cursed vagina
(read: cur-sed. emphasize the e sound for the rest of this essay, like “ye olde cur-sed vagina”)
none of us really know that much about vaginas. like, i certainly don’t.
i didn’t know what yeast infections were until i got seven in one year. last year.
(it’s diagnosed as chronic when you have more than 2-3 a year. i had 7. s e v e n.)
i wouldn’t say my vagina is cursed because i’ve had seven yeast infections. but when i was 19 and absolutely clueless and freaking out in the waiting room of my obgyn about my uncertain vaginal state, i absolutely would have.
i sat in the waiting room glad that i could a) know something funky was going on with my punani b) that i could go to a person who knew more about it than i did to figure it out for me and c) know deep down it was going to be fine.
it’s really sad to think that that’s still not the case in a lot of places today.
and it certainly wasn’t the case like, waaaaay before.
isn’t it crazy how for a hot minute everyone was like, “having sex will bring misery” or whatever? even though everyone was absolutely boinking and absolutely spreading disease.
maybe that’s the real curse.
like before (and kind of now i guess) there was this association with someone who wasn’t a virgin having something dark and cursed inside them???? itty bitty bugs?? warts perhaps??? incessant itching??
sad that they tried to be all “boning is bad” when a) everyone absolutely was anyway and b) the real reason we have a lot of stds/stis is because people were committing [redacted].
okay. fine. i won’t type that. but i will say that gonorrhea comes from cattle. think about that for like, less than two minutes. then keep reading.
back in england or whatever they were giving each other the itchies and bumpies left and right! what if that’s the deep dark demon they were talking about?! or they just genuinely thought they were going to live an eternity in hell for doing so?
nah, that’s not as fun.
as jean paul sartre once said, i think, “hell is a sexually transmitted infection that can only be remedied by a series of antibiotics and ointment.”
getting an std or an sti or a sex-induced yeast infection or bv is not the end all be all of your life. i think that’s important to address. it is, however, annoying to deal with. and that warrants shit talking. but only like, you complaining about it. does that make sense?
it’s nuts to think some young victorian girl who was just super horny for her victorian boyfriend boinked him and got a uti and bacterial vaginosis combo probably (or maybe syphilis, i don’t know her) and then thought she had a demonic snatch.
maybe she had seven yeast infections in one year. and she thought her vagina was cursed. and then her church made her feel like a whore, and then she probably didn’t have a lot of friends. and queen couldn’t even journal about it because she probably couldn’t read or write.
in their defense (kind of) they didn’t have antibiotics. they only knew how to slut shame. now, we do have antibiotics, but people still slut shame.
sad all around.
poor girl. she died with the pain of not knowing what was up with her punani. also probably with the pain of cholera, or something.
i feel for her.
thinking of that is almost just as nuts to think that i, at 19, was sad because the nurse at my obgyn was mean to me because i had bacterial vaginosis and a uti when i thought it was an std.
i could’ve died in that very moment!
of sadness and embarrassment.
not of cholera.
so, my snatch is not cursed.
and that victorian girl’s snatch wasn’t either.
but she definitely thought it was, and that’s because of the (insert big word with a negative connotation: verb) of sex back then, or whatever. who knows if it stopped miss girl, but for her sake i hope she at least got a few good boinks in before she fuckin’ died.
she died sad and hypothetically cursed, and all i have to do is cut my sugar intake and take an antifungal every week.
i’m not directly comparing myself to a victorian girl with a broken demonic snatch. but i’m also not not directly comparing myself. i’m just saying i feel her pain. or at least some of it.
she didn’t know,
and neither did i.
and apparently, neither do you.
the scream i scrome at “queen couldn’t even write about it”