foundations of a lesbian didactic

“Vagina...”

I spoke into the open of this over-familiar room. Though the bumpy sound of the word died on all four corners, it seemed as if my mind had a different acoustical structure; the word almost endlessly, tirelessly asserted itself into my consciousness. Echoing, as if trying to make me it a mantra- repeating, repeating, repeating, repeating. How can a hole literally fill my mind?

Ironic.

And I continued...

“And the parts of the vagina ARE...” My voice suddenly got all enthusiastic: “the clitoris, it’s prepuce, the labia minora, the urethral opening, the vestibule, the hymen” and on a hush, I whispered “untorn” and went back to the same lecture-type tone as if pointing at a diagram which was my actual body part through the looking glass of my compact: “and the labia majora and the posterior pourchet.” I took a pause grinning shy of the remotest possibility that anyone heard the outrage I was doing. Nonetheless in a self-defiant way, I powerfully uttered: “AND! Don’t forget the mons pubis!” I laughed both in a tense and a relaxed manner which opposing feelings depended on the way I looked at the situation.

It’s funny how amused I got in this naming exercise, it made me feel that I really understood what it is that I was referring to. And with this thought, another layer of doubt both diverted and deepened my thought process to mentally “verbalize” the classic question of “does a mirror really reflect reality?” which whose inquiry were readily answered with arguments by my active mind. “No, because the mirror inverts an image into its horizontal visual counterpart”- again in a manner as if teaching in front of a supposed now physics then biology or sex education class. The previous argument was semi-countered by- “though the imagination can always invert the image to its supposed ‘real’ form” and again countered- “though again, it’d been a ‘constructed’ thought and hence worthy of an accusation of its ‘untruth’” which was finally demolished by the statement: “did it even matter to see the real thing?”

I wondered and pondered a lot about this and my mind was as if a room full of jury members debating and rebating about the value of the thoughts I were thinking. This and that, due to this and because of that, despite of these and including those, with this in mind or without considering that, my thoughts were just plain messy. Already doubting my sanity due to hunches about this possible schizophrenic episode that has just occurred inside my head, the different sides all simultaneously argued making each others’ statements obsolete because they rendered incomprehensible everything they said to the dominant ego-perspective which served as my representative in the situation. Not that all the other members weren’t me.

Maybe it did matter. Maybe it did not. I don’t know. Again, it depends on the way I’d look at it.

Going back to the vagina, all I see is the outside- the “external vagina” as they’d say. I don’t personally know but they also say that there’s an “internal vagina” wherein or better said as literally in where wonders happen. I fondly call it “the origin of man”- fascinating really.

This seeming little cave that lies between my lower limbs just in front of my anus is where humanity emerged, of course, not without a hearty brew within. It also looks like a little spark of a flame with smoke emerging in contact with its definitions against the air with the flame stemming from high above a wick stemming from the perineum to the end with the lack of a candle in the anus. It can also look like an elongated seashell from where molluscs normally take residence in and keep their vulnerable flesh from probable predation. No matter how I’d look at it at the outside, it’s still the same vagina- the one that has a hole that was evolutionarily supposed to take in a penis and bear children.

From this thought, it seemed fitting to be back at the biology class to again list off.

“From the vagina, we enter into the vulva and the vaginal fornix which connects us to the cervix which narrow opening leads to the uterus, commonly called the womb.”

Now I realize that it was useless to use the compact to view the vagina now because my mind is seemingly looking at the insides of it unless...

“UGH!”

Now, I’m torn...

And it couldn’t be more painful. I couldn’t stress it enough that it was PAINFUL. When the mirror side of the compact slit me apart, I now knew what they meant about gushers. I felt like a surgeon that just performed a great irreversible surgery to the once semi-permeable membrane that was now fully-permeable to anything and everything that would desire to come in and out of it. Though as if that would happen anytime with the knowledge of my current lifestyle of non-permissiveness to penetration; not that I hate men; it’s just that I love women.

All I saw was darkness through a rich frame of crimson.

I need to mention that the compact was initially green and the view or the lack of it made me regret the suffering I went through for the sake of curiosity. As they say, “curiosity killed the pussy,” forgive the wordplay, but mine just got ripped bare.

I remember from something that I have read that bowls, spoons, even plates, or anything that is hollow and can contain substance is associated with the vagina. They call these hollow container things as belonging to the archetype of “yonic” symbols. They say that men fantasize about these hollow objects and wish to fill them up with their “phallus” which in turn are identified from an archetype of elongated or piercing objects that more often than not, can penetrate or supposedly “perfectly” fill “yonic” emptiness. Regardless and I say with power; REGARDLESS of these fantasies, truth be told; just like a bowl is for soup, the vagina is as they say for children. Needless they say; the vagina is a vagina because it is meant to contain something.

This made me connect in my mind why the only part of the female genitalia or all genitalia for that matter that has an acceptable presence in children’s literature is the “womb.” I theorize that it is probably because it is perceived as something beautiful and non-invasive of the special ever-protected faculty of the young- their innocence. Which based on very recent experience is actually really fragile and breaks with the necessity of a seeming rite of passage mainly comprising of agony. Perhaps, it’s the only beautiful thing about genitalia and perhaps about sex- its seeming by-product: babies.

I am reminded of the question that is often asked in beauty pageants: “What is the essence of a woman?” I restrain myself from thinking of the philosophical foundations of the concept of “essence,” but really, is there? I honestly want to know. Some answer beauty, some nurturing, some parental example though one of the most famous answers powerfully posits that pregnancy or bearing children is the “essence of a woman.”

The ability to directly nurture another human being and be literally connected to it through a cord called the umbilical cord. They say that it is the most noble and most beautiful thing whose event most closely fully realizes womanhood. And the ability to bring it out into the world- DIVINE! How beautiful is it to cause someone’s existence into this world? Not that I have total faith in life that it will always be a beautiful thing, but procuring an immense source of potential for this world and be able to be the one that suffers lovingly for its first real breath- what better privilege is there?

All this though ENRAGES me.

How do THEY suppose I fully realize myself?

Does my womanhood depend on my ovaries creating egg cells that are fertilized by sperm whose moment of encounter produce a zygote that connects and attaches itself to my womb to be incubated for 9 months to produce a fetus that in turn turns into a child?

I notice that my heart is beating faster, my skin is producing beads of cold sweat, my right hand without me knowing have made a fist out of itself, and the other hand on the compact- it seemed as if it wanted to crush what I was seeing and what it was vicariously touching through the compact.

I wanted to crush my vagina and rid myself of the burden of my womanhood which the world defines as my ability to bear children. They say that it is a privilege to be a woman and be able to bring someone into this world in a special way, but it didn’t seem like a privilege. It seemed as if that if I declined it, I would be doing the world a sin. I thought it didn’t matter if we didn’t take our privileges, but it did! It seems as if that bearing children is a requirement which my being does want to experience in all its sincerity, but seemingly, it was “unfortunate” that my being is giving me a hard time. Apparently, my soul does not want to be a “woman” if it means having to betray myself and decline my identity.

I am lesbian.

Just saying that seems dirty and the world deems it unbecoming of having a vagina if am one.

I needed to calm down.

I took deep breaths.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

The air couldn’t be thicker when I inhaled and my exhales are even thicker than what I took in.

And I suddenly felt tears trickling down my cheeks.

I dropped the compact. The blood spread across the floor. I wiped my tears though realized too late that I have just smeared it with more liquid- my blood. I felt like a dirty woman, inside and out, bloodied up by my own thoughts though somehow I knew it wasn’t my fault.

It was THEM.

*ps... I'm a guy... :D