I was inspired by someone’s recent post called “My polite vagina,” in which she bemoans her perfectly porn star-esk slit, wishing she had big flappy labia like other women. Her piece is funny and thoughtful and insightful and mostly I’m using this as an excuse to rant about my genitals. Because apparently I need an excuse.
Let’s Get Started With That
I appreciate the thought that the original post has, that flappy in-your-face genitals are more fun. That said, I can’t help but wonder whether she’d find the cost higher than the benefit. I have a hooded clit. For those of you unfortunates who have no idea what I’m talking about, many porn star clits nestle between the folds of the outer labi. This makes a single, clean crease. Everything is hidden until you pull back the outer labia and go hunting. Hooded clit is when the damn thing has heaved up the folds of skin that cover it and stuck them out from between the labia. It kind of looks like a little tiny penis. Or like she’s sticking her tongue out at me. So instead of one single crease, I have two; one on either side of the hood.
There’s More
I also have distended inner labia with purplish tips, like cabbage leaves. Even my outer labia are wrinkly and seem longer than normal. I remember when I first became aware of the fact that my bits didn’t look like other ladies’. I thought I was hideous. Deformed. I thought I had this ugly secret in my pants and I would just have to hope that whoever I fell in love with would care enough about me that they wouldn’t mind having a misshapen wife. Obviously, I know better now, but I believed this for a decade.
On Hair Removal
And don’t even get me started on the horror that is hair removal. One would think, since my vagina couldn’t be bothered to be pretty, it would at least let me groom easily. But nooooooo. That would be too easy. Not only do I have pubic hair halfway down my legs, I can’t shave. I tried. Walked around with razor burn for over a year before I finally gave up. It was like she was throwing a temper tantrum. I tried to do the “feminist” thing and let it grow, but bikini season was a nightmare, with black scratchy thatch sticking out all over the place, and I really hated getting my fingers all tangled up in fur when I went to touch myself.
I tried trimming, but the stubble was weird and scratchy. Clearly, I was doomed to waxing. Over the years, I’ve perfected a home made cold wax recipe, and once a month, I rip the hair off my delicate bits. I showed the Sir the process once, thinking maybe we could turn it into a fun power play scene, but he fled the room yelling “This is why I need feminism!” I can understand why. It hurts like the dickens, so I have to let out a long breath before each strip, and there is occasionally a bit of blood where a follicle came out wrong. But the pain means I’m finally beating the damn thing. Ha! Take that! I win, you stubborn mule.
Coming To Terms With My Impolite Vagina
Coming to terms with my impolite vagina has been… a process. One that involves a lot of consciously reminding myself what I like.
The large outer labia have a surprising side benefit; when I’m aroused, they swell up almost uncomfortably large and turn bright pink. I know other ladies also get swollen and pink, but mine’s like WANT DICK NOW. Frankly, I think it’s funny. As an added benefit, the Sir had a long history of trying to be with women who were trying to pretend they were asexual, so seeing undeniable, in-your-face evidence of my arousal is extremely satisfying for him.
I’ve also never had a lover who couldn’t find my clit. I mean, the damn thing is basically sitting under a big neon sign “pleasure button here.” It would take a lot to miss. But since my orgasms are heavily clit-based, this has been a major benefit.
We Are All Different
Speaking of orgasms… I’ve never been in anyone else’s skin, so I don’t know how sex feels to all y’all weirdos, but ohmigod sex feels so good. My favorite is finding the peak of arousal, right before falling off the precipice of orgasm, and just sitting there. The Sir has learned my body so well that he can get me there and keep me there almost indefinitely. Personally, I think that if there is a benevolent Divine smiling down at us, the glorious blissfulness of sex is proof positive that he/she/it wants us to be happy.
My vagina isn’t just impolite. My vagina is the kind of lady that does what she wants and doesn’t give a flying fuck what other people think. Maybe she’ll dye her hair purple or maybe she’ll wear pearls or maybe she’ll do both and fuck your expectations. And in that way, she’s a lot like me.
