The Vagina Diaries

by: B. Kodak


See, I’ve heard people say that vagina’s can be intriguing things, interesting things, … hell, I’ve even heard them labeled as “oddly-repulsive” things. I’ve bared witness to men, children, and those who could only be called “sadistic” describe vaginas as: “flowers, tuna fish, pearls, diamonds, kitties, kittens, cats, twat, snatch, goodies, candy, goody-boxes, nookie, private spots, woo-woo’s, unmentionables, monkeys, pum-pum, garages, ports, portals, and fantasy islands.” All equally ridiculous and wildly inaccurate.

See, the beauty of a vagina can be compared only to: the nature of the earth or the beauty of life, the purity of a newborn infant, the arousal found in everyday life: a woman awakening as the sunbathes her face “just so”, the delicacy and even brilliance of a perfectly cooked sunny-side up egg, or the hypnosis inspired by the sheer artistry of an aquatic being in its natural habitat.

Yet, men spit out epithets to the vagina –as if they are gifts to women: “Yea, I’m beating that pussy up. Who’s your daddy? Tell me it’s my pussy.” While there are some women who behave just as lowly –claiming stakes and false entitlements to: “What this pussy earned. Momma needs a new __________ (ßhell, fill in the blank). Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.

You might read these diary entries and decide: the author must be pessimistic, a negative Nancy, or simply unstable...which may bare some significance if this were only about my opinion of women or society and their degradation of their most precious gift. Rather, this is a collection of testimonies to this life creating gift...perhaps I fancy myself the creator of a twenty-first century version of The Vagina Dialogues.What makes these diary entries unique is that each voice represents a different person and their thoughts about, experiences with, and even journey to the discovery of the vagina. The voices are that of men and women all from diverse sexual backgrounds: straight, gay, lesbian, and transgendered. Each experience is different. Each unique. See, the one thing that society has forgotten to mention about a vagina is: it's a lot like our DNA, no two are the same.

image by: TT the Artist

image by: TT the Artist

 Brittaney and her first love

It's funny to be asked about my thoughts on female anatomy...specifically the female vagina. To me, talking about pussy is a lot like talking about my first love. I've watched countless shows that highlight the beauty, delicacy, and even intimacy involved in falling in love. I am 29 years old and the only thing I've ever felt intense feelings for is vagina. Vaginas have always spoken to me like a canvas speaks to an artist. I hear the sweet moistening sounds when a lady adjusts her sitting to squeeze out the obvious excitement. If she happens to be pantyless, I even hear the small release of air that comes out like an infant yawning. It never fails to bring a smirk out of me. I see it as an affirmation of my gift as a vaginal-whisperer. But perhaps if I had to round out a solid thought about the vagina--I could only be described as a "connoisseur".

The first time I knew I was in love with vagina was probably at the age of 14. It wasn't the hypnotic nature of porn or some earth-shattering orgasm that lead me to this resolve. Rather, it was watching a girl, on all fours, shaking her ass that captivated me. It was as if her vagina was trying to tell me something. Her name was Olivia.

Thinking of Olivia always takes me back: Trampoline in the back yard, marigolds springing from the ground (where there was grass), the sound of cicadas buzzing dangerously close to our bodies. To be young and free. For my biggest worry to be, "Does Olivia know that I like her, like her?"

The days were always the same: the 7th period bell would sound, I would rush to my locker to touch up my lip gloss before Olivia made it there. She'd round the corner with her Megan Goode shaped mouth, her Angelina Jolie daring eyes, and the ever so innocent Jennifer Love Hewitt look in her eyes. Always excited to tell me something (that she'd ramble on about the entire bus ride back to Davis-Monthan Air Force base). This day, it was romance.

"Did you read chapter 8? Omg. The Great Gatsby is amazing! I just love Daisy. She's so hard to read. And what do you think Jordan's deal is? I don't know but I'd sure love to be a world-famous golfer." She giggled.

I watched her mouth move as she laughed. The way her eyes folded and her lips turned upward. She turned to face me. Our eyes locked. I remember the roller-coaster occurring in my stomach. I feared that she finally saw it.

"Have you loved anyone yet?" She asked.

The look in her eye was odd to me. I didn't remember seeing the particular sparkle behind her eye before that day. "I don't know," I told her.

"You think you might love me?" She asked.

I was mortified. How could she possibly know what my look meant? How could she see it? I told her, "I might."

She smiled. It was as if she were waiting for me to tell the truth. But then she shrugged and simply stated, "We're going to make out when we get home. Think we should go to your house or mine?"

I was elated. Giddy. Could not possibly careless where she wanted to go. I only cared that she wanted to go with me.

We were silent the entire walk home: both pretending to be absorbed by the atmosphere. I kicked rocks and jumped over the cracks in sidewalks. She collected flowers, weeds, anything with color.

When we got to her house, she grabbed both of our bookbags and threw them on the living room couch. I remember my hands shaking as she grabbed my arm instructing me to "Come on."

In her room she asked, "I want you to give me a hickey. What do you want to try?"

I hesitated and mumbled, "I don't know."

Again, she giggled. She looked at me and said, "Yes you do. I've seen you think about it."

I covered my face with my hands. I could hear her moving. I expected her to grab my hands at any moment, to remove them from my face. But after what felt like an eternity, I realized, she wasn't going to touch me. I removed my hands. Olivia stood before me completely naked.


She laid on the bed without a word. I could feel her eyes watching me. My eyes never left her body. I watched as she spread her legs. I watched her massage her own breasts. I watched one of her hands glide between her legs. I stood zombied. I stood as if hypnotized.

When she began to separate the lips of her vagina, it was if the music began playing again. The shock had worn off into a desperate curiosity.

Fingers intertwined with hers. Eyes closed, head back against the pillow. She taught me how to explore her.

Then I heard a creaking sound as the door opened...

Olivia shrieked. But it's not the shriek that I remember most clearly. The fact that I never saw her again doesn't seem to bother me either. I don't remember the (what must have been a horrified) look on her mother's face. I remember the vagina opening and closing, I remember the sounds it made. I remember it as the day I fell in love with vagina.

Image by:  TT the Artist

Image by: TT the Artist


Brittaney (B.Kodak) is an avid reader who teaches school by day and moonlights as a writer for the LGBT community by night. While the majority of her work focuses on the lesbian experience, she does tend to dabble in elements unique to Caribbean literature and superstition. Wildly passionate about literacy, Brittaney strives to publish her first fictional novel in the Winter of 2016. 



Performer and Visual Artist, Tedra Wilson known as TT The Artist received her Bachelors in fine arts with a concentration in video from the Maryland Institute College Of Art. Her work is influenced by pop culture, politics, race, sexuality and gender. She is also a community artist and philanthropist  in the Baltimore arts community from hosting events at local venues to teaching art workshops and mentoring Baltimore City youth.