THE THING BETWEEN OUR LEGS
This Thing Between my legs, – It’s making me restless.
There is a little something between my legs that’s making me restless. This little thing is on both sides and it wants us to play. I don’t know what things to not do with it. I know when I was younger; a girl told me we could play together. We did, behind her parent’s house, squeezing against the wall, making our little pee-pees touch. Two minutes later, we both ran away giggling. It was bad manners. The one time my mother heard that report, she gave me a wagging I have never forgotten until now. And she had only known because after I had annoyed the girl, she had blackmailed me, saying that it had been my idea to make our pee-pees touch.
The pee-pee game is one that many children do where I come from. We did it all the time, never really sucking in all the desire. I was below age seven back then, when we could make our pee-pees touch on the outside. But this new desire I felt at fourteen, it was none like any other! I guess the desire was sparked by this thing they had pulled between my little teenage legs. The lady next door, who mom had called as you read in episode one, had truly done her job, pulling a little bit of my labia, to a size tangible enough for me to pull whenever I wanted. I remember hearing in my O’levels while at school, that some women have labia as long as their middle fingers and some, even twice as long.
- (Read about Tracey and excessively long Labia here) I thought that might have been overwhelming, those were lengths I never desired and yes I never got to. I read that other sub-saharan cultures practice pulling too. Read a bit about it briefly here.
Yet from the time this little adjustment had been made to my body, my interest in matters of the bedroom had sparked. Mark you I didn’t engage physically until later as a teenager. Forget those high school jokes where each one of us wanted to be the baddest they could, so we could tell as many lies as possible, just to show our classmates that we knew more. I was that time, the one kind of student they call a silent burner. The one student, whose grades are pretty high, is disciplined, and all the teachers could defend her. And yet, the students knew otherwise – the opposite.
Back then; being spoilt was the new cool. Tell any lie that could make you appear more experienced than the other kids. Lie to others that you have been to all the cool clubs in Kampala, yet you had only heard them by name and up to date, you don’t know their location. Tell your friends you had eight boyfriends when you had never attempted to date even one, say you spent all holiday going to clubs, which you never stepped in until you were actually twenty-two. Lying was the new cool. (My back then, were the years 2009 – 2012 – smiles)
For me it was actually because I was always delighted in the idea of being a top student and still be street wise. I loved the idea of the students scratching their heads over how I was spoilt and still be among the top five. That was my score. That’s how I wanted it. There was a time when all the popular boys were dating the popular beautiful girls, yet we were exchanging letters. We took pride in having secret mini-affairs with the school prefects who had official girlfriends without anyone knowing about it. That shit made a couple of us cool! We celebrated the idea of keeping these kinds of secrets to ourselves, while we would let the reality burn.
The real desire for me was reading the mills and boon romances. I spent weeks of academic holiday in my father’s house writing mini romances, and fighting with my sister once she stole one to read without my permission. My schoolmates didn’t know where I got my smartness but it was simple. I spent all holidays reading, and weaving fake stories of things I would say I did, while they went in the actual field to practice. While some were caught and expelled, smart ones like us were never even caught because much as we said we did shit, we didn’t do anything. We were just good storytellers.
When the thing between our legs irritated, we would grab a mills and boon and let it sweep us away, in a fairy-tale kind of romance where a cute actress named Markel ended up with a charming Prince named Harry.
There were times that the little romance wouldn’t work. Instead, we would spend a few long minutes in the shower, trying to feel like the maid in the mills & boon romance felt when her boss, a widowed father of two, had touched her for the first time. And things like that. Being a teenager was easy. All we had to do was weave a circle of lies and claim to be whatever we weren’t – the desire to fit in. We had decided we would be our own kind of bad, the kind that never really existed.
