Guest Post: My Spicy “Wagina”

My Spicy “Wagina”

by Zara Khan

The first time I heard the word vagina was in my seventh grade biology class.  Sex education was the topic and all of us school kids squirmed with excitement and embarrassment in our seats as the teacher explained reproduction.  It was there amidst a chaos of words like copulation and procreation and ovulation that vagina first fell upon my ears.  Until then, as crazy as it sounds, I simply had not heard the word.  I knew I had one, but it was my “pishy” place.  Put blatantly folks, my brown lips were a pee tunnel, a place

that only came to mind in the bathroom.  After my biology class, I would think of vagina clinically for years.  Dangling somewhere between “pishy” place and science, it would take me several moon cycles before I ventured between the deep dark folds to experience an orgasm and taste the glistening sweetness of my wet chutney.

My family’s originally from Pakistan, and they immigrated to America in the 1970’s when I was a baby with a baby vagina.  I grew up in L.A., and at home my parents never mentioned the word vagina to my sister and I.  In fact, we operated as though thoughts of sex and body parts didn’t exist.  They were simply not a part of the human experience.  If someone blurted out the word sex by mistake one would think it was a fobbish pronunciation of the number six.  And if my parents had said the word vagina, it would have been pronounced “wagina”.  I’m so convinced of this pronunciation that every time I see my naked body in the mirror the word “wagina” intuitively pops into my mind.  I picture my parents in matching green shalvar kameezes dancing arm in arm and singing the word over and over again in unison.  It’s very disturbing.  They’re smiling so broadly I think of Lucy and Ethel on the I Love Lucy show.     It’s at this point I consider going back into therapy.

Anyway, it’s not entirely their fault.  I was a prude since birth, one of those annoying good girls who loves everything and everybody.  A kid hits me on the school playground and I’d say, “I’m sorry.”  A friend asks for my opinion on her atrocious new haircut and I’d say, “You look fantastic.”  An Aunty tells me I’ve gained weight and I’d laugh maniacally like she’d just delivered a compliment.  Such has been my weakness.  People call the monthly bleed “the curse”.  For me the curse has been over-niceness.  In high school if my hands accidentally brushed against my vaginal region while towel drying my body after a shower, I’d say, “Excuse me.”

As you can see, I was bound to be a late bloomer.

Bloom I did, however.  I’ve recently come to love my brown, wet, slimy, and spicy vagina.  Yes!  Masala her up with a little cumin and turmeric and VAH!  She tastes divine.  My husband tells me so.

As a kid and teenager I never poked or prodded my vagina, and the few boys I was intimate with were never offered admission.  I would have made a good security guard at a movie theatre, preventing kids from going into “R” rated movies.  Anyway, I just didn’t understand fingering, and to be honest I still don’t.  My vagina was where I peed, or so I thought quite ignorantly.  It never occurred to me to stick a finger into it to find my clit.  If only I knew I had the power to get myself off!

My first masturbation experience—I mean first serious non-prudish attempt—occurred during my junior year in college.  By this time most men are masturbation gurus, but I was just beginning.  I had recently read about the joys of masturbation in some sex book and had started dating a guy I liked very much.  And I wanted to howl.  To experience the big “O”.  To make my “wagina” scream “VAH!”  So I decided it was time for some self-pleasure and practical exploration.  I decided to try one night on my bed in a house I rented with two other students.   I shut the door to my bedroom and turned off the lights.  I lit a candle and played a Sade CD.  I threw on a silk white night shirt.  I put on a pair of black high heels.  (Yes, I was a cliché waiting to happen).  I got into my twin-size bed.  I had just taken a shower and smothered my body with some heavily perfumed and cheap lotion and this began irritating my heavily allergic nose.  So I had to pause and blow my nose, which could have ruined the perfect and supposed sophistication of the moment, but I didn’t let it.  Then I finally lay back and read some erotica.  When I was sufficiently aroused, I tossed the book aside and slid a nervous hand down my stomach, past my pelvis and between my legs.  I had the urge to laugh but suppressed it.  I stroked my hair then dipped between my lips where it was wet and warm.  I tried poking around for a few minutes but couldn’t get a vibe going.  “Yukh!” I screamed impatiently instead of “Vah!”  It was all slimy and gross.  I got distracted and irritable.  The sexual fantasy I’d been nurturing in my mind began to fade.  Suddenly my mom’s big serious head popped into my head:

“Don’t play with your ‘wagina’!” she yelled.

