vagina_love

How I Learned to Love My Pussy

A Vagina Love Story by Amanda Diaz

I’ve always hated the word vagina (which most Americans use to refer to the whole vulva). I prefer pussy, or even better, Yoni, which is Sanskrit for vagina and means “Sacred Gateway”.

My Yoni has been a point of insecurity since I entered young adulthood. As soon as her hair grew in, I suddenly found myself having to pay attention to an area of my body I’d completely ignored my entire life. After 13 years of never exploring or touching this part of myself, I now had to deal with hair? I thought it was gross, and didn’t want to think about it.

At the first opportunity I shaved it all off.

I continued this tradition of Yoni-denial all the way until my first sexual experience. Isn’t that strange? We aren’t taught anything about our clitoris or how to access sensual Pleasure growing up, and suddenly we’re having sex, expecting teenage boys to know what to do? My young friend certainly didn’t, and now, in addition to having unwanted hair, I had to face the fact that this desire I felt burning in my body certainly wasn’t being matched or met with Pleasure, and I had no idea how to truly quench it for myself.

What did my Yoni even look like? The anatomy charts we’d seen in school only focused on the uterus. I’d never even seen a real vagina before — only airbrushed ones in men’s magazines, attached to busty women in lingerie.

So I pulled out a mirror and looked. And at first peek, I wished I hadn’t.

I didn’t like what I saw. My Yoni was ugly. She looked floppy and nothing like the ones I saw in Playboy or Hustler magazines, or on my boyfriend’s porn. She had layers and color, and I felt embarrassed for being different. I didn’t want to think about it. So I didn’t.

Red Canna, Georgia O’Keeffe

This said, I still loved sex, and as I grew into a young woman I became sophisticated enough to know how to Pleasure myself, give & receive orgasms, find my own clitoris and g-spot. But as for experiencing that deep, nourishing sensual Pleasure I intrinsically knew sex could be… No. I certainly wasn’t experiencing that. I still didn’t love my Yoni or fully accept my body as home, and the thought of having someone else put their face near this part of myself — even a man I loved — left me cringing with discomfort. I felt bad for anyone who had to go near it.

Fast forward to when I was 29. Sitting on a creekbank in rural Washington, I confided my insecurity with a dear friend, who helped me look at my Yoni without shame for the first time in my life. In true sisterly-fashion, she even showed me hers in an effort to help me see that all Yonis are different and beautiful in their own unique way. Any sense of social awkwardness evaporated as I was overwhelmed with gratitude for being seen in my vulnerability, and reassured that this most tender part of me was natural and perfectly okay.

That moment planted the seeds of a healing journey which involved reclaiming my body & sexuality for myself. I realized that for my whole adult life, I’d been performing sex, rather than being present in my body. It was for my partner, for their Pleasure. Despite all the apparently “good” sex I’d had, I was still racked with insecurity and rarely experienced the deeper nourishment I craved.

I finally realized no Lover would ever be capable of giving me this nourishment if I couldn’t offer it to myself. And so, within a container of self-chosen celibacy, I began my own Pleasure journey, getting to know what my sensuality felt like just for me, as mine.

No performance, no show. Just me.

I regularly took hours to bathe and rub oil into my skin, or sensually dance for myself with no other audience. I treated myself as the Lover I’d always wanted: with depth, patience, and presence.

I also got to know my Yoni — what she felt like in all her layers, what she looked and tasted like. What areas felt best, how long I could sustain an orgasmic roll, and how good I could feel in my body.

And as I opened, something happened. Something MAJOR. This ever-present sense of scarcity, of never-having-enough-ness, began melting. I found myself accessing a clearer sense of purpose, making changes in my life I never expected to make.

White Flower 1929, Georgia O’Keeffe

I left corporate work and took nine months off to travel and find myself. I visited friends, created art, and took myself on adventures. Through a series of synchronistic events, I began the process of becoming a healing practitioner, something I’d always known I was meant to be, yet had never allowed myself to explore.

And then, when I was least-expecting or seeking it, I encountered a gentle Lover I felt compelled to break my celibacy vow with; one who reflected my Yoni to me in a new way.

As we made love, he asked to look at me. My breath quickened, my heart raced, and everything in me wanted to close my legs and hide. But I allowed him.

As he gazed at this most sensitive part of my body, touching it with such care and reverence, I softened. I felt what he felt. I suddenly understood that all my layers were truly representations of me — my own complexity and depth. I realized my vagina and heart were intrinsically connected, and as he entered this tender part of me, so he also entered my heart. There was no division. And nothing, really, could be more Beautiful than that.

After our encounter I went home and shaved my Yoni. I sat in front of a mirror to see it, and for the first time in my life, didn’t recoil in distaste. I didn’t scoff at it for looking “funny”, become analytical, or disassociate from my body. Instead, I simply looked.

And do you know what I saw?

I saw Beauty. I saw layers and depth. Elegance & mystery. I saw Love, tenderness, and strength. All from that part of me.

All from there.

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