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A VAGINA MONOLOGUE—RATED PG
In 1918, Marie Stopes, a British woman, wrote a book titled
Married Love. Apparently Stopes had consulted several medical
books that led her to realize she was a virgin despite having been
married for a year. Her husband, it seems, was impotent, but poor
Marie had no idea that just the act of the marital ceremony did not
in itself constitute the end of her virginity. It kind of gives new
meaning to the man-dreaded phrase, "Is it in yet?" Well, it
wasn't in, not even close. Stopes' sex manual was the first
book to suggest that women should enjoy sex as much as
men, and it was fiercely opposed by doctors, the press and
the church.
I would like to think we are much more enlightened, 88
years later, about our bodies and our sexuality, and that
while Marie's mother may have failed to have the all-im
portant mcther-daughter sex talk with a blossoming little
Marie circa 1918, that would surely never happen in this
day and age. It is hard to imagine a woman naive enough
to be a virgin and not know it. Our generation has more ac
cess to sexual information than any before. We can google
"female orgasm," "how to give a blow job," "anal sex" and
“foot fetishes." We can get quick access to STD symptoms,
birth control legislation and tantric sex techniques.
I recall my first sex teacher being a less techno-sawy
medium, though—some yellowed paperback novels I
discovered in the back of my grandfather's closet. These
steamy treasures were as sexually deviant as they came—
sadomasochism, group sex, bestiality—nothing was off lim
its. At the time, I had not yet begun to feel those special
stirrings that would become so ever-present in my teenage
years. As a prepubescent girl with no interest in my own
body and no access to a boy's, these books were nothing
more to me than an interesting anthropological window,
and an early introduction to fine literature. I would hide
away for hours at a time, camouflaging the tiny copy of
Madam's Girls within the large hardback Little Women, and
my grandmother would lament, "That child sure does love
to read."
A similar reaction occurred when I saw my first Hustler.
There was nothing sexually exciting about the images, just
some initial shock, and then a prolonged comparison of
the women's naked bodies to my own. The most disturbing
thing about it was seeing a penis up close and personal,
and in great detail. It looked so harsh and angry jutting out
on the glossy page, not like the tender arm-like extension I
had pictured in my mind. That was my first disappointment in the
male member, and unfortunately it wouldn't be my only, as years
later! was unlucky enough to have my own "Is it in yet?" moment.
When I was actually approaching puberty and I began to won
der about sex and reproduction as they might relate to me person
ally. I consulted Judy Blume. I think most women of my generation
garnered at least some of their knowledge about their bodies from
Ms. Blume. The fact that there was such scandal surrounding many
of her titles made them that much more essential to read. I had
to know what Dennie had done to be pulled off the shelves of my
small town elementary school library. When I found out, my disap
pointment was paramount. Touching yourself, down there, in the
bathtub, didn't much compare to my earlier literary heroines who
had not only touched themselves down there, but had touched a
lot of other people (and animals) down there, often for some type
of monetary compensation. Oh Dennie. you have so much to learn.
Our Bodies, Ourselves: A Book by and for Women, published
in 1976, was considered revolutionary by the women of the day.
Every mom who was in touch with herself at all. read it, then gave
it to her daughter to read. It became part of the feminist canon,
answering questions about the anatomy and sexual response that
were taboo to many.
It had followed Dr. David Reuben's Everything fou Always
Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask, which also hap
pens to be my favorite Woody Allen movie. But I digress. Reuben's
book, faulty first because it was written by a man, is now a pop-
culture joke. The book contains much outdated medical and psy
chological information. Reuben states that homosexuals all want
to be women and that syphilis and gonorrhea could be eliminated
by giving everyone mandatory injections of penicillin. But Reuben
also went out on a long limb detailing sex acts and anatomy that
hadn't before been given their rightful place in commonplace lit
erature.
I guess neither book made it onto my grandmother's shelf
though (not that there was much room left next to grandpa's
porn). Only recently after a visit to the urologist did she come to
understand that the urethra and vagina were two separate
exits with two different functions. She was of the mental
ity that there was "one hole" "down there" and that was
all that was needed. This seemed pretty shocking to me.
Pornographic books and magazines didn't register at all on
my What-The-Fuck-O-Meter, but a grown woman knowing so
little about her own body certainly did.
When I was pregnant, she accompanied me to a doctor's
visit and on the car ride the conversation somehow turned
to blow jobs. I don't know how, it just did. She said she
had never done that and never would. Never! Disgusting!
"Some things you just don't put in your mouth, child." That
registered a level 8 easy. I had never even entertained the
idea that some women didn't give blow jobs. After all, I
came of age during the Clinton administration and even be
fore the nation knew what he had been up to, every young
person my age knew the logical predecessor to sexual
intercourse was oral sex. It's just what you did if you were
intimate with someone. Was there a time when fellatio and
cunniiingus were not a normal part of the mating ritual? It
was like trying to imagine life before the wheel.
Yes, times they are a-changin'. I would hope that all us
hip mommies take full advantage of the wealth of informa
tion out there and have fully embraced our sexuality. In
reality, though, I know busy mommies, under the emotional
strain of sleep deprivation and projectile poop, often forget
they are sexual beings at all. Hibernating away is the saucy
woman who got you into the position of motherhood in the
first place, replaced by someone who is, at best, neutral on
the subject of copulation.
If this is the case, I suggest you reawaken her. Flirt
with your husband, and for that matter, any other man
who can appreciate some non-threatening sexual atten
tion. Visit a sex shop. You can't legally buy a vibrator in
Georgia, but the "massagers" are excellent. Rent an adult
film. Remember what it was like to make out in the car.
And then take your guy to the car and make out. And don't
forget the blow jobs! There is nothing 'tore effective for
getting him to do his share around the house than some good olu-
fashioned oral attention. I stand by that ladies.
I believe we should be having all the satisfying sex our mothers
and qrandmothers never had * he chance to. After all, if we don't
nurture our sexual selves, we are no better off than poor Marie
Stopes.
Elizabeth Deroshia
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