A tender moment between Aoife Read and her girlfriend, post partial-mastectomy, is something to hold on to as sexiness goes awry.

I realise many people aren’t aware of Alanis Morrisette’s existence post-Jagged Little Pill, but there’s a song from her fifth studio album, Under Rug Swept, that resonates with me, called ‘So Unsexy’. The chorus goes like this: “I can feel so unsexy for someone so beautiful, so unloved for someone so fine, I can feel so boring for someone so interesting, so ignorant for someone of sound mind.” Now, I generally don’t think that I’m unsexy, but neither do I actively think I’m not, if you know what I mean.

You see, I didn’t realise that I ever actually felt sexy until the first time I felt unsexy, and that was a little while after I had a partial mastectomy. It was the first time I was feeling even remotely amorous, and my girlfriend took my top off while kissing me. Now, I’m as cool as cucumber so I don’t think she noticed, but inside I was reeling. I felt horrible, and while my loins definitely still burned for her, I didn’t want her to even look at my breasts, never mind touch or caress them.

In the end, we didn’t have sex that night. I said I was too sore. But perhaps she had noticed my uncomfortable squirming, because the moment I pulled back from her, she did something so tender. My top was off, a bandage still on the wound, and I think I slightly flinched as she put her arm across me, but then she traced her fingertips across the bandage and looked at me for a second, and then she gently kissed the outside of the dressing.

My tears welled up, but I coughed them away and went to the bathroom to compose myself. But, despite my withdrawal, that moment of delicate tenderness and intimacy helped me more than she knows. She wasn’t horrified by the missing piece, or the unsightly wound. She loves me and will always find me attractive, regardless of what’s going on with the physical vessel I inhabit. She finds my soul sexy, and that’s a definite comfort when going through something like this, because all of a sudden I am so aware of how unsexy I feel.

It’s mostly  because of how my breast looks now, but also because of things like not being able to shave properly because I’m in pain. For a while I couldn’t even wash properly and for two weeks after the operation I was almost completely dependent on Franky. I even needed her help going to the toilet, and that sort of dependence is so unsexy.

There is another looming thing – the hair loss from the strong course of chemotherapy I’ll be going through. Not only will I have a funny boob but I will be completely bald too.

I’ve tried hard to imagine what it’s going to be like in the throes of passion, throwing back a shiny, bald head. I can’t even imagine it, let alone find the sexy in it. It’s terrifying to think that for the next year, almost, I’m going to be or at least feel so physically unattractive.

On top of all of this there is the infection I have in my breast at the moment. I mean, its oozing for Christ’s sake!

It’s like one of those horrific things you see on Embarrassing Bodies. The woman is massively overweight, she has greasy hair and a skintone best described as ‘grey’. She removes her top and chewing gum-coloured bra to reveal heaping, sagging breasts, with the nipples pointing all the way down to the floor. There are bright red spots and blackheads all over her chest. She lifts up one of her great, flaccid mammary glands to show to the camera a gaping, oozing pustule, seeping yellow beside an open wound. She exclaims:“ I don’t know Dr Christian, it were fine when I come out of ’ospital, innit? But now lookit!”.

That scene replays in my head every time I think about the infection I have, and that is not sexy. Not to anyone. It’s just grotesque.

Of course, Franky insists she doesn’t care and is unphased by it all. I believe her, I really do. And I have total and complete faith in us. I just don’t have a lot of faith in me right now. I don’t know if I will be able to maintain even the pretence of sexiness in order to keep up a sexual relationship with my partner. I know sex is not everything. But I don’t care what anyone says, its important. Intimacy is important, and I really don’t want to lose that.

My body is changing. The chemo will send me into early menopause, which might also affect my libido. I’m about to undergo some stark emotional changes too. I’m worried that I won’t ever regain the ability to feel desirable again.

I need to start convincing myself that how I look has no influence over how Franky feels about me. Ours is a deeper connection, not solely borne of base physical attractions. She’s my soul mate and kindred spirit, and I know she feels the same way. It’s just going to be hard to adjust to sex as a menopausal, balding neurotic with lopsided breasts.

If you are affected by any of the issues raised by this column, you can find support here. Follow Aoife’s Boob Diary blog here.