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Constance Hall: 'From sex at 14 to birthing a baby, here's what I've learnt about the power of my vagina.'

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“The power of the pussy.”

I must have been a young teenager when I first heard the phrase.

The power of the pussy… And I have to be honest, it made f*ck all sense to me.

It was around that time that I started to learn how little power the compactly hidden pussy of mine carried, compared to the entitled dangling cocks of my male counterparts – many of whom pulled them out to flash us at parties, which I suppose was the old-school equivalent of an unwarranted dick pic.

I lost my virginity at an age many would consider young. I was 14, and I lied about that for most of my life. In fact, even right now I’m asking myself ‘Sh*t – which version of my virginity did I tell my current husband? The truth, or the easily stomached version of ’16 with a long term boyfriend’?’

But I’m pretty sure I gave him the truth: I was 14 and had been granted some attention by an extra cute bad boy – a skater and graffiti artist with dreadlocks who called me his girlfriend after one week and convinced me to let him be my first disappointing f*ck by the second.

We f*cked for less than two minutes. He kindly offered his experience and explained that time slows down when you’re having sex, and what felt like a few minutes was actually half an hour. Sort of like a very bad time machine, which was weird as only one song had played on the CD.

The second it was over I waited for ‘it’ to kick in – the power of my almighty pussy. It was like I expected it to grow massive wings, read minds and shoot a laser beam at anyone who dissed it. Or at the very least, have dreadlock boy eating out of the palm of my hand.

But instead, he rolled over and started to snore.

“Interesting,” I thought. “Very Interesting.”

What was even more interesting was that this happened to be the last time I saw dreadlock boy romantically. I never got to the bottom of why. Was it my dead fish performance in the sack, or was it the fact I had written him the world’s weirdest poem the next morning? Some mysteries will never be solved.

Yet the power of the pussy… that was another story.

That one I was investigating. I grew to learn that boys would follow me around like fart that I couldn’t deny until I gave them the all powerful pussy, and then the power slowly slipped. It seemed to quickly shift from them chasing me to me chasing them, from them calling me 50 times a week to a text message returned 3 days later.

Watch: Constance Hall’s powerful Ted Talk. Post continues after video.

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And what made it worse is that we girls weren’t talking about it with each other in full detail, because guess what? That would make us a sh*t shag and that’s something none of us wanted to admit – even to each other. No one wanted to be a sh*t shag. We wanted to be irresistible wild vixens who put spells on men after giving them a taste of our powerful pussys.

Inside, however, I was growing increasingly aware that I wasn’t the Pamela Anderson to Tommy Lee or the Paula Yates to Michael Hutchence. My legs get tired after about 6.7 seconds of being on top, and my lack of rhythm generally gets me rolled off or turned over. Most of the creative direction was removed from my control – lest I snap a dick under the weight of my body. It always went the same way: whoever I was f*cking at the time would get the job done, drive it home, then ultimately start snoring.

It goes without saying that I started to doubt the quality of this so-called powerful pussy of mine. It hadn’t given me an orgasm during sex or an orgasm via a dick at all. In fact, the only person who had ever given me an orgasm – which was pretty much the only time I found this powerful pussy of mine the least bit handy at all – was yours truly. For an uncoordinated chick, I know my way around my own clit. Around and around – anti clockwise to be exact.

And so came the realisation: the power of the pussy did not come from the pussy at all. In fact, it came from the abstinence of the pussy. I learnt I could pretty much get whatever attention I wanted from any man, so long as I withheld that juicy pleasure paddock between my legs. That, right there, was the beginning of the vulva shame, and the relationship breakdown between me and my own very powerless pussy.

I went by this rule for a long time. I even preached it to the younger girls I wanted to guide and protect from making the same mistakes I had.

“Don’t give it up, that’s where you’ll find your power,” I’d whisper to the girl fixing her lipstick in the toilets. “The pussy herself doesn’t hold the power, that’s a myth.”

I lived by it – only f*cking guys that I didn’t really want to hold any power with, and withholding sex from anyone I was interested in until they had made it extremely clear over a substantial period of time that I was what they wanted. For the majority of my life, I found sex a relatively disempowering act, a box to be ticked, or my box to be dicked. Done.

In May 2009, that pussy of mine was ripped in half with a pair of scissors, and a baby was yanked out of it. Fifty stitches later, a premature baby who struggled to breathe was taken away from me, and I hobbled to her ICU ward as if there was a pole coming out of my arse. My vagina throbbed in agony. You want to know what powerlessness feels like? Sit next to your premature baby who’s trying to breathe.

But stitches heal, scars remain and sick little babies grow strong and become your reason for life.

 

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I made this.

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And again, that pussy pushed out a life that changed mine forever. It had never looked worse and I had never been more proud of it.

When I turned 30 and saw my youth disappearing behind me, I was OK with never having mastered the power of the pussy. I started to really enjoy it, having a sneaky masti whenever I felt like it – granted the kids were asleep. She wasn’t perfect but she was mine, the only one I had. Orgasms, I realised, were one of life’s innocent pleasures. They aren’t addictive, they don’t make you gain weight or give you cancer and they’re legal. Like my tits and tummy, my pussy wasn’t immune to gravity. She gets shaved less and less but she isn’t actually about anybody but the body she’s attached to.

And that’s when I started to have real sex, the kind of sex that ends in two people climaxing. The kind of sex that makes you want walk through the house with your female privilege grabbing your pussy saying, “That’s right, she’s gonna slay you later big boy!” to your poor husband as he stirs his two minute noodles with a confused look on his face.

Your vagina cleans itself – it manages the balance of bacteria to keep itself healthy, unlike dicks that need external help.

The clitoris is so much smaller then a penis yet has double the nerve endings, shooting beautiful love feelings through your body. It can also go again and again, even if you’re all alone.

Whole humans come out of vaginas.

No two pussys smell exactly the same.

Pussys create their own unique brand of lubricant and they charge you nothing for it.

And so here is my apology, not just to my pussy but to all the pussys out there that were told their power laid in the effect they had on someone else.

The power of the pussy is the most misunderstood phrase about the female body. It’s very real, and shall not be f*cked with.

Every time you put on her cape (otherwise known as your undies), just remember one thing: she’s the almighty, all powerful Queen of your body and the only person she is here to serve is you.

For more from Constance Hall, you can follow her on Facebook, Instagram, or her website. You can buy her book, Still A Queen, here.

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