Our common practice of referring to the entirety of the female genital structure as “the vagina” is indicative of the difficulty we have in dealing with the pussy itself. The vagina and the surrounding fleshy bits (more accurately, we're discussing the vulva here, but for our purposes, we'll use “vagina” to mean the whole place of business), from the sickitatingly nicknamed “lips” to that bastion of pleasure, the clitoris, is both the center of all the action (you know, that whole “life-giving” thing will give the cunt a bit of a swagger) and the most mystifying nexus of sexual bliss.
A thing of dualities, the vagina is at once an exquisite, unfolded flower, all dainty petals and juicy morning dew (ew), and the lusty, dirty epicenter of licking and fucking and ping-pong ball launching.
Ahh, the red-laned superhighway. The rattlesnake canyon. The field of dreams. The colorful nomenclature surrounding the vagina is much too rich to pass up. From the tight-as-a-drum pussies of youth to the can't-hold-a-tampon, post-childbirth golden palaces to the floopsy labia-ed to the surgically rejuvenated, the vagina, with its rouge flush and textures ranging from glossy pink porno-flesh to ruddy expanses of coarse hair, is a wild cavern of sex and lust and life and period blood and the occasional hood piercing. The other day, a letter fell through my slot (through my slot, get it?), containing a “Vaginas Are Awesome” sticker sent by a thoughtful friend. Fuck yeah, they are. In their infinite styles and functions and offers of pleasure and assurance once a month that I am not in fact going to have a child (yessss), the vagina is totally enigmatic, made more so by the good junk being all tucked away up in there. No matter how bored we are of Paris Hilton's snatch or the latest in pelt fashion, by its very nature, the vagina will never become as overexposed as the tits and ass.
And legs. And abs.
When I first encountered foreign 'gine during my tentative wanderings into what I thought was bisexuality but what turned out to be a half-baked attempt to upset my parents, I was hypnotized and terrified by the menagerie of ladyness that was splayed in front of me. Even being the owner and operator of my own vagina didn't prepare me to deal with someone else's cooch. I'm pretty sure that while fake lesbians like myself and straight men are for the most part still collectively perplexed by the deepest ways of the poonani, gay women have it all figured out. My bestest lesbian friend delights in describing the marathon fisting sessions she and her girlfriend get up to and punctuates the detailed talk of her sex life with guttural chuckles, amazed as she is of the gorgeous pain and hotness of it all.
Sadly, her ardor for the vag is rare in the wider female population. Despite the best efforts of Inga Muscio's book Cunt: A Declaration of Independence, Eve Ensler's exhausted Vagina Monologues and any number of do-me feminist rags on the market, a ridiculous amount of women don't seem to be down with their horn of plenty. While 25 percent of men say they masturbate “frequently,” only 10 percent of women are honored with this distinction. I propose that to combat this vaginal negligence, every girl receive a Hitachi Magic Wand upon her 16th birthday instead of an economy sedan.
Individually, the clit and labia and the vagina itself are super-ridiculously sexy. But when the whole works are feeling the effects of some nipple-gnashing or red wine, it's hotter down in the boiler room than anywhere else in the building.
