In her review of "A Dangerous Method", Kartina Richardson says, "I’ve never wondered about (Keira) Knightley’s vagina before. Her characters, though romantic leads, seem vagina-less..."
She's absolutely right. Why is that? Why are our sex objects only desirable from the belly-button up? Why have I never thought about Keira Knightley's vagina before? She must have one, and if we're going to admire the daintiness of her cleavage in those pirate movies, one would assume our imaginations would eventually slip, like a droplet of sweat, in between brazenly-displayed decolletage, tracing smoothly down her abdomen past the refined dip of her belly button until at last we reach the pubic mound, parting pale thighs to reveal the soft secret of her womanhood.
And yet, many of us have never probed so far south, not just with her, but with other famous starlets. We tend to focus on the superficial aspects of our attraction, on the PG elements of a woman's body, on her cleavage and rump, objectifying her without actually sexualizing her, as if she were as anatomically incorrect as poor Barbie.
When I was a young woman, my sexuality was an external thing. I was an exhibitionist, eager to share my body, deriving my pleasure from the enjoyment of others. I didn't expect to have an orgasm every time I had sex, after all, climaxes were tricky, elusive things that required perseverance and hard work. I didn't yet feel I had the right to ask for such diligence, sex felt good and that was enough. My vagina was generous, understanding, full of youthful indulgence and good intentions. It was a pussy; meek and sweet, with no expectations, no inconvenient demands.
As I get older, I find my sexuality grows more selfish, more insistent. I now have, as Kartina says, an adult vagina. Greedy. Unrestrained. Dangerous. The kind of vagina that strikes terror in the hearts of patriarchies, that causes burqas and stones to be handed out in equal measure. The kind of vagina that can't be objectified, can't be easily domesticated and tucked into a tidy Donna Reed corner, because it encompasses all manner of degradation, all manner of desire.
I once asked Raleigh if he was a butt or a boob man. He said, "I'm a vagina man. Tits and ass are just window-dressing." This, I have learned through eleven years of sweaty, grunty, unlady-like fucking, is the correct answer.
One of my favorite comedians and feminists, Rob Delaney, says he considers eating pussy to be a political act.* I adore him, and I think he's right when he says,"Sexism and misogyny still run rampant in our world and in our culture and it will be the death of us if we don’t seek to counter it in our own lives", but the funny thing is, he himself is served by that exact prejudice. People find his constant references to cunnilingus hilarious, but when a woman (such as myself) mentions the same act, suddenly it's gross. If a man says he wants to eat my pussy, that's fine, it's safe, the pussy is contained, it's handled, it's on a leash. But if I tell Rob Delaney "I'm going to sit on your face. I want your tongue deep inside me, I want you to smell me, taste me, feel me, bury your face in me and don't you fucking dare come up for air until you've finished what you started." Well. That shit's kinda scary, isn't it? I bet half of you threw your laptops across the room. (Note: this could strictly be that Rob Delaney is funny and I am not. In which case, disregard all mentions of my hooha.)
Vaginas are predatory. They're famished. And you're surrounded by them everyday.
Congratulations: You are now thinking about my vagina.
*Rob Delaney, if u r reading this, hit me up, I will ride ur mustache so hard, you'll think I was filibustering ur face.
(Magic starts at 4:00. Yes, I realize he is stache-less in this clip.)