You know one of those moments where you never thought about something but someone or something not only reminds you of it, but forces you to reevaluate everything you ever knew about it?
Well, this is the story about how I was introduced to my ‘fat vagina’…. or should I say: made astutely aware of it.
Since I hit puberty, the foliage in my nether area started to grow, along with other parts of my body that was God gifted. And as an Indian, She was quite abundant with the bounty too.
Of course, as the pubic beast grew, it started getting tangled- between my vulva, in my sanitary pad, while taking a shower, at night while I discovered my raging pubescent horniness.
As an Asian youngling, like many things unless I asked or when it was really required to, my mom never thought to educate me on the concept of trimming. At 14, when I went to her with this particular problem, she advised me to shave. “Use a clean razor!” And that conversation was all the education I needed. At least for the time being.
As I grew older, TV shows and movies introduced me to the world of Brazilian waxing. I only got a better understanding of it when my best friend got married and tried the ‘procedure’ on her own. She told me it hurt like a bitch and that I’d be a fool to make my poor pussy go through the medieval-esque torture. I trusted her, and her word came to mean gospel for me.
Hence, it’s understandable why I only summoned the curiosity to properly groom myself at a much later stage in life. At the age of 29 (and three quarters), I finally booked an appointment to get my vaginal landscape deforested… laid bare, if you may.
Since my vag and I both had agency, the decision didn’t work up a sweat. I simply went to the salon at the given time, and patiently awaited my turn.
Soon, an Indian lady escorted me inside. She smiled without saying a word.
The Indian me was partnered with an Indian esthetician. Perhaps she’d understand my hair better? Perhaps she was to be my own personal pubic hair whisperer. Hah!
As I walked towards the room, I was expecting a candle scented area, with calming aromas wafting the air. Dimly lit yellow lights, a woman with a soothing voice, a comfortable and plush high bed. My influence of the celluloid are quite apparent here.
But what I got was a brightly lit, neutral smelling room, with a plain white high chair-cum-bed that was straight out of a gynae’s office, and a woman with a sweet persona, but a shrill voice and chatty demeanour.
Don’t worry, it wasn’t some shady place. It was actually a nice salon with an international chain and a sanitised approach. So, while I was disappointed by what I initially saw, thankfully I remained unfazed by my own expectations. Curiosity was fuelling me.
“Strip, clean, sit, lay down, spread, relax”.
Those were the instructions, to be followed to the T.
All this I did. And then, silence. Because, I’m not one to converse when anyone I’m not intimate with is up in my nether regions. But the chatty expert it seemed, had to chat. Worse of all, with a particularly unwarranted observation:
“Your vagina is fat!” she exclaimed.
Not stated, exclaimed!
I nearly sat up with a fright, thinking of the worst. But then sense soon prevailed and I thought to myself, “what does she mean by ‘fat vagina’?”
As if she read my thoughts, she went on to offer an explanation, “Your mother must not have massaged you enough down there as a baby.”
Many thoughts were racing through my head. Amongst them, these are a couple that recurred:
“Why didn’t my mother massage me more?”
“Why didn’t my mother TELL me about this?!”
“I’m SO confronting my mom about this!”
And then, finally, the smarter thought came: “Why the fuck is this a thing?!”
You see, I failed to mention earlier, but I’m a curvy girl, proudly so, and blessed with a tad extra fat.
I perched my neck up and peered through my legs, looked her straight in the eyes and politely said, “Or maybe it’s because I’m just chubby?”
She smiled, nodded and told me to relax my vaginal muscles, as the area near my clit was about to be waxed.
Smooth segway. Pun intended.
Honestly, the waxing wasn’t half as painful as what people described it as. But the experience was fascinating, if not revealing. Again, pun intended.
I brushed off the whole thing and went for my next appointment: dress rehearsals.
At the changing room a girl nonchalantly observed the same thing.
And that did it.
Twice in the same day, I was reminded of my ‘fat vagina’. Unsolicited opinions.
But the second time was the charm. My self-esteem was shredded. All I wanted to do was call my mother and ask her all those questions I was thinking while sitting naked, exposed, being judged for my conspicuously FAT VAGINA.
What was first non-existent, is now a bodily issue that I never thought I’d ever have. I’ve never even heard of this!
It’s like standing before a mirror in a scene straight out of Mean Girls and forcing myself to find something I should be bothered by on my body.
Thanks for that.
If you’re curious to know if I asked my mom, of course I did. And I kid you not, she gave the most puzzled expression ever. My educated mom, looking quizzically at her educated daughter, perplexed. And then she laughed. No kidding. She straight up laughed out loud.
That’s when I knew, I was designed this way. This is my body, and there’s nothing wrong with it.
To cover all my bases and assure myself, I asked a few guy friends and even looked up on the internet if a ‘fat vagina’ turned them off in any way. Both times, the consensus was unanimous: they fucking don’t care.
Unfortunately, I’m still quite aware of it.
Fortunately, I’m not conscious of it.
And that’s the story of how I met my ‘fat vagina’.