I recently heard a famous woman remark about how ugly her pussy had become now that she was older and my heart broke. She’s brilliant, hilarious, creative, and I knew the words weren’t hers. I suspect she’d been taught, like so many of us, that denigrating her pussy was relatable; lies mistaken for humor. When I was a teen, any witless middle schooler could get some laughs by disparaging a vulva. It’s a punch that hits those of us walking around with one in the core of who we are, that place where physical world becomes cervix becomes womb becomes ether becomes stars, and it hurts. 

I wanted to hear this exceptional woman say how hot her pussy was, both when she was younger and now that she was aging. I wanted to hear how she and her pussy ran into each other sometimes in the bathtub after work, in a tangle of passion and wetness. Naked and unafraid, silky thighs refracted by the water, hands a perfect length to slide, to press, and to rub.

“Just the sight of my vulva, the mound, the folds, and velvety skin, was so stunning it brought me to tears. And then I came again,” I wanted to hear her say. 

How do we change these lies that are like air: pervasive and invisible? 

I chanted to Grandfather Fire and lit the small fire starter, setting it into the fire pit and watching the little flames begin to hop around. The fire pit, a tiny saucer BBQ I’d grabbed from someone’s discarded rubbish pile, was perfect for these types of at home functional rituals. I’d made the fire starters last summer out of egg cartons and beeswax. Each little cup contained offerings for the fire: dried flowers, incense dust, herbs, and other magical scraps I’d had laying around. They smelled scrumptious both dry and when they burned. 

“Grandfather Fire, I release the lies taught to me by my culture that I’ve been mistaking for oxygen and food. I’m done with them and I ask you to transform them,” I said. 

And then I listed the lies, “That women are less sexual than men. That women and people with vulvas aren’t visually stimulated. That the window of sexiness is short lived for someone with a vulva. That menopause will be the end of my life. And finally, that my pussy started out ugly and will only get uglier with age.” 

I brought up the feeling of them one last time, crying onto the small fire. The flames licked each tear, accepting the emotional offering. I watched as my little transformations became flames then smoke, coalescing and swirling up into the cool morning air. 

As Fire ate my offerings I called in my new truths, the beliefs that I’d already been solidifying, and welcomed them into my body. 

“Grandfather Fire, I trust my body. My cunt is the most sophisticated sex organ on the planet capable of endless pleasure. My clit never ages. And finally, Grandfather Fire, I call in range. May I have the range and skill to be the fullness of who I am. Quiet and soft when I need to be, and huge and roaring when I need to be.”

The lies I’d ingested had stunted my ability to have range, shaping my heart instead into a short fuse of defensiveness and fight. I didn’t exactly know the path out of the ashes. But killing the lies opened up the space to trust that I’d know the next steps when I felt them. And I don’t exactly know how those of us with vulvas transform the totality of what hasn’t worked for the last 3000 years. I feel the burned women and witches in my bones still. Those who burned because they refused to hide or give in to the darkening times and lies of the church, continuing instead to live their lives openly. And those who tried to hide but drowned anyway simply because they had vulvas. I feel that sticky past in my own present like so many heartbroken ghosts grasping at my skeleton and clinging to my heart. And I feel as well, within my bones, the perpetrators that I must also come from. Those who lit the fires and carried out the destruction not in service of life. Those who, in righteous zeal, gladly turned against the flow of their humanity. I aim to forgive their purposeful ignorance and actions taken out of pain and all that hatred projected onto vulvas. 

Edifices, structurally fixed phantom skyscrapers given so much time and energy through repetition and practice pinning down our humanity, can fall like any other brittle falsity, a neglected movie set of times gone by that we now know better than return to. 

I have this fantasy that doing the small daily things is what allows us to be well fed and wise enough to stop eating the lies. What I mean is that we could begin to transform the 3000 years of heartbreak in an instant simply by loving ourselves. By getting turned on by the sight of our bodies, keen and soft, wet and engorged. 

Repetition works. Ritual works. Ceremony works. Rinse repeat is how the nescience infiltrated and has remained for so long. But we know how to do that too. Through skill and passion, pleasure and healing. 

I pulled off my gloves as I came in from the hot afternoon sun to pee. Leaving the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of myself in the full length mirror. I’d been outside for the past few hours and my face and demeanor looked wild, swept up in the delight of being part of the veggie garden’s life and the golden summeryness of it all. I wasn’t the soil and I wasn’t the plants. I was the humaning aspect of the season, the tender, the one who fluffed and noodged. My reflection showed curves under Carharts, ballcap, and boots. I was sweaty and covered in garden and spiderwebs. I wrapped my arms around myself then pinched my nipples over my shirt. I slid my fingers beneath my pants, finding the soft nest of hair and pressed, tracing out heavy circles. Glistening, wet, ageless. Now that she’s in her 40s she knows what she likes and isn’t afraid to say so. She has all the time in the world and won’t apologize for taking up space, doing so in a way a 20 or 30-something version of her could not. I grabbed the vibrator out of the drawer and put it on the edge of the bed, leaning into it. I rode the vibe and felt my love for my own humanity and beauty. I called in range and pleasure. I panted with waves of delight as I came. It was quick because there was still lots to do outside. I put my gloves back on and walked out into the sun. Kneeling at one of the raised beds, I poured the small pile of ash from my fire ritual into the soil and mixed it in with my fingers, giving it back to the earth so the energy could become something new.  

Photo by roya ann miller on Unsplash

Lincoln is currently in training as a Bodysex Coach. 

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