You know what people never really talk about? The first time they thought their vagina or penis (vagina specifically) looked weird to them?
Don’t tell me you didn’t think this. I refuse to believe that no one…that I was the only damn human being who looked at their pre-hairy mound and said, 'Wow, does this need to have so much flesh on it? (pinch, squeeze)'
You know, in the 80’s, smallish mounds were like the ‘in’ thing. Franky, it’s only now on Tumblr that I see vaginas of all sizes. Yet, I still recall a time in where the models in the Van Halen videos/David Lee Roth video’s (let’s say)- those made for t.v. California Girls were all wearing this airplane runaway strip of latex over their vagina’s (rumors that have yet to be substantiated claim, that they were bathing suits) and navels…and quite honestly, the cunts almost looked non existent.
I would instinctively measure my vagina to what I saw in those women (fuck you MTV).
Now, let’s forget that I was half their age and that I was in no way physically up to speed (and never will be) but still; the imagery fucked me up (and it created a wrong impression of what vagina beauty is). If I would have had a penis, I probably would have slapped it in disgust.
You see, to an extent, the ongoing joke with men and their size has become wrongly/normalized…but in regards to women, we women NEVER talk about this shit. NEVER.
At least men discuss, though they then harass and then have evil women banter about it (probably not a good example). In respects to women, we never chat about how ugly we thought it was (at some point in our life) or how we felt when the hair began to grow in, or how those tight bubble gum pants of the 80’s (let’s say) began to give one a camel toe; as puberty set in and the mound began to expand. Because yes, mounds do expand loves.
I’m telling you, it’s as if women or girls are suffering through some biblical curse and we refrain from even uttering these thoughts.
Well, I’m not participating anymore. I have a daughter damn it and I refuse for her to look at herself one day (when she’s like 13 and think…) “Wow, who the fuck is going to want that? Or, wow…this thing is really odd looking.”
I just will not participate any longer in the national silence about vaginas. I emphatically rebuke the historical censorship of this subject…so beware, more posts about vaginas are bound to be seen on my blog.
(Please note that the author to this piece thinks that vaginas of all sizes are beautiful and absolutely normal. The point of the post is to draw reference to that and a call for women in some small way; to become more psychologically friendly with a part of their anatomy that can bring both pleasure and pain.)
I sat with him, as old friends do. The cafe was busy with holiday shoppers, coming and going. And we bounced around a bit on the booth chairs, until we settled in.
Our eyes would not make contact. We concentrated instead on the bus boys around us. I noted their hands and I felt an ache at all they had to endure while carrying and pushing plates; while not really knowing the language.
And there was irony in this; as we were here (I thought), face to face and it was as if we also didn’t know the language; and what we pushed around (instead of porcelain) were our sentiments that were hard to break free of. Our tongues could not or would not, roll or press letters into words that might bring comfort…
As it’s hard to say I love you sometimes.
It was then that I made note of the jingle that sounded like a child’s xylophone; delicately echoing every time the diner door was opened.
My face would spring up, as if I expected illumination to walk into this dreariness. I expected him then to smile, but he didn’t. He just continued to press his chin over his shoulder, trying to avoid a talk that could have healed sorrows; that would have landed us as softly as feathers; naked upon his unmade bed.
It was a strange dream, I felt; one that I have yet to awaken from. I dreamt we were once friends and that as friends, we would never have a problem to speak of what we felt, but life is not like this and emotions can wreak troubles upon us.
The words almost broke free from behind my teeth, you know. I almost said those words, but after waiting for sometime, I gave up; and I got up…and then said goodbye to that night.
It became an inward event and I saw
clouds zip by without a chariot in sight.
An impending storm of snow and rain;
I could smell the discontent again
and the heavens roared and
my heart died
for his eyes…
are the gateway
My eyes burn from
make believe chlorine
but that doesn’t stop me
And boy, do I rub
and pick at scabs and somehow,
I feel like a St. Teresa
A Veronica offering water for tears
There I go again…
My eyes burn and the flow
into all wrinkles
And then I brand myself
(my flesh sizzles)
And boyyy, does that feel good
When I search and pick,
pull, stretch at
this brain matter
to see where I begin
and where the rest of me lies
Whoops…There go my eyes again
and it’s not what I had in mind
So I now pluck at my eyebrows
Until none are left
Yeah, I’ll be fucking bald
in no time
Now there go my eyes again
Fuck…I don’t like bald
She is the ocean
beauty with a depth
I could never
though her tides
have embraced me
She is passion
painted in poetry—
indigo hues in
a scarlet storm
(But how deeply
how she loves..)
I think of her—
a once broken
and that sacred space
pen and page
where she learned
to dance again;
free and beautiful
And how she wept
her pretty words
..and learned to fly
This moves me, more than I can properly express.
Much love to you, My Friend.
She was seventeen when she was introduced to the strange awareness of a luscious fig. At first, she did not know if she would appreciate this strange, white peeled specimen. Yet, it was when she cut up this small fruit, that the walls of her mouth began to unexpectedly salivate, over the fleshy, bright pink color that resided within. And when she dug the tip of her tongue into this ripened fig, she thought long and hard about never coming up for air.
It tasted so sweet and the tackiness around her lips made her feel acceptably dirty. She couldn’t get enough of the fig’s naturally soaked substance. She took her time caressing with her tongue, licking while gently probing further into its center; until her tongue could feel that she was stroking the inner layer of the peel itself. She felt the sides of her tongue tickle and for some reason, her body responded by making her insides throb and swell.
She would pinch the outer skin of this fig with her fingers and the seeds would protrude. The sticky juices would then drip from the sides of the fig and from the sides of her lips that had just bit into it; and she’d use the tops of her hand to slowly smear away the extract across her cheeks and jawline, then up to her ear.
And it was then yet again, that she could sense a pounding; as if her heart had dropped down to the center of her pants.
She’d smile as if she were flirting with a piece of fruit and people would ask her if she was enjoying this fig…and she would say, 'Oh yes, very much so. Thank you. I think I'll have another when I'm done.'
But then she would roll her eyes as they turned and gave her their back; as she felt invaded, taken away by banalities she cared little for. To a great degree, she had become protective of her moment with this fig and in her mind, she would mouth off sweet nothings- Whispering, how she now knew what it felt like for him to know of her taste.
I want to caress you with explosive words
that will ring like psalms to your weary
I’d like you to see inside of me.
I would peel back the layers, each one.
You would see embers upon embers,
like that of a Merciful heart—
As the candles that light incandescently
the altar of a church, my church,
I want to bring about peace.
To light your path.
To waft and move the smell of incense;
as if I were a Sage, before your
You would pray and I would not say,
but a word.
I would stand still and observe
your fortitude, your wistfulness;
everything that seeps through
the tiny crevices of your stitched
clothing…and I would still,
not utter a spoken thought.
And my eyes, the ones that belong to
that of meager farmers;
those used to growing
what is almost impossible to grow;
would embrace you
like the Blessed Mother;
who looks down to her children
when they stop to bend their knees—
As they take a moment,
to tell her they love her.
Peace be with you, I would think
and somewhere within, I would know;
you would never stop to turn.
For my role is not
to intercede but just to whisper
from afar, how much you are loved.
Blessed is inspired by this