Virgin(88)

Guy 2 saw me with a Brazilian that had turned into a Hitler ’stache. [Warning: A Playboy wax is advertised as a type of Brazilian wax but it does look different. Normal Brazilians have thick landing strips. A Playboy Brazilian is a tiny postage stamp of hair that looks like Hitler’s moustache imprinted onto your vagina.] He told me he hadn’t expected me to have a waxed VJ because I “seemed like a natural kind of girl.” He had shaved his own regions into a neat lawn.

I let their reactions bother me. I have been so preoccupied with men’s expectations of what my VJ should look like that I have spent hours (and hundreds of pounds) on shaving, creaming, waxing, tweezing and trimming my pubes. I have even cut my clitoris with a razor blade from trying to shave. My vagina has dark dots all over it from the ingrown hairs that are too deep to get rid of. I am permanently scarred.

Which is why I have decided I am finally done with it all. I am no longer going to try to prune my bush into the top of an exclamation mark or yank out all the hairs that are just doing their job and stopping dirt and sweat from getting into my vagina (yes, that’s their biological purpose).

From now on, I’m doing whatever I want to my pubes. I’m keeping them trimmed but I’m not even bothering to do my bikini line. Why? Because I’m embracing my pubes. I don’t want to cut myself while shaving, use creams that don’t work on thick hair, lie half-naked in salons or agonize over stray hairs with my tweezers. I don’t care what the next guy says about my pubes and I refuse to be part of the culture that assumes women have no hair down there. WE. DO.

I pressed publish and waited happily while the screen took me to the vlog homepage. We already had 750 followers. The past month had been hell while Emma and I forced ourselves to revise Shakespeare and Chaucer when all we wanted to do was keep telling the cyber world about our vaginas.

Most of the comments on our posts were negative. Apparently our posts were patronizing and unnecessary. But for every ten haters, there was always one girl who said something positive. It made it worthwhile.

Jack had texted a few times since that night, apologizing, but I hadn’t replied. He’d taken the hint and finally left me alone. It still hurt, but only because my pride had been dented. It had taken four weeks but I had now fully accepted what had happened. I’d written I am over him on my left hand in permanent pen to help me remember and I’d redone it every week so it never had a chance to fade. I’d changed his name on my phone to DO NOT REPLY—REMEMBER LUISA. The thought of the Brazilian part-time model (I’d Facebook-stalked her) put me off every time. I couldn’t compete with that.

Instead I had thrown all my energy into passing my degree and vlogging with Emma. It was funny how easy it was to focus on work when I wasn’t having an existential crisis about my virginity.

None of the companies I’d applied to intern with had replied yet, so I had sent them all follow-up emails gently pushing for a response. As a last-minute decision, I added a link to the vlog to the emails. I had no idea how it would go down—especially with the conservative newspapers I’d emailed—but at least I was being proactive.

Meanwhile Paul was shagging Vladi and making his way through the pack of lightweight condoms I had gifted him. Lara was still at university, going to May Balls and glamorous things I didn’t understand, and was on track to graduate with honors. She was due to move in with me soon. I had a summer with my girls ahead of me and I was moving on from Jack. His name barely even featured in my diary anymore. It was only on every alternate page.

There was only one thing I still hadn’t done. Go back to Dr. E. Bowers.

Which was why, after I posted my latest vlog entry, I shut down my laptop and grabbed my leather jacket and sunglasses. It was time to face my fears. I had let go of my status as a barely touched maiden and accepted my new one as a fallen woman. I had a future as a slut ahead of me and I couldn’t wait to let Dr. E. Bowers know.



I was back in the doctor’s office waiting for my name to flash up on the TV screen. I fidgeted awkwardly and wished the air conditioner wasn’t on so high. My bare legs, which had looked relatively tanned outside, looked deathly pale under the fluorescent lights. The few leg hairs I’d missed when shaving were standing on end in the cold.

I crossed my legs and tried to pull the white summer dress down over my knees. The waiting room was relatively empty because most people had headed back home after exams or were too busy getting liver disease to care about checkups.

The television screen flashed: MS ELLIE KOLSTAKIS. PLEASE GO TO DR E BOWERS’ OFFICE.