The Natural History of My Vagina, Part I*
By Melissa Price

Surprisingly, I have to remind people that this is fictional. Talking vaginas anyone? (Also, part I, which is indeed this part, ends at age 20.)

1:38 PM, March 1, 1969. Strong Memorial Hospital, Rochester, New York.
My vagina is born.

First ex utero experience.
This feels weird, also kind of good. Hmm, this place isn’t bad -- it’s got ambiance, atmosphere. Spacious, airy, nice afghan. But why isn’t there a bigger fuss about me? Hey doctor! My eyes are down here!

First diaper.
What the fuck is that? Why is someone trying to smother me? Just got sprung from that aqueous nightmare and now this. Et tu, mom? Et tu?

First blanket, followed by first pee.
Damn, it just got hot up in here. What is that? A canopy? A curtain? What is that hideous design? Lambs? Please. That is so 195.Ohhh, what? Now it’s hot and wet. Am I? Am I crying? No one cares, no one cares about me and my hot yellow tears.

First diaper change
Take it easy. I am a delicate sea anemone, or something. Um, yeah, that would be me in pain from that stingy stuff. Can’t a vagina get a break? What? Oh good, good, brilliant idea. Now you’re going to cover me in cocaine? Who are you people? Leave me alone. Jesus. Now I look like a fucking cannoli.

First underwear
Ah, nice. Slim design, breathable, dignified shade of pink. I feel contained, secure – and yet somehow liberated. Hmm, bit of a draft coming through, though. Not sure how I feel about that.

First pair of pants.
I don’t think corduroy was invented with my best interest in mind. No, no, definitely not. The weather in here is humid at best.

First bicycle ride.
This is the most invasive chair I’ve ever met. And the angle – I can’t relax like this. Okay, breathe, breathe, just chill … Annnnd we’re still tense. That’s a nice breeze anyway, can’t complain about that. And what now? Bumpy. Realllly bumpy. If this is someone’s idea of progress – oh, hold on, this chair is way too insistent. Know what? Bumps are really not all that bad. Just ride them out, ride them out. Wow! Freaky! What the hell was that?

First period.
Excuse me but I think I might be dying. Massive, massive bleeding is happening and all anyone can think to do is shove a tissue … Okay, good, help is on the way, big help, big white tubular-thing-with-a-tail help. And just where are you thinking? Wait, that is so not cool. Mmmph.

First masturbation.
While I appreciate your pioneering spirit, that random poking around isn’t doing it for me. You know, I was talking with your friend Jen’s vagina at Cinnabon yesterday and it turns out Jen reads books. Isn’t that cool? You might want to check that out, check out some of those books, probably some good ones, probably some even have maps. Now that would save us both some time. Again with the poking. Um, okay now thaaaaaaaat’s just bugging me – and that’s even worse. Please god, make it stop. Ah finally, the retreat. That was the longest fucking five minutes ever.

Sixth period.
All I know is every 25 days someone tries to kill me.

First gynecological exam.
I’m feeling a little exposed, not that that’s a bad thing. Oh look! A tent! Do I dare hope? … Could it possibly be … Cirque du Soleil? Okay then, am I sitting for a portrait? Well it’s about damned time. What do you think? A pout? A smile? Maybe a pensive look or an expression of ennui … Oh! Here comes the camera! A close-up! Um, you’re the professional of course, but don’t you think that’s just a wee bit close and, uh, cold? Ow! Who gave you permission to collect souvenirs?

First sex.
Take it easy, I get motion sick. Oh wait … are we on the bicycle again? That familiar tingle, charge, feeling glued to the seat. Excellent. Only this time we’ll be touring naked? Okay, that should be interesting – and intense. Oh I see, we’re doing that again. Is that your thumb? Are you wearing dishwashing gloves? Not bad … a little warm in here a little humid and there seems to be some condensation. And maybe some – oomph! You know, surprisingly, that feels sort of good, like I’m all keyed up and spaced out at the same time and-and-and-and ohhh-kay now it’s really painful. What the hell did I do to deserve that? I believe something’s broken, I believe I require repairs. No one will be trying that again anytime soon. Good day, sir! Closed for business! If that had been any worse I would consider seceding. In fact I think I am considering seceding.

First vibrator, first orgasm.
What an adorable rabbit! What an unadorable unrabbitlike noise. Do rabbits even make noise? I mean, aside from when they’re munching away at grass or hopping merrily through the underbrush. Also, though I don’t have a lot of rabbit experience, I’m guessing they’re not usually so pink. Aww, he’s coming closer … hmm, seems to be an affectionate little hopper. Whoa! What? Okay, that was a surprise. Down the rabbit hole, are we? Foraging for wild carrots or exotic lettuces, I suppose. Hmm … this feels like something else, sort of. This guy has got some moves. What’s up with all the twisting and probing? Probably I should be scared but … the whirling and the bending -- and the kind of miraculous ear flexibility. Unnn-ahhh there is something happening to me. Convulsions, contractions and fluttering are happening in geographies I didn’t know I had. I feel oddly dislocated, almost lost….. Am I having some kind of breakdown? Probably I should expel that rabbit and quick! Although … mmm … I seem to be generating tears of joy and WOW … ooooh keep hippity-hopping down that rabbit trail … I am losing my mind and part of me doesn’t care, part of me has no desire to control this shock-slide-tingle-tickle-rush-of-warm fluttery flutterings. What is this? This has gone too far. Stop rabbit! Stop! You are ruining me, killing me, I’m slipping away, outward and upward … daaaaaaaaaamn. I think I just went to Mars. Or Venus. Somewhere that is not here. In fact I feel like I’m three places at once and one place in three and no place at all – and it feels really really good. Farewell rabbit, farewell sweet prince!

First political aspiration, first love.
Jen’s vagina is considering a political career. And I love Jen and her vagina, you know I do. But honestly, I don’t know how far she’ll get. I’m supportive, sure, but she flaps her lips a lot, yessir, she’s a real lip flapper. In fact, when roused, Jen’s vagina swears like a sailor with Tourette’s syndrome. And if there’s one thing I know about politicians it’s that they often have to censor themselves. That said, I wish more vaginas would take to the campaign trail. In fact, I’m contemplating a run myself. Bit of a hitch, though, as politicking involves a lot of handshakery, something I’m not great at. I’d do what I could, but what I could would undoubtedly stir up controversy, as well as some nasty yeast infections. … Come to think of it, what with all the rancor, lies and greed in politics, I’d be better off as an activist. Yes! Perfect! A vocation that would allow me ample time to devote to the love of my life – my bicycle! (it’s red, with a basket, and several bells). Politics is important, but sometimes all a vagina needs is an open road and a bicycle with a firm and flexible seat.

*Strict anatomists will notice that some of the areas referred to herein exist outside the domain of the vagina proper. I apologize for the inexactitude – however my vagina, being something of an imperialist, does not.