By Nicole Caldwell
The pussy is the first wonder of the world.
That labially adorned chute is the portal through which all life hitchhikes onto this mortal coil. That muscular mass is solely responsible for so much arousal; its pink and tan and brown and bluish velvety folds so welcoming and soft as to bring knights in armor to their knees. The fertile crescent—that hotbed of humanity that spawned the human race and nourished it on its uphill climb to the top of the proverbial food chain—refers explicitly to fertility. To womanhood. To the pussy.
The pussy: for which most pop songs and blues songs and rock 'n' roll songs were written; for which many wars of legend were fought; the cunt, the master of so much male persuasion; the vagina—that lasso of truth whose scent and temperature have no match and enjoy boundless, ignoble power. The pussy created poetry, inspired rebellions and symphonies and pageantry, sent Rhett Butler into a tailspin, killed Romeo, put Tristan into a tizzy, and doomed Orpheus for all time. God himself came to earth through Mary's virginal vagina to save mankind from his sins.
That pleasure epicenter—every cookie, oven, vag, yawn, and yum-yum—runs the economy. The pussy inspired a multi-million-dollar market for Hallmark cards and 1-800 Flowers. The box keeps Tiffany's in business. The patches, coots, caverns, beavers, and honey-pots of the world hold majority stock of every cruise line, chocolate company, and cologne business on Planet Earth.
The muff stopped Spartans from war. Lady Macbeth used her manhole to goad her husband into regicide. Cleopatra ruled all of Egypt with her mighty meat grinder. Helen of Troy had enough mojo to inspire a thousand ships be launched. The snatch made Samson weak. Thrones have been abdicated for that temple; empires toppled for that eel-skinner. For goodness' sake: a vagina was even responsible for splitting up the Beatles.
With so much power, no wonder it's also the subject of so much scorn.
Just as the early architects of Christianity subverted pagan culture and co-opted tradition to transfer attention from other religions (fertility gods and pagan rituals-turned Easter eggs and Christmas trees, anyone?) and herbalists and seers burned at the stake as witches in order to hide their abilities, so too has the pussy been put on trial and subverted in a conspiracy to contain it. The vagina—that holy mountain—has been raked through our culture's coals in order to zap it of its strength.
We call men pussies to imply inferiority and lameness. Women are pressured to scent, shave, pluck, dye, laser, bleach, pierce, and surgically enhance their tufted treasures in order to make the most feminine article in the entire universe, feminine. The clitoris—the high-roller of organs, whose only job on earth is to squeeze the vagina into orgasm—wasn't even scientifically “discovered” until 1998.
A horrific wave of douchey agenda by cunt-fearing twerps insists the natural, perfect scent of the vagina is somehow imperfect; that it needs to be artificially cleansed with some bogus perfume. Bleaches, waxes, lasers, and even plastic surgeries attempt to reinvent the wheel; make it seem like every pussy isn't already possessing all the savoir-faire and poise of the greatest superpower to ever visit earth. Stronger than all things combined, more turbulent and tenacious and sensitive, all bundled into one magnificently nerve-riddled package.
If the cunt on Anne Boleyn could incite Henry VIII to start a religious war, and the porn industry—which incidentally stars none other than Ms. Pussy—is the single recession-proof industry, is not the case closed on whether a lady's screw-hole is or is not already perfect? Is or is not strong and mighty?
To call someone a pussy is to call him or her weak; insufficient. The word itself can be traced back to folk etymology's “pusillanimous”, coming from Latin words meaning “tiny spirit”. Yet Russian woman Tatiata Kozhevnikova in 2012 set a world record when she lifted 31 pounds using only her vagina; and the vagina, though small, is enough for every mammal on the planet to have fit through. The word cunt has been turned dirty—the meanest word there is to describe a cruel, unlovable woman—when the cunt is the most tender, wonderful, lovable, and sincere of all living things.
If we must use pussy to describe something other than the vagina herself, let it be used to refer to great strength. “You're such a pussy” or “What a cunt!” should be a compliment; should be a standing ovation of literary verbage. These words that relate back to the virile vagina have no place in the negative burnpile of insulting slang. It's time for a pussy etymology renaissance. Reclaim the rose! Let's put pussy back on the map as that which we aspire to be more like: one who is resilient and vulnerable, bold and inviting; one who can take a licking and keep on ticking.
Originally published in Playgirl's Spring 2014 issue, Issue #67