“Go away!” I screamed.

“You dirty girl!” my mother retorted.

Then my dad’s smiling face appeared.  “Vhat’s going on, baytay?” he said cheerfully.

“Shit!” my mind howled.  “Nothing, Dad,” I muttered aloud to the empty room, throwing a blanket over my half naked body.

That was it.  The moment was ruined and I couldn’t continue.  I turned in frustration on to my right side and faced the room.  My eyes fell onto my small bookshelf near the bed.  The spine of my small Quran stuck out to me and then came the guilt and weirdness about wanting to play with myself.  “God must masturbate?” I said out loud.  “Does God have a vagina?” I continued.  “Does she shave it?  Does hers smell like seashells?  Does God own a silk negligee and thong underwear? Does she?!!”

Finally I pulled myself together.  “Some things are better left unasked,” a saner part of me advised.

I got up, changed into sweats, and went looking for some ice cream.  And that was that.

* * *

The big “O” did eventually come for me however, but the first time wasn’t through masturbation.  My boyfriend was over one night and we were messing around in my bedroom listening to The Cranberries and he went down my body kissing me with small tender kisses:  he started with my lips, then my neck, my breasts, my stomach, and before I knew it, he was between my legs, his tongue gently tracing the raw flesh of my vagina.  I’d never let anyone do that before.

“What are you doing down there?” I squirmed.  I was embarrassed yet curious.  It was like being back in my seventh grade biology class, knowing the subject at hand was of interest but there was something wrong about enjoying it.  But here I was, an unmarried desi woman, lying on a bed with my white boyfriend, and who was about to deliver the first taste of divine pleasure I had never dared experienced.  His tongue continued to trace my vagina and soon my tense legs began to relax.  How can he like this? I thought to myself.  It’s so smelly . . . so gross . . . so brown . . . and it’s a “wagina”!

“Hush!” the desi diva in me whispered.  I submitted and my legs relaxed.  And oooooh baby did I relax.  And then I knew it was going to happen.  I felt the wildness, the irresistible dirtiness, the divine freeness of my weightless legs, parted from east to west for my man, yes, but more for me.  Then the sirens began to ring and the room began to spin and I was there, sitting in a first class seat on an airplane, sipping a martini, and twirling in the midst of my BIG FAT “O”!  And I knew when I screamed, “Oh my God!” that this REALLY was a sacred experience.  I thought of my bookshelf, the Quran still sitting on my shelf nearby, and I knew God wanted me to have this orgasm because God is a woman and her orgasm is a form of prayer.  So I was going to let my man lick my spicy “wagina” while I thought of the turmeric and cumin swimming in my rich brown blood.

And oooooooooooh!

And ahhhhhhhhhhh!

ummmmmmmmm!

yessssssssssssssss!

And please don’t stop!

VAH!

I let out a scream.  It was more a cry of pleasure than a scream.  My vagina was on fire and the fire had burned my guilt and I felt free.  Then, for the first time in my life, my vagina began to sing, and this is what came out:

. . . pehli pehli baar dehkha ahisa jalva

Hoi! ahisa jalva

yeh larki hain ya shola

yeh larki hain ya shola . . .

