My vagina and I had beautiful beginnings.
My earliest memory with my dear Miley (yes, that is my pussy’s name) was at about three or four years of age when I was removed from my kindy class for repeatedly rubbing her against a chair. Around the same time I remember my mother teaching me how to clean Miley in the shower, which I loved – every day I eagerly awaited the opportunity to explore the mysterious pink flower between my legs.
At age five, I began to suspect that vaginas were forbidden when I wandered over to my mother after having an innocent fiddle with Miley and having Mum grab my fingers, smell them and demand, “Have you been touching your fanny?”
This knowledge was cemented a few years later when I suggested a curious friend take a look at her own Miley by spreading her legs in the mirror at home. Unfortunately, her Dad walked into the bathroom while she was hoisted up on the basin and she was not allowed to play with me anymore.
In an ‘I’ll show you mine, you show me yours’ type situation with the boy next door, I learned that a flash of Miley was a fantastic bargaining tool when trying to gain access to the boy’s sandpit. The flash also proved itself useful when I, a tomboy type lass, was taunted by the neighbourhood kids and my own siblings who all joked that I must actually have a dick.
Miley and I soldiered on through the rest of my girlhood facing such typical trials and tribulations as a hymen breakage inducing horse ride; and the less typical, such as getting caught masturbating with an exercise ball.
She supported me during my tear filled learning-to-use-tampons stage; through my much debated ‘loss of virginity’ that involved a limp dick, paw paw ointment, several other people in the room and not a lot of actual penetration; through the awkward holy-shit-I-have-only-fucked-one-person-and-this-guy-is-a lot-bigger-and-has-a-bent-penis one night stand.
It is hard to say when Miley and I began to drift apart. Scholars (my best friend went to tech) maintain that it started with The Great Drunken Shaving Incident of ’11 that resulted in a bleeding clitoris, and preceded a whole lot of slutting around.
Several (thankfully curable) diseases, a failed pregnancy and subsequent surgery later it was safe to say Miley and I truly despised each other. Following the period of expected despondency (which never truly ends) I started to return to my old ways.
In hindsight, it was then that Miley began to reach out to me; at the time, I thought she was being a little cunt (no pun intended) preventing me from fulfilling my fallen woman prophecy. She began to itch and burn and dry up and misregulate the menses.
Reassured by my doctor that I had not contracted anything, I persevered with banging my new boyfriend much to the chagrin of Miley, who continued to worsen despite the use of several precautionary antibiotics. Eventually sex became unenjoyable.
After a series of events with said (now ex) boyfriend that I would not quite call rape, I found myself willingly alone to reflect on the time since my exercise equipment sexual awakening. Then it hit me: Miley was trying to get me to look after myself. Think about my needs. Use her for enjoyment, not because of guilt or revenge or supposed duty. She needed me to look after her. Every queef had been a cry for help.
So Miley, if you’re reading this: I’m sorry. I miss you. I miss resting my hand on you when I can’t sleep. I miss the way you let me wear maternity pads when you’re not bleeding just because they make me feel cosy and safe. I miss us having a healthy relationship. I want to make it up to you. I want to nurture us. I’ll take you to the kinesiologist that fixed my hayfever next week. I’ll stop taking random guys that I have named after Harry Potter characters home from nightclubs. I’ll even take a vow of celibacy until we get this sorted.
Because I love you, I respect you and I want to spend the rest of my life making us happy.
Written by Zara Page. Photo by nicoleperkins.
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