problems – and by talking about them, more often than not, we find solidarity and community on the other side, rather than the judgment we were so afraid of.

Angyal ends the book with an informative note about pelvic floor disorders and how to find help, another thing I couldn’t have appreciated more. It wrapped up a pretty perfect book with a useful and actionable message, and once again made me feel so optimistic about the information today’s young women have at their disposal; information that only ten years ago didn’t seem to exist at all.

I’ll say it again: Romance novels save the world!

Header image via Amazon.