The V Word

1 May

[[Warning: this entry does contain a fair amount of profanity and discussion on sex. If you are not a fan of either of those things, I suggest you exit out of this entry now.]]

At the start of the school year I had the great opportunity of directing The Vagina Monologues. It was a life changing experience for me as a Theatre major, but also when coming to terms with my sexuality. Growing up, my family never discussed sex. Maybe because my mother died when I was only thirteen and my father felt awkward discussing the topic with me, or maybe he assumed I had already had the chat with my mother. Fact of the matter is: I was never given the dreaded “talk”. Now, as a twenty-one year old, I think I grew up with a pretty healthy view point on sex. The subject certainly scared me all throughout high school and, okay, maybe at the beginning of my college career as well. But I feel like now my view point is much more rounded, which is a good thing.

But this year has helped round it even more so. Not only did I direct The Vagina Monologues a couple of months ago, I am also currently taking a Human Sexuality course. I really do believe the class, in and of itself, has been eye-opening on many levels.

For Vagina Monologues my co-director and I both wrote our own monologues, which we performed at the open mic night promoting the Monologues a week before our show opened. It was the first time I ever got to stand up in front of an audience and talk about my experience with sex. It was nerve wracking. I was terrified. But by the end I was met with cheers and loud applause, and hugs from friends and people I didn’t even know. It was a truly rewarding experience that I cherish fondly.

That being said, I have since reverted back to my awkward sex wherein I haven’t shared my monologue with anyone. It’s nothing to be ashamed up, but there’s a part of me that feels like I may be met with judgment from people if I were to share. I know this is not true. So that’s why I’m sharing it today.

It is under the “Read More” link below this, so if you are interested feel free to read. I have also attached a link to a video of me performing it. The video is semi-private, so only those who have the link are able to view it.

Please keep in mind that sharing it with you, WordPress, makes me feel quite vulnerable. But I want to. I need to. So I’m going to.

Enjoy.

The V Word

((click here to watch))

My vagina is an oasis of warmth. It is wealth and purgatory and fields of marigolds dipped in honey. My vagina is a five year old kid in the middle of a Louisiana heat wave. My vagina is butter scotch pudding and downy fabric softener. My vagina is a softly stimulating situation. My vagina is the rain before the storm. My vagina is…

Untouched.

In a college setting “virgin” has become an unsavory word.

It is one most people do not look on lightly; one that people feel the need to go out of their way to define. It’s associated with this idea of a person. A virgin is a prude. A virgin is pure. A virgin is so ignorantly misinformed. A virgin is so innocent and naïve and knows nothing in the ways of sex. A virgin does not like to hear the word “sex”. A virgin is old fashioned. A virgin does not believe in giving or receiving sexual pleasure. A virgin in college is waiting for marriage.

A virgin is different.

I have heard all of these things, and at one point or another had almost all of them directed at myself. Yes, I, a twenty-one and a half year old in the heat of her senior year, am a virgin.

It is amusing when I tell people of this fact. It used to be that people had already assumed my lack of intercourse and somehow knew that no one’s been inside my vag before, because I gave off this sense of childhood whimsy and I was awkward to the touch and they sensed it through the way I used my words and I wore baggy, ugly shirts to cover up my curves. Now, as a woman, I’ve reached the point where I am met with looks of shock and instant “What?!”s and utter confusion and sometimes a “You’re kidding me, right?” and the rare but occasional “But you’ve already had a boyfriend before!” and the eventual, inexplicable, undeniable “Why?”

Most people assume that it’s because I haven’t had the chance. This is incorrect. I have had many chances, but have turned down every offer which confuses people even more. To say “no” to sex? The greatest thing on this planet? I must be insane.

My vagina is a cotton candy spin wheel. It is purple plastic perfume bottles of peach and pomegranate. It is a bear in hibernation, waiting for spring. It is a mint condition Superman comic book, still in its casing. My vagina is the air; it is the sun.

It’s funny because people try to piece me together simply based on my virginity.

Fellow females and the occasional male friend try adamantly to administer me with advice. Where to put it, how to look, where to lick, how to moan, how to move, how to grind, how to come, how to groan. They tell me this without me expressing any want of knowledge. Poor little, naïve me, who must know nothing in the ways of “doing it”.

