The Vagina, Tho.

About 20 years ago, it came abruptly to my attention that I had genitals. As any scientifically-minded young queer would do, I investigated, and was puzzled to find that most of what I was dealing with was not visible to the naked eye. That is to say, my penis-having buddies could talk all day long about the various charming and disturbing features of their own equipment, but I was forced to admit that I only knew what like 10% of mine actually looked like, did, or had to offer. The rest was concealed from me, unless I wanted to enlist professional help, and that involved rather more metal, surgical lubricant, and discomfort than I was ready to sign up for.

Fast-forward five, six years, and I developed breasts (kinda), hips (eh, maybe), and an indeterminate, yet powerful loathing for what was going on between my legs. I didn't view my genitals as a source of pleasure - I didn't view them at all, in fact, when I could avoid it. Penises were personable, highly communicative things that made their interests and objectives clear. My vagina, on the other hand, wasn't saying a damn word. As far as I could tell, it seemed to be designed entirely for the uses of others. Men used it to make themselves feel nice. Babies used it to exist. I used it to shove tampons into. WTF, I thought, in not so many letters? Why do boys get these great toys that they can play with and name and have a great old time with, and I get this cavern of mysteries that occasionally gushes blood and/or other suspicious fluids, and is something no one really wants to look at or talk about except trained medical professionals? 

Identifying as gender-queer when you're 19 and no one has invented that term yet is both liberating and super lousy. On the one hand, you totally get to say, "Let's have sex, but don't touch my pussy," and that works! Oh glory, IT WORKS! People respect it, and show you a wonderful time, and you learn that the entire body is a sex organ if you want it to be, and there are so many sources of pleasure besides what's between your legs. The trouble was, my identification wasn't borne out of self-knowledge and contentment - it came from self-hatred and fear. What I was actually saying was, "Don't touch me here, because I'm trying to forget this part of me exists." 

Fast-forward ten years. I'm older now. I might be wiser, depending on who you ask. I get real haircuts, understand what the word "mortgage" means, and pay at least 2 different bills. My vagina, though, is still something I don't have a handle on. Thirty years with this same piece of equipment, and I still don't know how to operate it. That'll get you fired from just about any skilled profession.

I want to blame society, I really do. I can, too, if I try hard enough. There's far too little education about what's normal for the female reproductive system, beyond "you'll bleed once a month and that's normal and also you can get pregnant." No one talks about menopause. No one talks about vaginismus. No one talks about discharge - oh lord, no one talks about discharge. Did you know the vagina is self-cleaning, and it's completely normal for it to be kinda gooey all the time, especially as you get older? I went to the doctor because I thought I had an infection, only to be told, "yeah, that's what this part of your body is supposed to do." Gentlemen, imagine having your cock always just kinda dripping, not urine, but just... STUFF. Would you be alarmed? I certainly was. And so I got my not-cock checked, and it turns out, stuff that's not cocks does this. WHO KNEW. No one, because it's considered icky, and we don't talk about it, because ew.

So I want to blame society, but at the same time, I can't, at least not wholeheartedly. I grew up in a fabulously liberal family where I could talk about anything I wanted, and sometimes I did - but I didn't talk about this. I've been involved in the sex-positive community for over ten years, and I can ask any question I want - but I don't. I know, now, at age 30, what gets me off, and am blessed with a fabulous partner who will give me anything I ask for, in bed and out of it, and revel in the giving - but I don't make requests, and when he asks what I want, I say nothing, and roll over, and try to go to sleep.

In the end, I don't know who to blame, and when that happens, I tend to blame myself. Maybe, though, I also owe myself an apology. So, sorry, self, for fucking you over, and at the same time, fuck you, self, for fucking me over. I'm hoping that, before another ten years have passed, I'll finally be able to spread my legs and say, "This is what we're dealing with, and here's how to treat it right." It shouldn't be an empty daydream. I've got a CAVE inside me - I've got a whole world up in there, for all I know. Maybe it's time to strap on a headlamp and start exploring.