An Ode to My Vagina
By: Ms. Part Time Wino
Tags: Humor, Feminism, Sex, Women, Sexuality

Oh, sweet and sometimes sour-smelling vagina.

How I’ve adored watching you grow and develop over the years. From those first masturbatory experiments while watching Saved by the Bell to those disconcerting moments in the back of my 2005 VW Jetta.

You entered this world an innocent, wide-eyed girl — eager to please even the most unruly of characters.

Back then, you were wild. You didn’t seek to hide those cascading locks of brown hair. You weren’t fussed about your lip size or clit width or how your shapely figure looked standing in front of the mirror. You had no concerns over how you compared to the other beautifully manicured vaginas you saw on the internet.

You were just you.

My darling, you’ve traveled the world. Far beyond the state lines that once constricted our ancestors so long ago. From the pulsating, circumcised penises of America to the throbbing, uncut cocks of Europe, you’ve collected more stamps in your passport than most people could ever dream of.

And for that, I’m proud.

But as you got older, things started to change.

I watched as your luxurious curls were chopped, shaved, and waxed into a generic plastic-like mold. Every follicle that dared to rear its ugly head was quickly removed as to not stick out like the budding beauty it tried to be.

Instead of basking in your natural aromatic musk, you desperately tried to change the composition of your scent. Creamy almond vanilla or garden-plucked lily rose — it didn’t matter. The only goal was to successfully cover up your true, organic fragrance.

But isn’t that how life goes? We grow. We change. We discover our true selves.

And don’t get me wrong, my delicate little coochie. Growth isn’t all bad. Although you may have shed your youthlike cocoon, you’ve also blossomed to become one of the most admirable creatures I’ve ever seen.

You now walk the globe with a sense of consciousness for who you let in. Not every man who showers you with flowers or compliments gets to experience your inner self. Only the most deserving of souls — the ones who accept you for who you are — are welcomed to indulge.

It may have taken years, but you now understand the meaning of self-worth.

As the clock ticks closer and closer to the end, you may start to lose your softness. Or wetness. Or lust-worthy appeal from the people around you. You may wake up one morning and ponder, “Where is the lively, enthusiastic vagina of my youth? Where did she disappear to?”

You may look back at your life and question if you really lived it to the fullest.

You may question if anyone still loves you or if you are indeed worthy of love to begin with.

And I’m here to tell you — yes, you are.

Because, my precious vagina, you have made my life so utterly complete. And I don’t know where I would be in this world without you.

Sure, you’ve seen or done a few things you aren’t proud of, but you’ve survived. And time and time again, you’ve waved your fists and shouted from the rooftops, “I’m a warrior!”

It doesn’t matter if those people still love you. It doesn’t matter if you turn old and gray and lose all the threads of beauty you once thought made you whole. Because at the end of the day, I still love you.

So, thank you, my dear vagina. Thank you for being the beautiful creature you will always be.