And, upon hearing this delicate fact, drunken college boys desperately desire to be my first, because, y’know, I totally come off as one of those girls who would give it up in an inebriated one night stand.

Some people, the instant the words “erection” or “orgasm” appear in conversation, apologize. Apologize for making me feel “uncomfortable”. I then have the pleasure of explaining to them that sex does not make me feel uncomfortable, but the image of them getting it on with someone else, yeah, not exactly what I want to be picturing.

I have been given lectures and pep talks about how “this is the term you need to lose your virginity. You should give it to so-and-so or such-and-such because he deserves it.” And I have also been lectured about how I should never engage in sex, because apparently it will just fuck everything up. And while the latter may have some truth in it, I’ve gotten to the point where I am getting really sick of people trying to dictate my vagina.

If my vagina could wear anything, it’d wear a tight, black Dolce and Gabbana dress accompanied with flaming red stiletto heels; although, some days all it’d want to wear would be a matted bathrobe and then not leave the house.

And the things people have said to me.

I once told a friend that I was horny, and their instant response to my confession was, “No, you don’t get to complain. You’ve never had sex before.” And back sophomore year upon seeing me for the first time after summer a friend could not wait to ask me, “So have you gotten laid yet?” Never mind what I did over the summer, the only thing that mattered was who I did. And I was once told, “You are so pretty. How is it possible you are still a virgin?” And I have been told “no” by boys because they don’t want to be with a girl who has had no experience, which really sucks when you are a girl who is trying to gain some experience. Or there was a time a friend told me that maybe I’d actually “get some” if I got off my laptop for once in my life, which does bare some unfortunate truth to it.

Or the time a friend asked me if I was still a virgin just so I could say I was better than everybody else. That one hurt.

If my vagina could talk it would say, “You don’t know me. You don’t know the first thing about me.”

People make these assumptions about me and my vagina and who’s allowed inside.

But maybe everyone is over thinking it. Maybe I just haven’t met the right guy. Maybe I’m not waiting for marriage and maybe I’m not afraid of sex. Maybe I just want to connect. A real, mutual, human connection. I do not want a simple fuck. I do not want to be the girl who got screwed in a car or in a closet or at a party for her first time, but maybe I don’t need to be in love to have sex for the first time either. Maybe I just need to know that I am safe and secure and respected and accepted and, okay, maybe a little adored, and with someone who I can look back thirty years from now and say, “Wow. I am so glad it was him.”

And maybe I get horny too. Maybe I long just as much for the sensual touch of another; crave the lusty embrace of a lover. Maybe I masturbate, and maybe I yearn, want, ache to feel two become one just as much as you. So maybe it really pisses me off when people tell me my lust doesn’t count for shit.

And maybe I’ve been hurt one too many times. Maybe I’ve met one too many guys and had one too many thoughts of, “This is the one. The one I’m going to give myself to, because that is the greatest gift I can bestow on any boy of my heart.” And maybe I let myself believe that he was or he cared or he loved or he dared, and maybe every time I was wrong. And maybe I was hurt. And maybe I felt so broken, like a vase knocked off a mantelpiece, that I gave up and thought there was no point in trying to repair. Maybe every day felt overcast and a smile seemed unattainable. And maybe I healed and the scars went away. And maybe I picked myself up from nothing and rebuilt myself from the ground up – piece by piece by aching piece. So maybe I’m just tired of rebuilding. Maybe I just need a break from the sting. Maybe I’m not interested in sex right now. And maybe that’s not a bad thing, because maybe a person’s experience with sex does not define them.

Or maybe some people are too full of it to see that that’s the truth.

Now, my vagina has become my heart. I will not give it to the first schmuck who tells me I am beautiful. I will not waste it like I wasted my first kiss. I will not settle for one night stands and friends with benefits, because I am more than a vagina without a soul. My vagina is reese’s peanut butter cups and butterfly kisses. It is Sundays in the park on warm spring afternoons, and sunsets and sunrises and full Harvest moons. My vagina is me, and I do not open up easily.

I’m not saying that I’m determined to remain single all my life, but right here? Right now? It’s my time. My time to shine, my time to grow, my time to know a little bit about myself. I do not need a man to make me happy, and I certainly don’t need one to make my vagina happy. I already know how.

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