Girl on the Net

This isn’t sexy. OK, it might be sexy. If you like cunts. But then if you like cunts, the way I write about them is going to seem bizarre and maybe even horrible to you. So I may well be about to take something you find sexy and absolutely ruin it. Here goes: I am disgusted by the inside of my body, and therefore I’m disgusted by my cunt, and so what I’m about to tell you is the most intimate thing I have ever done.

This post about vaginal inspection involves extreme and sometimes gross/shamey descriptions of the human body, especially (obviously) the vagina. 

I know it is very weird to be disgusted by my own cunt, and I know it is not really the Done Thing to talk about it, but yeah, there you have it: I’m squeamish about my vagina.

First let me explain that it isn’t just my vagina that squicks me out – I am squeamish about any aspect of my body that could technically be classed as ‘inside’. I do not like thinking about tendons, muscles, bones, veins or any of the meaty bits. As far as I’m concerned, beneath my skin there lies nothing more than emotions and partially-digested cheese, and if you suggest otherwise then I will put my fingers in my ears and go ‘lalalalalala’ until you shut the fuck up because it grosses me out.

A good friend of mine gives massages – excellent massages, I should point out – and I very much enjoy having her pummel my naked back and squidge my flesh until I make inappropriate moaning noises. However, sometimes when she massages me she tells me what she’s doing and which particular muscle she’s working on. Though I enjoy hearing stuff about ‘abductors’ because who the fuck knows what one of those is, when she talks about tendons or hamstrings it makes me shudder. Strings? Of meat? In my body?! Absolutely NOT!

So. Insides: I do not like them. And yet, I have a vagina. I enjoy it when people put stuff inside my vagina, including (though not limited to): dicks, fingers, dildos, tongues, and anything goes ‘vrrrrrr’ in a rumbly manner. There are other things that go in my vagina which, while not enjoyable, are basically tolerable for the purposes of making my life run smoothly. For instance: speculums for smear tests (get your smear test, people who have cervixes!), or for the insertion of IUDs. I also use tampons, because they’re more convenient than pads, but I absolutely cannot countenance using tampons which don’t come with an applicator or more eco-friendly mooncups, because both of these things would require me to actually put my fingers inside myself and therefore touch what I can only describe as ‘the wet, fleshy bits that feel like guts.’

Before you come and hammer angry comments below, allow me to be crystal fucking clear: I do not want to bodyshame anyone who has a vagina into feeling like theirs is disgusting. This isn’t a general principle, it’s a personal squick. I cannot for the life of me comprehend why someone who enjoys using their vagina as much as I do should have been cursed with such an Achilles’ Heel as to be outright repulsed by it, but nevertheless that is what has happened. I, personally, am horrified by internals. If it makes you feel any better, I am just as disgusted by my tendons, lungs, bowel, and the horrifically solid bones which lie beneath my squishy flesh like incongruous, ghoulish rocks. Don’t get me started on fingernails.

Anyway.

Vaginal inspection: the most intimate thing I ever did

Knowing what you know now, I hope that the intimacy of the following incident really hits home because once… I let a man inspect my vagina.

I choose the word ‘inspect’ very carefully. He was not ‘looking’ at it, nor was he ‘exploring’ it, he was ‘inspecting’ it. Like a medical student studying for a final exam. I lay on my back on the bed, opened my legs, and he got comfortable between them. Face right up close to the dark, rippled flesh of my cunt, fingers probing and stretching, examining its every ridge and fold.

Asking questions as he went, like ‘this bit here feels more ridged, does that feel different?’ and ‘if my dick goes in at… this… angle, is that better?’ and a whole lot more besides. I gripped the bedsheets and gritted my teeth and tried to think calm, soothing thoughts. This vaginal inspection was entirely consensual – he’d asked me very nicely and I wanted to oblige. Wanted to push myself past the ‘argh fuck’ zone and into the ‘yay I have succeeded in doing this incredibly challenging thing’ zone – a bit like when I first switched from pads to tampons and (pre-applicator) had to dare myself to put my fingers in.

But it wasn’t comfortable. It was a gift I was giving to someone who’d asked for it, one which would not have been precious if giving it had been easy.

He seemed delighted by it, thank fuck: waxing lyrical for the rest of the day about how fun it had been to explore, and how much more he felt he knew about the detail of my body. Later, when we were fucking, he hit a couple of excellent angles which both of us realised he’d never have tried if it hadn’t been for that inspection session.

Intimacy comes in so many different forms. There’s the intimacy of vulnerability, when you allow someone into the darker parts of your head where the bad thoughts swirl around. The intimacy that’s born of comfort and routine, which makes you automatically reach for the right shaped coffee cup and measure exactly a third of a teaspoon of sugar when you’re making them tea. The intimacy that allows for total silence or howling sobs without feeling the need to intervene: just being present to ride out whatever life’s throwing at someone. And then?

Then there’s the kind of intimacy that means you can lie totally still on the bed, feeling someone poke and prod at your vagina, reminding you that you have insides even though you demonstrably don’t because that would mean you are made of literal meat.