Yesterday I used the word ‘cuntish’ on Facebook and for the first time in years my feminist friends didn’t leap down my throat. Instead, they rolled their Facebook eyes, smiled and said ‘Ugh, you’re never gonna learn’ and carried on discussing the latest South African … Continue reading I’m sorry I offended you.
I remember when I was young and used to make Valentine’s Day cards, not just for one boy but for all the boys.
I would sit for hours, cut cardboard into the shape of hearts, colour them red and decorate them with glitter and stars. And then write love notes.
I’d always make one card extra special for my extra special crush. Extra hearts, extra glitter, tons of kisses.
It was so much fun.
Now I fucking hate the day.
Not because I’m unhappy being single, because unless I fall in the shower and die and no-one finds me for days, being single is actually pretty good.
And not because I’m anti-love because, dear sweet goddesses, I love the idea of love.
It is the relationship worshipping that drives me mad.
The idea that being single is not okay.
Well. Solitude is more than okay.
In fact, it can be amazingly brilliantly good.
But all the cards and flowers and supermarket love songs condition us into thinking that single is bad.
I’m single. Happily. No husband or partner or even goddammit a lover in sight.
And I don’t know where I’ll be on Valentine’s Day. Probably home, alone, naked and dancing.
I may make a card. Or two. Maybe even more, because I still like the idea of giving one to all the boys. On any day, at any time.
Maybe I’ll get a card. Maybe from the guy who is sitting at the table next to me while I write this. I see him staring at my legs.
But I hope he reads my story before he asks me to be his Valentine.
I don’t want a Hallmark card.
My card has to be hand made. It has to have glitter.
It definitely doesn’t need to be on Valentine’s Day.
And it doesn’t need to come with chocolate.
But if it does, I love 70 % dark. I like orange flavoured.
And I do love gummy bears. Xxxxxxxxx.
I recently had my vagina waxed. A full-on Brazilian. It was a spur of the vagina decision. I went for a simple bikini wax but the therapist started telling me how excessively hairy I was.
“Oh darling you do have a rather wild bush”, she’d said.
So I thought, ‘What the hell, its summer, take it all off’.
Bejesus! It’s not so much the agony of the Brazilian – it’s the intimacy of the Brazilian. A strange woman’s fingers on your most private and sensitive parts, waxing off or plucking out every last hair. It’s a little undignified…even a little humiliating.
But I let her wax and pluck and pull and I yelled out loud and I yelled at her and I cried a little and she mopped my tears, and then suddenly – there was my vagina!
A little pink, a little swollen, a little thing that was quite pretty actually. I thanked her, handed over a ridiculous sum of money and called my girlfriends to meet me for champagne and cake. I thought I would surprise them with my new-found vagina but before we could start talking about smooth pink lips – a crisis- men.
As my gorgeous, but strictly feminist girlfriends spooned red velvet cupcakes into their small but slightly moustache covered lips, they also started bitching about men. Men who wolf -whistled, who opened car doors for women, who automatically signal for the bill and refuse to go dutch. Men who insist on changing tyres, who like women to dress in a sexy fashion and men who love women who don’t wear underwear . I like men and I quite like all these things that men do. I can laugh at them, appreciate them, make use of them and even get turned on by them.
Apparently I shouldn’t like these things. They are “demeaning to women”. They are done to make women feel inadequate and weak. They turn women into the lesser sex. And it seems that waxing your vagina, is the worst thing in the world because it makes women’s vaginas look child-like and it turns all men into paedophiles.
I immediately signalled to the waiter to cancel the champagne, and sent him a note that said “Do not tell these women we are celebrating my hair free vagina.” I squeezed my legs together to make sure my lovely pink lips couldn’t burst through my undies. I never mentioned the bits of wax that were still stuck to my bottom and needed to be pulled off. I never mentioned how good it felt, and how much I knew I was going to love it but I did start feeling a little concerned.
I’d waxed my vagina (pudendum to be accurate) on the spur of the moment because the therapist convinced me to, and I’d thought “summer”. Easy to wear a bikini. Cool. Sexy. Pretty.
I also wax my legs and underarms, I have facials, enjoy manicures and pedicures and I’ve even been known to have a bit of a collagen filler. I do these things because they make me look and feel good. I don’t over-think them. I need them, I do them, I love them and I pay through my very white teeth for them.
Honestly – I don’t only do them for me. I do them for men too. And for women. I want to look attractive when people look at me. Of course I do. We all do. I don’t go for that whole mumbo jumbo thing of men and women being equal. I think we are equal but different, and I love embracing the differences. It’s what makes being a woman so much fun.
So why, as per my girlfriends, is waxing a vagina such a terrible thing? Is it because all men fantasize about having sex with pre-pubescent girls? Is it because when they take Violet out for a night on the town, they don’t really want to be out with a fifty year old woman, but with a 15-year-old girl?
I don’t know. It’s a fine hair free line and one that needs thinking about. I’d love to carry on thinking about it, but I just found one rogue hair and I have a date tonight and I better get rid of it really quickly.