I am stumped. When did we start calling our parts ‘junk’? In the irreverent voice of modern society, is adult potty talk masking self-hatred or just an attempt to find a cheap laugh and a decent orgasm?
Motives don’t matter in the long run, at least not to my nether region. Yoni is very vocal about her preferences, especially since her procreative duties are done and gone, and we are finding out just as good, good loving can be. She and I have have been reaquainting ever since we ditched the guilt about pleasure, and she’s really clear about a few things: erotic desires, care & maintenance, & a bit of grooming mostly.
Call her opinionated, but be careful what you call her. Hootchie-Cooter-Pussy-Va Jay Jay-Love Box-Pleasure Treasure is a lot of things, but she absolutely won’t allow you to say she’s junk.
Debris. Rubbish. Castoffs. Scraps. Not a single synonym is remotely close to describing that part of our bodies with which women have had a wide-ranging, complicated, should be only love – dangit why does shame, pain or guilt have to mess it up? – relationship.
“We’ve all been taught that people hug, kiss and make love. The more traditional focus on the commitment and marriage. Eventually, we discover fucking. The forbidden, hidden, animal side of sex that buckles our knees, heaves our lungs & breaks our hearts.”
From as far back as you can remember, you were curious. Every child is. We’re taught that our private parts, are well, private, and from some early moment we are hooked, long before hormones, certainly before anxiety sets in…
And after that snares us, a preoccupation with the forbidden fruit is guaranteed. Our parents may try to stop our forays into sexual exploration with threats of strange diseases that’ll turn us cross-eyed or mark us as irreparably naughty. Adolescence hits us, and if we are lucky we are given some information that our sexuality is about more than making babies. We’ve all been taught that people hug, kiss and make love. The more traditional focus on the commitment and marriage. Eventually, we discover fucking. The forbidden, hidden, animal side of sex that buckles our knees, heaves our lungs & breaks our hearts.
“Debris. Rubbish. Castoffs. Scraps. Not a single synonym is remotely close to describing that part of our bodies with which women have had a wide-ranging, complicated, should be only love – dangit why does shame, pain or guilt have to mess it up? – relationship.”
If we are brave enough to drown out the talk of damnation firmly engrained in our collective mind, we eventually take a good look at our curves and crevices, change our vantage if not our perspective, now viewing our body from a split mirror: sexual vs. non-sexual. Good touch vs. bad touch. Sin vs. Pleasure. Clean vs. Dirty. Smells good vs. Repugnant. Oral vs. Not.
Give Yoni an chance and she will clear the air, separate the nonsense from the truth – on so many levels including just what our divine feminine essence really is – but by then we’ve been conditioned to ignore such messages. Our vagina becomes something with which to manipulate lovers with. A snare. A burden. A liability. An object of and within our bodies and potential source of pain, fear, entrapment and shame as much as orgasm and birth.
It becomes so complicated, so nuanced, so fraught with confusion.
Let’s not even discuss the whole idea of virginity. The commoditization of our girls’ bodies goes way back. Intact hymen = worth. Anything less than intact = worthless. Pleasure, love, ecstasy and joy, the priceless gifts that Yoni is meant to share become scrapped in the face of sexual oppression.
You know what is junk? A preoccupation with all things vulvular in the absence of seeing the whole woman. The valuation and abuse of a girls’ body against her will. The wanton disregard for what turns us on. The cutting away of clitoral tissue. I could go on and on, but then, you might think I’m mad.
“That is why I won’t even ask for forgiveness when I say, there’s no fucking way I’m jumping on the junk bandwagon.”
When I’m really not angry any more. My yoni and I have made peace. She’s no longer some abstract entity, but integral to who I am. She is me. I am her. We are one and the same.
It takes courage to begin to understand the sacred and sexual truth of this portal to womankind. An erotic lifetime of rediscovery.
That is why I won’t even ask for forgiveness when I say, there’s no fucking way I’m jumping on the junk bandwagon. Call a woman lot of names, those that rhyme with rich or worse. Call us cunts, whores, madonnas and more…or finally do away with the sticks, stones and barbie doll bones. Because, no matter how the world may try to scare, snare and tear us apart, this much I know for sure: A woman and her yoni are anything but second-hand goods.
Tinamarie is a natural intimacy & libido
specialist for women over 35 who desire
Sensational Intimate Relationships.