The first time I heard someone call her girly bits ‘junk’ I was peeved in a not-ready-to-be-middle-aged kind of way. I don’t mind being infrequently in the know with pop culture, having dispensed with television ages ago; still this was serious. Did I miss the memo, ‘Latest Euphemisms for Vagina’ and did that (gasp!) mean gray pubes were around the corner? Oh Goddess, please not that. Yet.

The thing is, in the wickedly funny voice of the gal whose vagina was apparently blissfully, newly orgasmic junk, I detected no self-hatred. Girlfriend liked her junk, good and plenty. It was just my own indignant nether region that wanted nothing to do with potty talk.

If pussy could talk, she would roar.

Yoni and I have been on a new journey the past few years. Done with her procreative duties, ages away from menopause (what can I say, I come from a tribe of fertile Myrtles), tubes neatly tied and eggs well scrambled, we’ve been re-acquainting in the ecstatic sense.

This is what I know for sure: Hootchie-Cooter-Pussy-Va Jay Jay-Love-Box-Pleasure Treasure likes to be chatted up, cooed to and caressed with sweet murmurs…but she absolutely won’t allow you to call her junk. What can I say? Yoni has her preferences.

Debris. Rubbish. Castoffs. Scrap. Not a single synonym for junk comes close to describing that part of my body with which I’ve had a wide-ranging relationship.

From as far back as I can remember, I’ve been curious about my body. Having a European mom helped me be less weird-ed out about things like streakin’ from the bathroom to my bedroom when I’ve forgotten a towel. You won’t find me at a nudist colony, but I’m not freaked out to flash my ladies (okay, I’ve only done that once. When I was, er, they were younger, er, perkier). My own offspring have it easier than most; at least their sex writer/intimacy coach mom can say clitoris three times fast without blushing. There ain’t no taboo questions with me. Age appropriate sex education is in full throttle at our pad.

Still, most of us absorbed the message that our private parts, are well, private. From the moment tiny fingers can reach knobs and parts, we are hooked. Long before hormones and certainly before shame sets in…

After that snares us, a preoccupation with the forbidden fruit is guaranteed. Parents may try to interfere with forays into sexual exploration by threatening contagion and strange diseases that turn boys cross-eyed or mark girls irreparably naughty. The lucky ones are given some information that our sexuality is about more than making babies, hopefully before adolescence hits. We’ll have been taught that people hug and kiss and make love when they really, really care for one another. The more traditional focus on the commitment and marriage. The vestiges of puritanical sexy-messiness is alive and well, relics of attitudes and perspectives on sexuality that just wont die even though they are truly junk.

What we are left with are warped perspectives. We view our bodies from a split mirror: sexual vs. non-sexual. Good touch vs. bad touch. Sin vs. Pleasure. Clean vs. Dirty. Smelly vs. Seductive. Oral vs. Not.

It’s no wonder Yoni is pissed. She’s trying to clear the air, to separate the nonsense from the truth. She’s tired of archaic, useless stigmas. You know, things like vaginas are something with which to manipulate lovers with. A snare. A burden. A liability. An object of and within our bodies and potential source of pain, fear, entrapment and shame as much as orgasm and birth.

Those views are so complicated, fraught with confusion, total and abiding junk.

Let’s not even discuss the whole idea of virginity. The commoditization of our girls’ bodies goes way back. Intact hymen = worth. Anything less than intact = worthless. Never mind that today’s concept of virginity is totally, effin’ inaccurate. Chastity of the crotch means purity of mind? Puhlease.

Pleasure, love, ecstasy and joy – the priceless gifts that Yoni is meant to share – become scrapped in the face of sexual oppression.

You know what is junk? A preoccupation with all things vulvular in the absence of seeing the whole woman. The valuation and abuse of a girl’s body against her will.
The wanton disregard for what turns us on. The cutting away of clitoral tissue. I could go on and on, but then, you might think I’m mad.

I’m really not angry any more. My yoni and I have made peace. She’s no longer some abstract entity, but integral to who I am. She is me. I am her. We are one and the same.

After 40 years, I’m appreciating the sacred and sexual truth of this portal to myself, and there’s much to be learned during the rest of my lifetime.

Forgive me for not jumping on the junk bandwagon. You can call me a lot of names, and even throw an f-bomb this way. I'll take all those names that rhyme with rich if the circumstances warrant it, although more often than not I hope you find time to see the joy, inspiration and light, within me and within you.

No matter how the world may try to scare, snare and tear us apart, this much I know for sure: nothing about me or my yoni is second-hand goods.