(Trigger warning : sexual abuse)

I am a vagina.

This is my story.

I am a vagina; I am a passageway, a hall, a tunnel, a glove, a slip-and-slide.

Things move it through me, coming and going and mostly coming.

I do nothing, except squeeze occasionally. My job is to allow, allow, allow. Allow away in. Allow a way out. Receive, receive, receive. I am a gracious hostess. And I have a voice.

When I was very small, six months old — or maybe seven — (time is not my strong point) — I began my active career as a receptacle. I began my training.

It was startling at first.

She was living with her grandparents and her grandmother kept her wrapped up right, all the time. Wrap up so that she could not move. Even her little arms were bound against her body. It was supposed to be good for her, all the time, good for babies to be racked up tight like that.

“Makes ’em feel safe,” she’d say.

I don’t know about that.

It did not feel safe.

Because I am not wrapped up tight. I am not protected. I am open and vulnerable and defenseless. Sometimes there are diapers to be changed and then I am exposed.

And I am shocked by the intrusion — there is no warning. I am shocked as her little body all around me goes all rigid. She seemed to have thought she was free, free of the wrappings, free of the binding, and her little body wriggled and her little arms and legs went flying about and then I screamed and she felt me and she went all rigid and it was just like she was all bound up again, only this time, from the inside out, as though we were all holding our breath. Every organ, every cell. I did not know what was happening.

We were being invaded. We were, all of us, terrified.

And it did not stop.

It happened every day. Sometimes it happened more than once a day. And it was awful, awful, awful, so, soon she actually began to feel more safe and happy — just like they told people — when she was all bound up because then, at least, nothing was inside her, stretching her open, making me scream.