Reader beware:
This post contains graphic language, tough questions, tentative
answers, clichés reinforced (because they are true), myths busted (because they are untrue), and, for those who make it to the end, homework.
Ladies.
If you had to identify your crotch from a photo-lineup, would you be
able to? Yes? Maybe, but you're not sure? No, because you've had a look,
thank you very much? If you answered Yes, good for you! If you said
Maybe, it's time to grab a mirror. If your answer is No, it's definitely time
to grab a mirror.
Oh, you've seen plenty of pussies, you say? They just didn't look anything like yours. They were all so...so photogenic, and...smooth and...glossy.
Okay. May I inquire as to the whereabouts of these pussies you've
inspected? They weren't tagged XXX or hardcore or something to that
effect by any chance? I thought so. But what if they're the norm and you're the anomaly, you ask? That is but a subspecies, I assure
you. (And you don't have to take my word for it. Ask Betty Dodson and Carlin Ross or Anna Richardson. Ask a friend. Ask around. The truth is out there.)
The common pussy (vulva vulgaris)
found inside most panties should not be compared to its second cousin
several times removed. The pornographic pussy is to the vulva as haute couture
is to fashion. It's not a standard, it's a concept, a highly idealized
concept, and not in a good way. Line them up in an identity parade and
it becomes a charade. You can't tell one from the other. Where am I
going with this?
Your
partner is gearing up for the Sex Olympics and you're thinking The
Championships Wobbledon. You're thinking vulva vulgaris and wrinkles and wobbly bits and
how best to hide them and draw attention away from them, and when it's
time to get busy, that's where your head's at, where you focus your
energy. My point being?
Do you expect your partner to
be perfect? Physically perfect? Chances are that's not what they expect,
either. They're thinking how lovely you look, how much they want you,
how lucky they are, not wishing you'd shed a few pounds or visit a beauty surgeon or salon because then,
oh, then you'd be perfect. What do I know about it? Let me tell you all
about it.
I know plenty. Like close-to-nine-pound-babies-damn-Viking-genes plenty. I didn't lose
my figure. I didn't compete with Dolly Parton for the buxomest bosom.
Looking at me from behind you never would have guessed I was in the
family way. But when I turned, whoa, what are you having, the whole
maternity ward? I had this huge pointed belly, like r e a l l y out there. And I have the stretch marks to prove it.
The scars
have gradually faded but they were an angry red at first and nothing could be done
to hide them in a bikini. So I stopped trying and decided to forget
about them. I knew, I just knew, that if I didn't keep on keeping on, I would switch the bikinis for a burquini for good. Because I was ashamed. Self-loathing. Scarred. Scared. I didn't want that. I didn't want to be that person. I didn't want to feel that way. I wanted to wear that two-piece. And you know what happened the first time I hit the beach?
Nothing. No one stared, barfed or offered their condolences. How
liberating was that? It was all in my head, where the inner critic
carouses with the Merchants of Discontent.
My
body had changed for good, but for a good reason. I saw no reason
why my self-image had to change. It's not as if those were the first
scars ever. Oh no no, I have plenty to show off and take me back. My
body has given me some of the most meaningful, beautiful, fantastic
memories and sensations of my entire life. I can only hope so has yours.
So why not pay it in kind and be
kind to it. Your body is your friend. You only get one. Treat it
accordingly, like a fine instrument, not like an object or machine. Certainly not like an enemy. Listen to it.
Get to know it. How it works, how it reacts, what it can and can't do. Be merciful. Grateful. Forgiving.
You can decide never to go out in public half-clad, but you can't hide
from your partner. And you can't hide from the MoD Squad. The Merchants
of Discontent never tire, and the inner critic is loath to shut up. They will do everything in their power to hijack your brain and inject it with a sense of inadequacy. The media, popular culture, fashion...their minions are everywhere. It's
up to you to fight back and put them out of commission and you can't do that just by sitting around waiting for it to happen, you have to go after those self-defeating counterproductive thoughts with a hammer and a chisel. If I knew any other way, I would dispense that wisdom now. I, personally, don't. If you're looking for a
solution, salvation, you only need to look in the mirror.
And
that's exactly what I want you to do. I want you to make peace with at
least one insecurity you've convinced yourself you'll
carry for life. Maybe you will. But why does it bother you so much?
That's what I want you to look at rather than the fictional or factual blemish itself. Kick the
bastard to the curb already, grinning ear to ear. Confidence is the ultimate
aphrodisiac and beauty weapon. It is sexy and it's inspiring. Bottom line: You
won't be comfortable with your partner looking at you, all of you, until
you're comfortable looking at yourself.
Next week's
mission, should you choose to accept it, is to grab a mirror, or settle
in front of one, and have a look, then another, and another, until
you're intimately familiar with and comfortable looking at your body. It
may take more than a week. Some spend a lifetime worrying about these
things. You forfeit the right to feel insecure if you don't even know what your body looks like, all of it. That's not you
being insecure, that's you being silly, okay? You should, presented with
say that vulva lineup, be able to say with pride and confidence:
"That's me." The one and only you. And that is more than those cinematic cunts can say.
Until next week then, when we'll be talking about waking up next to a stranger. Same time, same bat-crazy channel. Think sexy thoughts.
