If you’ve watched the HBO hit show “Insecure”, you may be familiar with Issa Rae’s hilariously horrifying rap about her best friend Molly’s broken pussy. If you’re a die-hard Sex and The City fan like me, you may also recall the episode when Charlotte’s vajayjay was diagnosed as sad by her gynecologist. While Molly was tired of misfires and fruitless encounters in the love department, Charlotte felt undesirable because of her husband’s issues with impotence

Sad, broken vaginas. Because we’re sad and broken.

On a recent Friday, a good girlfriend and I settled on my living room floor, sipping red wine from plastic cups, sharing a cigarette that neither of us had any business with, swooning to the Complete Billie Holiday Anthology, talking about our broken pussies.

Let’s not make light of anyone’s inability to get reeved up, though. For instance, health problems, medication side effects, or mental blocks can effect us sexually. But let’s stay on the latter for a moment. Those mental blocks. Yikes.

I shared my shocking aha moment a few posts back. For a very long time, my spirit and my vagina were on two different planes, heading in opposite directions. I felt like one of those 500-piece jigsaw puzzles. Sitting on a shelf in a box, scrambled pieces just waiting to be put together.

My 20s through my 30s, I didn’t think about Freda (my vagina’s nickname) unless I was getting her ready for bathing. Or sex; self administered and partnered. There were no butterflies or bubbling emotion. I had sex. For years, I never even closed my eyes.

Remember how awkward the carousel at the amusement park was? Just holding onto the robotic movement of the horse as it spun ’round and ’round. That was me.

Once the music stopped, I’d hop off and pretend to enjoy the experience. The braver kids squealed excitedly about the roller coaster they’re setting out to ride for the millionth time and I was still hanging on awkwardly to the carousel with my big, grown self. Same routine in the bedroom. I’d hold on. He would cum. I hopped off.

It didn’t stop me from fucking though.

Talk about a disconnect. But I wasn’t the one who cut the wires in the first place. My molester used his scissors.

I learned this sitting on a sofa in my therapist’s office, with a handful of shredded tissues and a broken heart. Something was taken from me and I had no idea of how to get it back.

Boyfriends. Husbands. Me and my disconnected self.

Complimenting me on my boudoir abilities, and I wasn’t even there mentally. I’m going through motions, changing positions, giggling and taking water breaks when all I was thinking was, “when is he gonna cum so that we can get it over with??” I wasn’t worrying about my toes curling. I opened myself to everything that they offered me sexually and didn’t feel a shiver or a shake of connection “down there.” I swear I think I faked orgasms for 15 years.

But there’s more to this than penetration. The thing that sucker punched me was the fact that I pushed five children out of that broken and bruised vagina.

As if she was reading my mind, my therapist firmly said, “But that was then, Janell. You didn’t know. Today, you know and today we start the work. Nothing compares to the sexual confidence of a woman who can connect to the whole experience of satisfaction!” Talk that shit, girl!

It’s not always molestation or sexual abuse, either. There are all sorts of traumas floating in the atmosphere, take your pick. In the black community alone, there are surface traumas – daily violence, poor living conditions, no parent families, robbing Peter to pay Paul. Every day is a damn struggle to just breathe; who lives in that and actually feels present when sexing?

No-fucking-body.

It takes a lot of healing to reconnect our mental nucleus to our lady parts. But we have to do it because they are one. Realigning your spirit, heart and mind to that vaginal epicenter is worth it though.

You move all of that emotional junk and mental mess, and you love on every part of you real good. Command those mental blocks to get the fuck on and let the light in. Your sexual experiences reach this tantric level of ahhhhhh that is simply out of this world.

Now, let’s be clear. I’m not this sexual goddess of fire, out here opening noses. But I’m not one who is soon forgotten. No one enters my loving bed (shout-out to Nola Darling), no one enters me without connection.

I had to roll my sleeves up and do this work, everyone ain’t welcome here. Even my casual encounters are connected. I stepped out of my dating norm and I’m quite pleased with what I’ve discovered. Whew, chile.

Enter Mr. 51. Did I say whew, chile already?

Who in the hell has time to be nursing a broken pussy, spirit and heart when you have a salt and pepper stallion hoisting you up by your hips, licking your toes? Wheeeeeeeew, chiiiiiiile!

You want to be present for that, sis! Lights on, and eyes wide open. Spirit dancing. Mind open and free.

Happy Healing, my loves ❤

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