| "You have a designer vagina," my mum stated while tilting her head and observing my nether regions. I sucked my stomach in and looked down. "Trust me, I know," she continued. I was in my early teens and hearing a perceived compliment pass my mum's lips in my direction felt weird. It was also a far cry from being mocked for a furry upper lip at school. I wasn't having sex yet so this comment almost went over my head. However, I was already an exhibitionist, which was precisely the validation I needed. I have something of high value between my legs. I didn't know it yet, but pussy would prove to be power. Growing up, my mum looked like 90s R'n'B. I felt proud to be tethered to her and would flick through piles of her polaroids, partaking in her grainy-hued memories. I'd cringe at my male friends, who were shyly squirming whenever she entered a room. One of them caught a glimpse of her in her nighty and had to cover his bulging crotch because "I've just seen your mum in her negligee." GROSS, but I guess he was one step away from seeing the designer vagina. Subconsciously, this seemingly small comment would follow me throughout my adolescence into early adulthood. At around 16, I met my first boyfriend. Think Lynx Africa and dry humping. Our relationship was steadily progressing, and I was ready to lose my virginity, so I decided I'd dance for him before we did the deed. I borrowed one of my mum's vintage swimsuits and performed a clumsy lap dance for my friend as practice. I swirled and swished my non-existent hips, pouted, and moved my hands up and down over my budding body. I didn't feel sexy nor childlike. Fast forward to when I'd started drinking. Whenever I got drunk, I'd showcase my body to my often amused friends. "You go, girl! You're so confident," they'd say. And I truly thought that I was. But at the root of it, I was a child squeezing validation and care out of my interactions. I was maintaining elements of a lifestyle that I couldn't afford and simply surviving. I'd take ecstasy, declothe, and tell everyone wide-eyed and gurning how they need to love their bodies and that I had a designer vagina. My mum told me so. Men lapped up this behavior and I truly believed that I loved being at the center of their gaze. My first long-term relationship cemented this. I'd play my part in performing for my then-boyfriend, and in return, he'd shower me with gifts, decadent meals, trips, and surprises. Here I was, living beyond my means as a student and all I had to do was whatever he wanted. He had a photo of me bent over in a pair of thongs as his phone background and I loved how proud he was to showcase my body as his own — even if it wasn't. The exploration of my body continued when I did work experience for a former pole dancer who had started a hen party service. I'd pull up to her Brighton apartment, a genuine bachelorette pad covered in pink, vintage steals, leopard print, poles, and photos from her escapades. We didn't do much work, and instead, we'd speak about parties and sex work. She took a liking to me and gave me a signed copy of her lapdance book as well as tips on "how to please a man." I couldn't wait to put them to the test! I'd fill my mouth with water and let the cool liquid drip down my breasts just as she'd taught me. Surprise, it doesn't take much to "please a man." "Why do we care to?" I remember briefly thinking. I couldn't help but feel resentful, angry, and taken advantage of. I wanted revenge, reparations, something. It's not that I didn't enjoy sex or sensuality at all. I did, I was — and still am in some ways — a hormone-riddled young adult. But at the root of it, I was a child squeezing validation and care out of my interactions. I was maintaining elements of a lifestyle that I couldn't afford and simply surviving. In many ways, I still felt like that unsexy non-child swishing in a swimsuit before I lost my virginity. Vulnerable and acting. I came to rely so much on sexuality that I believed I could achieve almost anything that I wanted through it. Want to eat out but no money? Say less. I increasingly believed that men were a safety blanket. But it's one of the worst safety blankets because it offers no real safety. It was an illusion of the truth. The same men who would make me the center of their universe would just as quickly withdraw that attention and money, heading on to the next without a second thought. I wanted to make sure I could level the playing field and squeeze everything possible out of my relationships so I began bartering with partners for affection. You want that? Okay, I want this. Little did I know that corporate Europe would be the tinder to spark my rage. A former boss once said that he'd spank me to punish me for a missed deadline. That didn't make me feel great. At a work party, a colleague pursued and hooked up with me only to tell the entire office that I was a homewrecker. That also didn't make me feel great. I'd hear stories from my friends of similar happenings and we'd come together in solidarity about situations that just shouldn't be. "I didn't want to make it a thing, you know?" became commonplace. Everything unravelled. I had memories of my childhood male friends fawning over my mum, which made me wildly protective; how dare they! I began to see everything through a different lens and ran to POC feminist media to console me and make sense of it. I confronted a lot of ideas that no longer served me. I couldn't help but feel resentful, angry, and taken advantage of. I wanted revenge, reparations, something. I clung to workplace diversity and inclusion. I started initiatives, support groups, and exhibitions in the business around race and gender, advocating for both to feel seen and heard. I admire sun spots, chewed nails, and sagging breasts because all of it is 100% mine. My favourite thing to say quickly became "Men are trash," and I meant it. But it wasn't always the men. I, too, had a part to play. It was my self-esteem. There's no denying that patriarchy has incredibly deep roots, and there's no escaping it socially or professionally. So, I hear you. But that'll take time to dismantle. In the meantime, what we can control is ourselves and approaching our growth and journey with compassion. I love being a multidimensional woman and doing whatever the fuck I want to because it's right for me. I enjoy and celebrate having afro hair for the first time in a long time; I embrace the breakage and tightly coiled texture. I salute my thick thighs and stretch marks. I admire sun spots, chewed nails, and sagging breasts because all of it is 100% mine. The key is owning what we can, making a choice that aligns with your comfort and authenticity, and empowering yourself to take control of your narrative. Pussy is YOUR power to do what YOU please. Don't let anyone tell you differently. Oh — and spoiler alert — there's no such thing as a designer vagina. Pussy is splendid pussy. | 
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