Since the beginning of time, women have looked into the starless city sky to ask questions to life’s greatest mysteries: What happened to Mischa Barton after The O.C.? Is American Apparel like actually, bankrupt this time? Is AMY on Netflix yet? Does pubic hair grow forever? Out of all the questions women have shouted at the constellations, there’s one in particular that I waited until my early twenties to ask: Is my vagina pretty?
Don’t tell her I said this, but IDK.
You see, up until recently, I never really talked about my vagina to other women. The only time I ever mentioned my vagina was to bitch about her. So other than that, I really didn’t know much about my vagina, or other vaginas for that matter, to know if mine was genuinely pretty. Consequently, I think it’s an important question that every woman must ask herself. Right now, not later.
But first, I need to tell you about (what happened to) my vagina. Lost in the sexy seconds before intercourse, I let the turd burglar I was having sex with use hand cream as a lubricant (don’t judge me – IT HAPPENS). I mean, at first it felt creamy, and rich, and sort of good…like hand cream would. But I knew it wasn’t right, and in a matter of minutes my vagina was very furious with me. When I got home, I tried to make amends with my lower half with a handful of cranberry pills and 12 litres of water. That didn’t help much, and my vagina wasn’t having it. I pleaded with her to forgive me.
After the traumatic hand cream fiasco, I vowed to stop having sex with inconsiderate hand cream abusers. My vagina deserved more than concentrated aromatique hand balm, so I resisted sex for a month and left my vagina alone to do her all-natural thing. It was beautiful, instinctive, and even fascinating. During this month of emotional hair growth, I talked about my vagina like a crazy cat lady would her darling pussy. Growing out my pubic hair was a big deal for me, and I couldn’t stop talking about her like it was Adele’s North American tour. Surely, other people were just as excited as I was about my vagina.
That’s when I turned to my pals for reassurance. “Sarah, how many times are we going to talk about your vagina?” Kate asked. To infinity and beyond, bitches! I thought. Like the understanding women they are, my friends supported me and my vagina. I was obsessed with it. It was like watching my vagina in her natural habitat, doing her thing. I was proud of her, and pleased with myself for being patient with her. I wasn’t shaving or painfully grooming her for someone else anymore. It was liberating, and it was fun to be so free-spirited about my vagina with other women.
“Well, I watch porn. So I know my vagina is pretty.”
“Porn can’t possibly be the top-rated beauty standard.”
“Remember back when everyone waxed everything off because Carrie did it on Sex in the City?”
“Wait, but how big is a ‘big’ vagina?”
“My friend pierced hers….”
“Justin Bieber’s album is truly phenomenal.”
“Does stuff hang out of yours?”
“I can’t afford waxes. Fuck that.”
“Who’s your wax girl?”
“Let’s order Indian food!”
“Do you condition your pubes?”
So there we were, opening up the dialogue of vagina over Merlot. What a scene. Was everyone styling their vaginas after porn stars? Did everyone fucking love Justin Bieber’s new album? Women looked around the room, a little confused, sort of curious. We were talking about vaginas and it was ground breaking. Everyone had something to say about them, and for the first time in what felt like ever, we talked about why we liked our vaginas as oppose to the reasons we hate them. It was glorious.
Looking back at my month of vaginal reflection, I needed to take a break from men to let my vagina show me what she was all about. For years, I made a conscious effort to make my vagina sexy, without speaking to the women around me. In a routine I never questioned, I shaved, waxed, trimmed, styled, moisturized: all for what? A turd burglar who put hand cream in her. That’s what. So I wrote a poem, for all the vaginas who’ve been foolishly mistreated by women who don’t talk about their vaginas enough.
Big like an iPad
Small like a secret
Hairy like Potter
Waxed like Carrie Bradshaw
Moist like lip balm
Dry like his humour
Shaved and prickly
Wild on hiatus
Stretchy like yoga pants
Irritated by hand cream
You are pretty, and perfect. Just as you are.