My Fat Cunt
October 05, 2002
written by betsy

I am so glad we’re undergoing the feminist reclaiming of the word cunt. Not just the word, maybe, all that it implies: clits held in firm kisses by their hoodies, labia majora and minora like constellations, cervix as otherworldly portal. If vaginas give monologues, cunts give acceptance speeches, sing arias, and scream spoken-word. So I love my fat cunt, and I owe some of that to Inga.

By Inga, of course, I mean Inga Muscio, authoress of Cunt: a declaration of independence. I’ve heard smart women crucify Inga for her lack of originality, people have said what she says in this book before. But Inga’s got a few things on her side: she’s a little dingalinglingy, or at least kitchily idiosyncratic in her writing style, and she’s really fucking pissed off. As far as I’m concerned, that’s enough to qualify her as a revolutionary.

So while I was reading this book, I started to ask myself if I loved my cunt. Well, you know, I’ve liked the word cunt ever since I read Lady Chatterley’s Lover. It’s got gumption, cunt does. But my cunt, the physical entity? It’s fat. A fat cunt.

A fat cunt means that you’ve got more than just a demure little slit between your legs. It means that your pussy is a handful, a cushion of flesh that is well-acquainted with your belly and thighs.

I came to the conclusion that I didn’t love my cunt very much. Poor kitty.

One of the things I didn’t like about my fat cunt was that it bled. Besides being sometimes painful, it was a nuisance and often made me more than a little bitch-goddessy.. But Inga challenged me to think about how I was or wasn’t really dealing with my period.

With the help of some awesome supportive women online, I decided to change my “feminine hygiene” practices to something less wasteful and corporate. I swapped a Chomsky book and some craft stuff for some cloth pads. Best of all, I ordered The Keeper, which is a reusuable menstrual cup made of soft gum rubber. I find this new menstrual lingerie infinitely more comfortable than the plastic applicator tampons and plasticy pantyliners I once used, not to mention more economical.

But I still didn’t love my cunt enough. So I shaved it.

Yup. Well, ow. But still a valid decision! I wanted to see what the hell I was dealing with in my mythical “down there” region. I don’t know how to describe my glee playing peek-a-boo with my clit in the mirror. And once I saw all that fleshy cuntness I felt closer to it, I felt that I understood the mental block I’d had about my cunt all this time. The same thing that bled also produced waves of cramp-and-headache nullifying pleasure. My fat cunt is a complex anatomical device that has many functions, reproductive, hygienic, and sexual.

Men are more used to shaved cunts than women are, as they are a staple porn image. I think my boyfriend was surprised that his uberfeminist girl sacrificed her pubes; he had nothing to do with the decision. I told him I wouldn’t have done it if he’d asked, and I meant it. I fully support body hair as a tremendously sexy and feminine thing, my lil’ bush was getting in the way of seeing myself from the ground up. And while I do not and probably will never describe myself as a pro-porn do-me postfeminist, I don’t think having a bald pussy means I’m regressing to childhood or fulfilling anyone’s schoolgirl fantasy.

I don’t think that loving your fat (or any-sized) cunt means that you’ve got to give up your Tampax (after all, they were there, wherever the hell that is) or your pubes. This is the way I learned to love my fat cunt. If you want to do the same, I think the only essential steps are to think about what your cunt does for you and look at what it is. The rest will come.

And come again.

And come some more.

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