* * *

And afterwards, while my man held me, how I laughed and cried and laughed.  I thought of the emptiness of my orgasm-less past in the swell of the years behind me.  And I thought of the spread of years to come, full of sweet pleasures and unexpected silsilas.  And yes, masturbate I do now, and I know how to make myself come.  It’s a routine sacred ritual I practice, an essential part of my worship.  And I think of the word “wagina” less as a derogatory mark of my flawed heritage, or my fobbish parents, but as a celebration of my own spicy brown skin.  The word “wagina” is a sound and the sound is a river and the river is a gift.  And my gift is the proud, strong, beautiful and searching women in my life, both from the east and west, who celebrate the importance of the sacred “O”, as their sexual richness and the cosmic circle of all womankind.  We deserve pleasure.  It’s what makes us whole, a full circle, the multicultural cosmic “O”.

Zara Khan lives and writes in California

Girl, Was I Interrupted

Here’s another lovely piece from one of our Yoni Ki Baat contributors. I’m sure we can all relate to this one on some level or another, no? This one is written by Indira Chakrabarti. Her bio follows the piece… Enjoy!

GIRL, WAS I INTERRUPTED

It was itching.  That’s what I said, because it was true, or so I thought.  That was my excuse.  I was just itching an itch, scratching a scratch, really, that’s all I was doing.  Really.

The lights were out, I was supposed to be asleep.  My pink nightgown was on as was Duran Duran.  Was it “The Union of the Snake” or “Rio”?  I can’t quite remember but I think I’ll go with the former.

The exploration started behind me since my days of week underwear, I believe it was Wednesday, (a school night! For shame, for shame) was gathered between my fat Bengali ass.   It was an innocent pick, for comfort during my upcoming slumber, but then my hand didn’t seem to stop.  There was a detour, en route to, to where?  It just seemed like it knew where it was going, without any guidance.

The first encounter, the rough, curly coils of hair that encouraged my hand to keep going South, to familiarize myself with a territory I had never known.  Moving down, a soft bump that tickled and made me shiver so slightly that my hand recoiled as if fire had touched it.  But in that moment, pleasure began to simmer and I was ready to set that to boil.  The supple skin, so tender to the touch, I kept feeling around, until what seemed like a moist dustbuster if you will, sucked my finger into a place that no one, nothing had ever been.  The warmth enveloped my finger as my teeth gripped my lower lip.  Simmer was at medium low but steadily raising the temperature.  Climbing, gushing, spilling, pulling, pushing, ready to boil ready so ready, the motion, in, out, in out, kept going going.  Breathing, heaving, pleasing…

The shrill piercing sound of my mother yelling to see if I needed money for lunch was followed by the swift opening of the door as she burst in, the light was flicked on and…

I suppose I should consider myself lucky that Ma caught me masturbating and proceeded to have a sex ed talk with me.  The talk consisted of one query:  “Do you know what monogamy is?”  I replied yes and that was the end of the discussion.  So Ma advocates sex with oneself.  Hey, at least if I catch anything, I’ll know where I got it.  Thanks Ma, for equipping me with the ammunition to protect and please myself and my future lovers.   Some advice about not using my teeth could have really helped me out.

But really, it was itching because it felt good.  Itching for more more more pleasure and I knew how to deliver.  But, my newfound delight, disrupted … this girl, wasn’t gonna get interrupted again.  I quickly learned that long showers after soccer practice were interpreted as just that.  Sore muscles after bharat natyam lessons could only be remedied by lengthy submersion in the bath, sometimes too long, but long enough.  The sweet sticky satisfaction, I could find it, I knew how, I just had to create when.

Bio: I have been teaching English at a large Bay Area high school since 2004 but will be on leave as of September.  My yoni is about to take part in a new adventure – childbirth.   A girl or boy?  Don’t know yet but my yoni will keep you posted

Sticky Wicket

I don’t really know what that means, but it sounds sexy to me!  Check out my new article on firstpost.com, India’s brand-new one and only digital newsroom — part of the CNN network, and aiming to be the Huffington Post of India, the first online place to go for news analysis & commentaries on breaking issues.

Jai Hind — We Can Beat Those Wankers

… in which I propose legalizing sex toys in India … lay out a five-point programme for a nationwide Masturbate-A-Thon … and use a whole bunch of sports metaphors!

