On the Standards Your Vagina Should Have, As Told by My Mother

Sex was something that was often discussed in my family.  While my aunts and older cousins were often loose-lipped about their encounters, my mother educated me on the nuances of sex and the ways that it could impact my future for the worst.  Kiss a boy and you’ll get mono.  You may or may not die, but not being able to eat or drink sure feels like death in the flesh.  My grandmother was a teenage mother.  My mother was a teenage mother.  Hell, everyone before that was married and making the bees sing of honey well before ages that would qualify them for a Bachelor's degree.  When I turned sixteen and the curse was broken, we rejoiced in our own Black girl utopia. 

Now, when I finally built the gall to let it happen, my life became filled with many sexual (often hilarious) mishaps.  In fact, I got caught the first time I ever let anyone sniff the cherry.  It was St. Patrick’s Day, and what I like to call the not-so-luck of the Irish.  I was seventeen, which is atypical coming from where I come from—explaining why for years my mother never believed me when I said this was my first time.  I didn’t get caught in the act, thank God, however, a seized golden wrapper caused the get home now text that would scar me for years to come.

I don’t remember much of the conversation we had before my mother pulled up to his job.  However, the words that resonated with me most were, “He didn’t even respect you enough to take you to a hotel?”  … Well damn.  I expected a standard Black mother reading to make me question my life choices, but I wasn’t expecting the conversation to go there.  My mother was perplexed that I had the audacity to get slain in a house that was in her name.   On a bed that neither myself nor my partner could afford.  Using lights where neither of us had $5 on the bill. 

Needless to say, a reoccurring theme in my life is that my vagina is not meant for anyone’s mother’s house.  If neither of you are grown enough to have a place to have secks, you're not grown enough to have secks.  I have penthouse yssup and a mind to match.  I would like to be addressed accordingly.

Don’t you ever let me catch you getting in the backseat of any man’s car.  That was pre-sex and circa the times when Chris brown singing, "He don’t even drive," still had its relevance.  What are you doing, Big Fella?  And by ‘Big Fella,’ I mean your man’s best friend that didn’t flinch a muscle when you were walking up to the car.  I’m only riding backseat to your mother.  That’s it.  Maybe your sister if she was already there.  Aside from that, like Stacey told Boo in The Wood, they need to get their ass in the back seat or walk home.  

If you needed $100, could you call on the person you're opening your legs to?  If you wouldn't be comfortable enough to ask, why does he feel comfortable enough to ask for vagina?  If he doesn't have it and you don't have it, then it sounds as though both of you should be spending more time focusing on having your shit together.  Abstaining from fuckboys and taking preventative measures from becoming a fuckgirl comes with the territory of sex sometimes.

Don't get me wrong, the way a man treats you held more clout than his finances.  Does he walk on the outside of the street?  Does he make sure you don't touch door handles?  Does he make you feel comfortable?  Does he make your soul feel easy?  Is he invested in making sure you're taken care of physically, mentally, and emotionally?   I'm a firm believer that you teach people how to deal with you, and this certainly includes setting the tone for your lady parts.  Don't let him play in the garden or smell your flower if he doesn't fit the bill, or you'll be caught out there wondering how the hell you let it get this far.

I’m not telling you that you should succumb to the standards that my vagina has.  However, I do think sometimes you have to really sit and establish the rules of your vagina.  Oftentimes it takes for some yssup mismanagement of one of our most prized possessions to know that we really have the golden ticket down there.  Mind your own purse and your own… well, you know the rest.

Toi Bly