Over on Twitter today, I’ve been chatting about ‘Vagina Makeup’.
-Actually (I’m foof-splaining, here, note ‘actually’) it’s a cream for the mons, not the vagina*-
This led my deranged mind on some bizarre pathways, and other people got dragged along with me on the journey. We discussed female and male genitalia makeup and different ways of tarting up one’s nether regions. Plumping gloss for penises, rainbow lighting for the vulva, eyeliner and glitter and superheroes… It was a brilliantly funny conversation and gave us all a laugh.
But… When you think about it, it’s quite serious. Quite sad.
Women are already told that our natural appearance is unacceptable; we have dainty wee razors to get us in trim. We can’t have odour or natural secretions (both of which are entirely natural and serve a function), and now women are having surgery to get perfectly landscaped ladygardens… Yep. Surgery.
I know there’s also pressure on men to have the perfect penis, which is again wickedly irresponsible – penises come in all shapes and sizes, and they’re all ok.
It’s human nature to be curious-to-fascinated regarding genitalia; it’s part of the survival of the species (and you only need to try raising eight-year-old boys to realise it’s completely nature and not nurture). But we live in a culture which has gone beyond a natural appreciation of ‘sexy bits’ and now fetishises them to a degree which is unhealthy.
We already face immense pressure to conform. To be part of the herd. To be homogenous. Society tries to mold us via the press, entertainment, peer pressure into ‘perfect’ humans. And now that pressure is extended to having beautifully bald-and-Barbielike genitals…
Remember the Sex Hats in Demolition Man?** We are moving rapidly towards that state; where the act of sex is considered unnatural, unnecessary. Where making children is a sterile procedure and the sex itself is purely visual.
Sex is at the most basic level the act of procreation.
Tab A fits into slot B, nine months later, along comes C: end of.
But there’s so much attached to sex; emotion, sensation, connection. And all sorts of ways to get tab A into slot B…and while you’re at it, you’ll find fur and fuzz and lumps and bumps and scents and odours and outies and innies…and you know what?
It’s bad enough that we are expected to be homogenously perfect. That the world still only really accepts that we are male OR female, and can’t grasp that people fit anywhere and everywhere between. We can’t have zits or dandruff or wrinkles or fat**** OR bones. We shouldn’t have pubic hair, leg hair, armpit hair (unless we’re making a ‘statement’), but our head hair has to be glossy and go ‘swoosh’…
Being human is messy. And messy is good. Messy has worked for millions of years. Messy has put 7+billion people on this planet.
I’m here to tell you that (unless it appeals to you) your mons doesn’t need to sparkle like Edward Cullen.
Honest. It doesn’t. (Unless you want it to.)
Your body can be skinny, fat, smooth or fuzzy, and that’s ok.
Your body is where YOU live. YOU have to feel comfortable in it. If you want to sparkle-up your ladygarden, by all means do it – but only because you want to. Not because it’s what society demands on order for you to be acceptable.
In the words of Christina Aguilera:
You are beautiful/ No matter what they say.
*Autocorrect wants that to be ‘monster’, not ‘mons’…I think it feels threatened!
**If you haven’t seen Demolition Man, try it. It’s hysterical. And very violent.
***Really! Humans are messy. It’s cool.
****I have wrinkles and fat. The other week I described myself as being ‘fat fetish territory’. Nobody should feel like that. Yes, I’m fat. No, that doesn’t mean I’m just an object, sexually. I need to sort that shit out.