Guest Post: “The Real Mile High Club”

Please welcome SUNITA, author of our guest post for May!  Just in time for the summer travel season…  

[This post was originally written as a monologue for Yoni Ki Baat, a production of the South Asian Sisters.]

Like many Indian women who grew up in the U.S., I am a seasoned traveler. Those flights from the U.S. to Bombay to visit family, beginning when you are a baby, will do it. Twenty to thirty hours on a plane and in airports, crossing twelve time zones, I’ve been doing it since I was two years old.

But, savvy traveler that I am, I have never had sex on a plane. I’ve heard about the mythical mile high club, that couples lock themselves in the bathroom and have sex at thirty thousand feet.

I’ve seen bathrooms on countless planes. And imagined couples deciding that this is a great place to have sex. And I have to conclude, that though I have lived in the U.S. since I was a baby, I do not understand white people. I don’t even want to brush my teeth in an airplane bathroom. The idea of getting busy in there has zero appeal for me.

However, I like the idea of having sex before arriving at my destination. After all, the need to relax before reaching Bombay is great. Aunties will descend upon me within minutes, before I’ve even had a cup of chai, asking: “When are you getting married?” And, “Why
didn’t you go to medical school?”

And you have to take care of your body. After all, the aunties are going to stuff you with more food in one day that you normally eat in
a week. You will be popping Immodium A.D. like candy.

So, for desi women, the need to arrive at your destination refreshed and well-rested is imperative. Lonely Planet and National Geographic
Traveler have all kinds of travel tips for international flights, such as taking melatonin, resetting your watch, and wearing a sleep shade.

But no, these solutions are not going to cut it. In order to face the interrogation by the aunties with a sweet smile, we need an orgasm.

I have two solutions. For each solution, I have created a handy multi-step how-to guide. Now, please do not think that I have actually done any of these things. You can put the impressive detail down to my imagination as a writer.

Solution One: The Stopover

For the stopover, I recommend taking Singapore Airlines. They will schedule a layover for you in Singapore, which has arguably the best
airport in the world for a quick booty call. If you are flush with cash, reserve a room at the hotel in the airport. However, if you are
already converting everything to rupees in your head, and are shocked by the price of a room, just tell the airport personnel that you would like to take a shower. They will charge you a low fee, provide you with towels, and direct you to a very clean bathroom. With shower stalls that lock. Turn the water on, soap up, and get to it! I cannot describe to you the pleasure of combining a hot shower after a long flight with sex. Oh, I mean, not that I’ve experienced this.

But I can imagine.

As a responsible dispenser of travel tips, I must caution you that sex in a shower at the Singapore airport is frowned on by the
Singapore government. And you may not want to break the law there, given that this is a police state where the penalty for not flushing the toilet is twenty-five dollars. But for those who like an element of danger, this may only make this experience all the more attractive.

Solution Two: Masturbation on the Plane

This time- and cost-effective solution has several key steps:

Rule number one: This is the most important rule. Do not, I repeat, do not use a vibrator!

Rule number two: Before takeoff, obtain a blanket from the overhead bin, and spread it over your lap.

Rule number three: A note on clothing. You want to wear something comfortable, that can be easily slipped on and off. Generally, Indian clothes are more masturbation-friendly then Western clothes. A salwaar kameez is a good choice—the strings can be easily untied and
the pants slipped off.

Rule number four: Wait until the lights are dimmed and other passengers have gone to sleep.

Rule number five: Do not gasp or moan when you come!

I freely admit that masturbation on a plane requires a certain amount of skill. If you feel you need to hone your skills at discreet masturbation before your flight, by all means practice! You will find the practice most enjoyable and rewarding.

So, let the white people have sex in the airplane bathroom. I don’t care, as long as they get out of there in time for me to brush my teeth. We desi women are too creative and resourceful for that. We have to be. After all, we spend every day traveling between different worlds, and we do that without ever stepping onto a plane.

