What is…it? And what makes it so good?

Good pussy. Gorilla grip coochie. Wap. How do I bridge the gap between the sexy Disneyland surfaces of online talk and the knot at the heart of feeling I’m never enough? When I’ve fingered and licked a pussy, I was never judging, just trying to make the person moan. I remind myself this, and also that when I’ve used the term “good dick,” I’ve always meant it less as a standard and more to describe a vibe. Still it’s hard to hear “good pussy” and not wonder about the ways mine isn’t. But the phrase flattened into a meme reminds me, too, of a second kind of lack—that I don’t have a dick, and that it’s the dick that will decide a pussy’s ultimate worth. That the feeling of that appendage in this canal will forever remain, to me, unknown. This phallocentric logic I reject, but also, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t haunt me sometimes.

I searched “good pussy” on Urban Dictionary and the first entry made me feel better: A pussy that queefs. It’s not the whole definition, but the part I like best. Triggering less a fear of never being enough, and more a sense of gross excess. I think: How do I love thy nasty pussy, let me count the ways. I like my dirty talk filthy, full of muck.

Last night at a party I made a new friend, and we were talking about how every hot girl has IBS. We discussed how hot is a state of mind, as is girl—I’d argue the same about pussy and good—and inherent to the hot-girl state of mind is being overly concerned, in every moment, with how one is being perceived. This way of moving through the world is highly neurotic and, girl, it’s stress that’s irritating your gut. I think the state of mind that most aligns with good pussy is being exclusive but also willing to submit, the fantasy that you’re discerning and not for everybody, but still hungry like a slut. Though I also think it’s open to interpretation—so open, actually, it’s gaping wide.

I was surprised when I discovered that molds for celebrity Fleshlights only replicate the exterior form of the pussy, mouth, or butt—not the interior experience of the hole. On the outside, their patented Superskin technology recreates in lifelike detail the idiosyncrasies of a pink nubby clit, a butthole’s scrunch, or a labia’s flared folds. But the insides of Belladonna’s pocket stroker or Honey Gold’s main squeeze feature different signature patterns of ribs, ticklers, and spiraling grooves. In the cross-section product images they look anything but human—not at all like the organic ripples of a rectum or vaginal rugae. Instead, their predictable symmetrical impressions betray the perfection of machines. On a Reddit thread, one user suggests these masturbation sleeves feel “technically better” than the real thing. But a toy doesn’t stay warm like a real person, another commenter makes clear. Obviously no one wants too perfect a hole. 

My own pussy has always felt a bit like a mystery to me, Creature from the Black Lagoon, Swamp Thing. The first time I got a full Brazilian, I thought my vagina looked strange and monstrous, like an alien. I was insistent about having sex at a young age, and when I got hurt, I hardened myself. But I was a bit of a late bloomer when it came to self-exploration. It was months after losing my anal virginity in a basement at a high school party, listening to Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game,” before I ever committed to touching myself, until I had an orgasm. For years I thought good pussy meant being tough, and that sex was like an episode of Hot Ones (a badge of experience, a challenge to bear). Now that I’ve come to realize the defenses I’d built up over the years, they are my biggest insecurities. After years of throwing myself into situations, I may be more guarded than numb. I can come pretty easily—this has always been a part of my ego as a hot girl. But I worry my pussy doesn’t respond the way hers might because it’s armored for war. 

I’m learning strategies for not putting my pussy on the front line. When I was younger, I thought that not fucking with reckless disregard was a sign of weakness, letting indoctrination and double standards win over your own desire. Now I realize it can be a way to stay tender. Like the slogan from a candy commercial, hard shell with a soft center; a safety from within to lose control. Sometimes security isn’t about being modest, it’s carving out a haven for really letting go.

Stuff happens and we mount our defenses. For years I mistook disassociation for transcendence. It was a high to enter the void and detach from myself, to be a slut for pitch-white null, mind blank and body far away. It sounds like a state of abandon, and it was, but maybe the best way I can put it into words is that the pussy had to be vigilant because the rest of me wasn’t. Now, I’m trying to stay present in hedonism. I meditate on being a vessel for pleasure, my body connected to my mind, but not thinking too hard. After all, a hot girl with good pussy has to forget she’s being perceived and remember to feel.