14

DEAR VAGINA

*WARNING: IF YOU ARE IN MY FAMILY, YOU MIGHT WANT TO SKIP THIS CHAPTER!

Being a woman is complicated. The addition of a Y chromosome means our brains work differently from men’s, and we have to go through all kinds of stuff with our bodies that men will just never understand.

For instance: you, vagina. You are a very complex body part, and we don’t need science to tell us that most men don’t know a damn thing about you.

My true belief is that porn has ruined the state of affairs for vaginas the world over. Forget mystique—everyone has seen it all, but without the much-needed disclaimer that most of the vaginas in porn are man-made. Guys who watch a lot of porn now think they’re going to get a cute little quarter-slot vagina, and it’s not like that. Vaginas are like fingerprints—they’re all unique and come in all shapes and sizes. I hate that they’ve also now become yet another body part that causes women to feel as though they don’t measure up to some porn star who’s got a whole bag of tricks up her . . . hood?

Another way I think porn has warped views on sex is that it makes people think that all women like the same things. That’s not true at all. I have never particularly liked cunnilingus, even though porn and movies would make you think that going down on a woman makes her want to marry you.

For me, though, it’s always been an intensely uncomfortable experience. All I do is lie there, staring at the ceiling and thinking, Oh my God, what if it smells? It’s so ugly. His face is right near my butthole. What if I fart? I’m not enjoying this. I’m getting a sweaty top lip; not on my vagina, but my face. I really want this to stop. He keeps asking me if it feels good and he’s poking my vagina while he’s sticking his tongue in there. I really can’t do this. How much longer am I going to have to pretend this is enjoyable? It feels like he’s spitting on me.

When I’m dating someone new, it doesn’t take long for me to let him know that’s a no-go zone for me. Most guys are kind of disappointed by this, but I’ve learned that as the owner of a vagina, it’s important to have open conversations about how you want it to be treated and operated. This prevents some weird, and often quite shocking, discoveries along the way.

Popular feminist wisdom will tell that you’re supposed to be real proud of your klacker, but I reserve the right to feel however I want to feel about mine. I’m not insecure about my vagina; I’m just realistic. Vaginas birth life, and that’s beautiful, but I’ve taken the mirror out and had a good old look—and it’s still ugly. I have great respect for it, but do I want to show it off? Hell. No.

I plan to be like Joan Rivers and never retire, but I do have one rule about ending my career: If the world ever sees my vagina, I am out. I will quit and go back to England and become the farm girl I have always secretly wanted to be. I’ll slowly fade from people’s memories, except for every once in a while, when someone brings up my name: “Whatever happened to Kelly?”

“Oh, you know, we all saw her vagina, so she left.”

TRANSLATION

Knickers

Underwear. Do not say “panties”—I fucking hate that word!

I will never understand people who go out without knickers,** knowing that there are paparazzi just standing at the curb, waiting for them to accidentally (or maybe on purpose?) spread their knees as they get out of the car. Nope, that is not for me. Life in the public eye has to come with some limits, and for me, my body is one of them. Whenever there’s a major phone-hacking scandal and celebrities’ nudes get leaked, there’s always someone who’s gotten the camera right up in there to snap some photos. I’m all about celebrating your body, but I’ve never stuck the selfie lens down between my legs and taken a photo of my beef curtains, thinking, Mmm-hmm, that’s so hot, better take a photo and text it.

Recently, I was hanging out with my friend Shaun Ross, who’s a well-known male model, and I was wearing one of my favorite articles of clothing—sweatpants. I’d rolled the waist several times to shorten them up and they became tighter around my crotch.

Shaun took one look at me and goes, “Mmmm, girl, you got that puffy puss, too, and you’re still single?”

My reaction? I freaked out. “Uh, what’s puffy puss? Does that mean I have a fat vagina, too?”

Shaun started laughing and told me all about it. Puffy puss was something some guys are now into—they think it’s hot—and so that’s why girls pull their jeans up really high and into the groin. I had no idea that our society is now at a point where I am supposed to make my vagina look appealing even with clothes on, but you learn something new about being a woman every day, and usually it’s terrifying.

Shortly after I dyed my hair lavender, Joan asked me if the carpet matched the drapes, and I told her there was no carpet. She tried to convince me that pubic hair was there for a reason—to provide friction—but I’m not having it. I am not a fan of pubic hair, and in my case, I think the barer down there, the better.

This does not mean I’m a fan of getting waxed.

Oh no, quite the opposite.

It is an experience I absolutely hate.