We need an airplane bathroom-free orgasm! So that when we face the onslaught of questions from the aunties, we will simply drift in our post-orgasm glow, and murmur, “Oh, I’m sorry, auntie, I wasn’t listening. Must have jetlag.”

Masala Masturbators – A Call to Action

Been engaging in mental masturbation about one of my own favorite pastimes after reading a post by Queer Coolie on the awesome gaysifamily site.

“Masturbation is a priority,” she says, and I couldn’t agree more!  For me, at least once or twice a day is essential. (Why do you think I need to make up all these stories?) Three or four days without, and I am a bundle of irritation and muscle tension!  I like to come at bedtime for sure, floating off into sleepyland. And in the morning it’s a lovely way to start the day, with praise … kind of like aarti, no? Sometimes I’ll enjoy myself even more often, say if I wake up at night and am having trouble getting back to sleep, or am having a particularly stressful afternoon.  It’s a wonder I get anything else done, isn’t it?

(Luckily I’m quick, and my trusty Wahl coil always has the stamina to help me out. Vibrators are awesome. If you’ve never tried one, you haven’t lived. No, seriously. I mean it.  What the fuck are you waiting for, carpal tunnel syndrome?)

And yet, masturbation is a taboo topic. We need to crack open that conversation immediately.  I think all Miss India contestants should be asked their views on this important public matter.

Here in India, at least once a week a newspaper or magazine advice column answers a question from a young man who’s worried that he wanks too much. The mostly male doctors who serve as so-called sexperts give terrible advice. Contrary to these old husbands’ tales, masturbation might be the single best thing you could do for your health RIGHT NOW.

Seriously. Dr. Oz, Oprah’s favorite medico, cites research showing that 200 orgasms a year can prolong your lifespan by 6 to 7 years.

At that rate, I calculate that I should live to be … 179?

(How do they do this research? Can I sign up as a test subject?)

The newspapers’ tragic Will-I-stroke-myself-to-death questions never seem to come from girls.  I hope this means the women of the subcontinent are so fully cognizant of their own pussies that they have no need to write to silly men about something so obviously awesome and healthy.

However, I suspect this might not be the case. It saddens me deeply to think that so many yonis might not know how to press their own pleasure buttons.

So forget TB and dengue prevention. We need a public health campaign to popularize yoni self-care in the subcontinent and the diaspora.

Here’s my five-point plan:

1. A Bollywood song to properly spread the word.

My Hindi is crap, but here’s a start — can you improve on this?

Tere yoni ki saath
Prem kijiye tere jaat
Sabbe din aur sabbe raat
… ?

2. A yoni spokesmodel. What are Rekha and Helen doing with their time these days?  Or maybe the ever-cause-ready Shabana Azmi?




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3.  A prominent health expert. I can’t think of any women who fit the bill, so how about —

Dr. Sanjay Gupta, you could get excited about women taking care of their own health, right?

I’m sure Deepak Chopra spanks the monkey too, although maybe he calls it polishing his chakras. He should let his hordes of women readers know they need aura tune-ups, too.

4.  Desi masturbation research. You’d think with all those NRI/PIO/WTF med students and doctors out there, we’d be more informed about this critical aspect of our health!

Yo AAPIO – can we get a special session at the next convention?

Hey MD/PhD students and sexologists – who needs a research project?

5. Grassroots research. Until the experts get on board, I say we go all Our Bodies Ourselves and start collecting our own data.

So what do you use?

Fingers, vibrator, humping a pillow?

Fantasies, memories?

How often?

What time of day/night?

When did you start?

and so on.

And finally, we just need a little team spirit!! Come on, women/ladies/sluts. This should be easier to organize than a veg/non-veg potluck.

So who’s going to set up the Survey Monkey?  Do we need pledge sheets?  Raffle prizes?  Sign up in the comments thread here or tweet us if you’re willing to spread the word, work behind the scenes … or just jerk off a few times in solidarity.

And should we get a yoni team together for the 2011 Masturbate-A-Thon?

It’s time to get all hands on deck…