We were fake. Fake lovers. Fake happy people. Being popular in school and talking to everyone while the soul inside craved for a hide-out in a bed hugging a novel. This we did sometimes, but there were better things we preferred, like exchanging letters with the cute boys we were four inches taller than, or pretending to love everybody while our actual craving was a mother’s love. The hormones were unbearable. We fought with our mothers and believed they did not love us. We gave our tongues away to boys claiming to love them without really meaning it. Happiness was a mask we wore while our inner spirits called for freedom. And until then, we could never really have the freedom we yearned for.
We lost all innocence without realizing it. We became women with minds of girls. We outsmarted others without it being really about smartness. It was about status. It was the kind of hunger for success not for the good of others, but for the satisfaction of the avenger. Controversies were our daily bread.
We claimed to love, but maybe we didn’t. and the things between our legs kept itching, without us giving them any attention. Until later, until now, when we can talk about them. Until college, until feminism, until maturity, until intercourse. Until we started to wonder whether the men we were sleeping with did not see the difference we had from the others. From the other women.
Until the curiosity was harder to handle than it had been years before. Until I asked him, “hey, did you see the labia , the clit, don’t you think it’s strange?”
His answer: Oh, hey, actually I never noticed. Every woman is different. I thought that’s how you are.
And that sent me in bafflement. Every woman is different? Even though they all did not pull? Even though you have slept with multiple races?
It always bothered me why you never asked. I was dying with anxiety, scared that you might see how different I am and think it’s strange. While all along, you were only enjoying the honey-pot, not minding, because, in your head, all women are different so such things never bother you. What was all my anxiety for? Why did I think having pulled would make me strange? Why did I think it was going to bother the man I sleep with? You have helped me. You have given me the answer as to why no man ever asked me about it. I always thought someone would pop up with a list of questions and I would die with discomfort. And yet, amidst my anxiety and blindness was the answer, the men love this thing between your legs because it makes them want to stick with you for life. They love this thing because you feel so young and fresh and your cup overflows. They love you because they think your soul is the stream of true happiness. Each time, they’ll confess you feel like a virgin. Each time, you will feel newer. Each time, they get a deeper pleasure like they never had before. This makes you smile. Why then would you be worried about having pulled? You know what they say, it would rather be tight, than loose… and so on and so forth, and statements like that. You are so lucky aren’t you girl? This thing between your legs, it’s a miracle.
They love the thing between your legs. They are so busy enjoying what your ancestors invented they don’t even care what is. So my dear, what was all your anxiety for? These things don’t bother them. And when you ask them, they will say without much enthusiasm, “Well, not much difference between who has it or not because still, every woman feels different. Every woman is unique.” And there you are, afraid that someone might confront you over this. Nobody even really cares. They all know but just wouldn’t talk about it. Foreign or not, they’ll say each pussy tastes different. So you have nothing to worry about.
My girl, this tradition of yours if anything improved your capacity to enjoy intercourse and unlike Female Genital Mutilation, this enjoyment is not just about your spouse, but about you as well. The pulling of the labia is like a Sexual enjoyment stimulator. Research says that you and your man enjoy sex more. Your mother would say it increases your chances of safety during childbirth since expansion is easier, not with the labia already elongated. So you see, your only challenge would be the days you scratch it just a little and all hell breaks loose. The days when a little scratch can make both labia swell, the days when it scratches you want to scratch but if you dare touch it’s going to last all day. The days when anxiety kicks in and you start cursing, wondering why nobody ever told you this thing can be irritable at times.
See? Here we are. Now we know, lets us prepare for episode 3, which is entirely about something we barely know anything about it, yet still concerns the area in between our legs.
- By the way, did you read Tracey’s story? I didn’t know about it until I was researching… Tracey, a glamour model, and blogger had a surgery where her labia was cut off and she made a necklace out of it. Um. Doesn’t sound so so right? Read for yourself about Tracey here.
- Also, read about the labia minora here.
Cheers and for this series, see you next Friday for the third part. Click here if you didn’t read Episode one. On Monday and Wednesday, don’t forget to check your email to read the blogs on entrepreneurship and community development respectively. Have you subscribed yet? If not, scroll on this post up, right hand, and fill your email in the subscription box. Cheers!