Olive the Other Reindeer...

... had a very shiny nose...

Off topic: Olive the Other Reindeer was my favorite Christmas movie as a child. All because of the pun. It's the first play-on-words that I ever remember understanding, and I could never stop laughing. Unfortunately, none of this has anything to do with the rest of this blog. I just happen to mention olives in this story, which, of course, made me think of Olive.

I was recently having a wonderful discussion on FetLife on that fabulous topic that's been on my mind so much recently: What is sex? mmmm, sex. Well, one of the things that came up was foreplay. I absolutely despise the concept of foreplay. It implies that anything other than penal-vaginal intercourse (PVI) is less-than sex, which I personally find very patriarchal, as many women, including myself, are unable to reach orgasm through PVI and/or don't enjoy it as much as other sex acts.  I am on the very extreme end of that spectrum, and I often find PVI not only not pleasurable but un-pleasant and anti-pleasurable (and my vagina is really short, so I can't top in PVI because the feeling of a penis pounding on my cervix resembles the sensation of a stick of dynamite going off by your ear and rupturing your eardrum, and it's unfortunately more difficult to dominate on bottom).  Besides the sexism inherent in that concept, it's also obviously very hetero- and cis-normative, and devalues any relationship that's not between two opposite-sex cissexual people.  Which is bullshit.

Actually, none of this has anything to do with this post, either.  I guess I just wanted to tell you all about my sex life.  Just kidding, what I actually wanted to do was make you read this, which the whole foreplay-issue made me think off.  The first time I was introduced to this article was through AVEN, because the metaphor presented in it is a very asexuality-positive metaphor.  Which actually does have to do with this post, for a change.  See, wandering around today (more specifically, going to Barnes and Noble to get The Whipping Girl, of which I read four chapters so far, and I'm already contriving ways to propose to Julia Serano, because it's just so brilliant and well-written), I came up with my own metaphor involving pizza for my own (a)sexuality and sexual experiences.  Unrelated to the metaphor in that article, only in that it happens to involve pizza. And olives, God knows why, which is how the reindeer ever came in the picture.  Anyways, here's my story.

Pizza shop - A non-platonic or not-only platonic partner.
Pizza - A non-platonic or not-only platonic encounter. Every pizza/slice of pizza/crumb of pizza/etc. from the same pizza shop is another encounter with the same person.
Olives - Sex. We'll just assume there's only one essential "sex", with no such thing as different types of sex or foreplay. Deal?


I reaaaally like pizza. In fact, almost everyone in all the world reaaaaally likes pizza.  Pizza is delicious, and there are pizza shops on every street, and each one of them is unique and different. Pizza chains don't exist in this world, though I suppose delivery still might... I really didn't think my world that much through...  Well, anyways, pizza is amazing, and most people - like 99% of people really love olives.  Like, a lot. Some people eat olive pizza whenever they get the chance, while others prefer to try non-olive pizza or a few slices of pizza with no olives from a pizza shop before they order it with olives. But everyone loves olives.


Only I never much cared for olives.  I tried them, but they just didn't taste so great.  So I went to another pizza shop, tried the olive pizza there, didn't much like them still. I went to a few, tried a few, tried different kinds of pizza, seasoning, different ingredients to go with my olives, I tried a lot. But I still didn't much care for the olives.  Sometimes, I even found them gross, and had to pick them off my pizza.  One pizza shop was absolutely amazing.  It was a beautiful place with a wonderful atmosphere, so I kept coming back.  I know chefs love to cook pizza with olives, so I kept ordering pizza with olives, although I didn't really enjoy them.  Besides, the olives looked beautiful, they really added something to the aesthetic of the pizza.  After a while, though, I got bored of eating pizza with olives that I didn't enjoy, so I stopped having olive pizza for a while.


Then, I passed by a pizza shop I never passed by before.  It was beautiful and the pizza smelled delicious.  Somehow, I just knew this pizza shop was right for me.  I passed by it again and again and again, but things never seemed to work out.  Sometimes, they were reserved. Sometimes, they were closed.  Sometimes, they had a conference inside.  Sometimes, I didn't have time.  A few times, I would get a slice or a couple slices of pizza, and I really liked it and couldn't wait to come back for more.  At last, I got a seat inside.  I ordered a full pizza - with olives.  The pizza was amazing! I hadn't eaten anything so good in a long time.  For seven months I'd been waiting to eat this pizza, and I'd never been happier! But, what was really amazing, was I loved the olives.  I ate the ones that fell off the pizza and onto the plate and finished each and every one.  The pizza I wanted for so long was so good, even the olives tasted great. In fact, they were (almost) my favorite part.

My Vagina

I went to see an amazing performance of the Vagina Monologues last night. That really got me thinking about my relationship with my own vagina.

I developed a very close relationship with myself when I was still very young. At about 11 or 12, I began touching and exploring my sex organs. Curiously, I began researching the female anatomy. I'd spend hours on the internet reading about the clitoris, the g-spot, masturbation, orgasms, and why it's important to know oneself. Then, I'd spend hours more in the real world finding my clitoris, my g-spot, masturbating, getting orgasms, and looking, with mirrors, at my vagina. Long before I even wanted to be sexually active, I already knew everything there is to know about what I do and don't like.

Still, my vagina and I are not especially good friends. Just the idea of "my vagina" sends me shivers. Why is that? Well, it's really all a matter of word choice.

My vulva I love.  My vulva is soft and sweet, it's loving and gentle yet fierce. My vulva is a beautiful serving platter, a shining silver tray.  My vulva carries a feast, a delicious meal prepared by some amazing chef. Before the platter even leaves the kitchen, that sultry smell makes your mouth water. This creation is not only delicious, but also gorgeous, and the sight of it fills you with excitement and euphoria.  The main course, the center of attention, is my clitoris. My sparkling phallus, embellished with nerve endings, hidden innocently under a little hood, but ready to come out, to look you right in the eye. My clitoris is a gift from God, a very special friend.

But my vagina? My vagina is the throat of a satanic monster. My vagina is the foreign body that bleeds every month, causing me to scream in agony - "Why? Why again?!?".  My vagina is like a flesh eating virus, quivering with self-hatred. My vagina does not want to touch or be touched, does not want to give or receive, my vagina does not want to exist.  My vagina is wrong. My vagina is a dark tunnel leading to a dungeon of torture. At the end of the tunnel are my ovaries. Those ovaries that send out some ominous hormones that determine my secondary sex characteristics for me. Those ovaries that, against my will, release an egg monthly, against my will inflict a bleeding wound on me.  Those ovaries that say that if we get pregnant, I'm actually the one who'll carry the baby or suffer through an abortion. Those ovaries are parasites.

Retreat, retreat! Back out, reverse. Let's get out of this awful place, let's come back to fresh air. Breathe. Let's get back to my vulva, that sits before you, that steaming meal, all the courses laid out. Dive in, indulge in all the flavors, more flavors than you've ever known existed. Or maybe hold off, just look at it for sometime, the way the meal is arranged, the colors, the smells. It's perfect. I love my vulva, minus my vagina.