Write about sex, sure. Any day at any time: Rodney, Lex, Clark, Justin, Brian, John can find themselves impaled on anything, organic or not. Especially Brian; I think we can all admit there is not an object that Brian Kinney wouldn't regard as a potential sexual aid. But that's writing.
Girlparts. Such a word to use. Vagina. If there can be a play, I can type the word, vagina. Vagina. Yes.
We're a little--reticent. I don't know where it comes from; I really don't want to know. No matter where I go in fic, no matter the marvelous friends I've made, or the discussions of strange intimate growths or odd foot fungus--I can ask for a thousand opinions on anything up to which collar would go best with Rodney's coloring and should Clark get a kryptonite cock ring?
But I have yet to comfortably ask anyone, "So which of these appendages should I introduce to my vagina?"
It's just not there. It's like a block I come up against hard and fast, because it's not just that conversation that scares me--it's the one after. Do I talk about performance? What worked? What didn't? How? I'm a writer for a reason; extemporaneous speaking isn't necessarily my gift.
Next time I'm around fangirls, will I sit down and someone will ask "So how did that xyz work out?" or maybe think it, and I'll admit I had no idea how to use all the buttons and really, what was with that squeal? How on earth could buttons confuse me? What if I make it start on fire or something? I can do that! I know I could. And the obituary would be horrible and while I'm not adverse to being as one with the family stories (and am a subject of several, I'm pleased to say), I think death by sexual aid isn't one that should be passed on.
(Also, what if it's not supposed to squeal? What does that mean if it does? Did I use it wrong? I could use it wrong!)
Seriously, that's the stuff Children who grow into Mad Scientists have in their background. Not to mention it sounds messy and not terribly dignified. Dancing in my bra on a coffee table wearing a tiara? Awesome. Strange potential Guiness-record death? Hell no.
(I know ten people on my flist who would strategically ask while I'm drinking something.)
It just can't. Go. Well. You see this, right? I can't do it. And part of it is a terror beyond them all--what if mine doesn't work right?
Vagina, that is.
How would I know? Anatomy books and blood vessel mapping are all well and good, but they don't tell you jack about what is supposed to be going on, and I don't trust my doctors. They could be writing a book. I keep thinking of the movie Teeth and sighing, yeah. I mean, not like that, but man, do I understand sudden upleasant discoveries.
So I had this moment of glee today, when someone on my flist posted for opinions on a vibrator! (locked) It was like Christmas! In a way that's not heretical. Recommendations! From people not affiliated with the company! It was awesome! I didn't even start hyperventilating! I love the universe!
I. Love. The. Universe. Please people on that flist. Tell me more.
And that is why I'm happy.
ETA: (still reading, helplessly) I love my flist. They are the most awesome people in the universe!