I noticed the other day that someone made their way here by the search phrase “what its [sic] like to have a vagina.” Interesting. They probably didn’t find an answer at the time, but I abhor dangling questions, so here goes…

It’s a mixed bag. Its sheer existence can be problematic. If you’re thinking of getting yourself one, be prepared to see its likeness objectified and commodified in remarkable ways.

Statistically speaking, you’re much more likely to be raped if you’ve got one. Too bad they’re not detachable.

Porn will tell you that your vagina will enjoy having any penis in it at any time, even if all you’re doing is sitting around being dejected that your cable/plumbing/air conditioning doesn’t work. And that if you don’t really want a penis in it, that doesn’t actually matter – your resistance is part of the fun.

Companies will tell you that it smells terrible, that it’s dirty, and will try to sell you a panoply of products to help you hide your shame.

The Right will reiterate that it’s a precious, precious treasure, really the only thing of value that you have. Don’t worry, you can attend a “purity ball,” at which your father will pledge to keep it safe – because, as the patriarch, it’s his until you’re married, at which point it becomes your husband’s.

Every 28 days or so it’ll bleed.

Its very name will be a problem, and you’ll need to tone that down a little.

That being said, and that was a mighty truncated litany, a vagina is in other ways a joy to have. It’s beautiful, it’s pleasurable, it doesn’t draw unwanted attention to itself at inopportune times, it has its own exercises. It responds to self-touch in ways that little else does, and that very few can rival. It’s self-cleansing, it’s soft and slick and silky. It’s in tune with your moods, your girlfriends’, and maybe even the moon. Truncated litany notwithstanding, I’m quite fond of mine and would recommend vaginas to all of my friends.



November 1, 2007

Finally, a way to mention female genitals without having to say vagina! How vajuvenile. Startling is that part of this term’s popularization comes via a representation of the medical profession, wherein you’d think the appropriate word for anatomical parts would be, well, appropriate.

I guess I’ll take vajayjay over the hushed, embarrassed, “You know, down there,” but I don’t think it’s much of an improvement. Mine’s a vagina. Or, more chummily (because boy is it ever a good friend), my vag. I don’t need to cutesy it up. Cutesying it up suggests that there is something threatening, shameful, dirty, unspeakable about ‘vagina.’ That it needs to be made girlish in order to be safe. No thanks. I’m a woman, and I have a vagina. It doesn’t need to be shaved or waxed back to pre-pubescent aesthetics. It doesn’t need to be surgically altered to appear more pleasing. Like other women’s, it’s beautiful as it is. And deserves to be called what it is. Say it with me: vagina. And again: vagina. And again and again until we all understand, like Lizzie said to me yesterday, that “ideas and beliefs have to be reproduced over and over in order to hold sway. And that very action opens the means for change.” Vagina vagina vagina.

UPDATE This is funny.

Pardon my directness, but I refuse to beat around the bush. The feminists, it seems, have a proprietary interest in female genitalia.

Proprietary interest? Due to the fact that, as women, it’s our genitalia? How dare we lay claim to our own bodies! Quick, someone do something to make women ashamed, to remind them that their bodies are there for public objectification, commodification, consumption and critique! Oh, wait…

No matter what you call it, many feminists don’t want guys attracted to it.

Can we please just let the man-hating sex-hating feminist stereotype die? It’s misogyny feminism has a problem with, not men. And feminists do like sex, remember? We’re even quite good at it.
Yes, I want guys attracted to my vagina. Just not the ones that are scared off by the very word. If you aren’t comfortable with the actual names of my body parts, you don’t get to touch them. Not until you grow up. And the word ‘vajayjay’ isn’t what says “hello… welcome.” You only get that invite from the woman herself.

It has such a sense of taboo that nobody feels totally comfortable talking about it – not even women, but especially men.

My point exactly. So talk about it. Get comfortable. Stop making bush and box and fingering jokes. See Bitch PhD for more.