I’m never in one place long enough to build up a rapport with any one aesthetician in particular, and I don’t like anyone blowing on my vagina, especially a stranger. I remember the first time that happened, I was shocked. There I am in a tiny room, spread-eagled on a table, and some woman I just met five minutes ago smears hot wax across my pubes, then leans over and starts blowing on it to cool it off. I was so freaked out that I never told anybody; then I saw an interview with Rihanna where she was talking about it. I thought, Oh my God, they do that to her, too?! After that, I knew I was staying away, because there are secret blowers all over the place.

I have been known to call my vagina the Revenant when it gets especially hairy, but since I believe in good grooming, I take de-hairing into my own hands. If I’m just around my house, smelly and sweaty is no big deal, but there is no way that I am stepping into the outside world until I’ve brushed my teeth, showered, shaved what little is left, and put clean clothes on.

That’s basic shit, but there’s a new trend with some girls where they’re not showering every day—or even more than two days!—and it’s gross. Proper hygiene is not bourgeois, and having a smelly vagina does not make you a rebel. I’m not saying that everyone go out and buy Vaggie Wipes, but soap, water, and a razor should be a part of every vagina’s daily maintenance routine.

There’s also medical maintenance, too. When I was a teenager, my sister took it upon herself to book me a gynecologist appointment. This was probably because everyone thought I was doing shit that I wasn’t—like having sex. Little did they know, I was a prude.

Everything went to shit when the office called to confirm the appointment and I answered on speaker phone while in the car with my mum. This was all captured in an episode of The Osbournes, and I was completely embarrassed. I was really shy and hated the fact that other people were even talking about what I had going on between my legs. I freaked out and immediately canceled. I couldn’t see the point in going if no one had ever even touched it.

When I turned eighteen, I finally went for my first appointment. Like with every visit to the gyno, they made me put on that stupid paper gown and sheet. When the doctor came in and told me to put my feet in the stirrups, I burst into tears. “I don’t want anyone to see my vagina!” I blubbered.

The doctor took one look at me and said, “Oh, shut up. You think I’ve never seen a vagina before? We get one of you a week. I’ll be back in five minutes.” She was so matter-of-fact and unaffected by the whole thing that I did exactly what she said and didn’t even start crying again when she inserted a duck-looking piece of metal into me and started clunking it around like a mechanic changing a tire.

Being a woman also seems to involve a lot of bewildering underwear, even though I managed to make it to age thirty without wearing a thong.

Okay, wait, that’s not entirely true.

When I was in ninth grade, I really wanted day-of-the-week underwear. Mum accidentally bought me a package of thongs, instead of the full-butt kind. I don’t think she even realized it, so I wore them anyway.

One day after school, I came home and dropped my backpack on the floor. When I bent over to start rifling through it, Dad saw my whale-tail creeping up above my jeans and flipped out. “No daughter of mine is going to wear a throng!” he screamed. Yes, he called it a “throng,” and then he proceeded to cut said throng off me with a pair of scissors. Needless to say, after that, I had a full-blown thong phobia.

I also just didn’t want to wear underwear that went up my ass and made me feel like I had an eternal wedgie, so I went with granny panties for all occasions. One day, a stylist I was working with came to a meeting with a bunch of printed-out pictures of me on the red carpet. “Look,” she said, pointing at my ass.

I immediately realized what people meant when they said “visible panty line.” I looked like I had Picasso arse—the lines of my knickers multiplying my two cheeks into four.

“Okay,” I agreed, “I’ll wear a thong. I promise.”

“Don’t worry,” she assured me. “Once your butthole gets callused and scarred, you won’t even feel it.”

Fucking hell, I thought, this is going to be even worse than I’d imagined!

I was determined, though. If every other woman out there on the red carpet could wear one, then so could I. Plus, I’d promised, and I hate to break a promise.

The stylist forced me to wear a thong for an entire month—the whole time with me waiting for my asshole to toughen up—before she finally copped to the joke. “I still can’t believe you fell for that callused butthole act!” she said. Well, how the fuck was I supposed to know?! I was too scared to Google it!

After learning how to wear a thong—and let’s be honest, there really isn’t much learning; you just put up with having a string up your ass—I have since been enlightened to yet another undignified female undergarment: Spanx. Spanx suck the FUPA in, for which I am very grateful, but they are disgusting. I am a human hot water bottle—my mum says that when I go through menopause, my family will have to scatter and pretend they’ve never met me before in their lives—and within five minutes of putting on Spanx, I start to sweat.

As I’m walking around with all my fat mashed into my organs, I can just picture the layer of sweat gathering between me and the Spanx and about how it’s all going to smell like pissy plastic down there. And just when you thought female undergarments couldn’t get any more undignified.

•   •   •

Yes, they’re a lot of work, but if you do have a vagina, you should consider yourself lucky! Women have always known that a vagina means power, but now we are fortunate enough to be living in a time that finally acknowledges this. Everywhere you look, vaginas are on top, which is just one more reason to treat yours with the respect it deserves.

Love,

Kelly O