Vagina :: The Zine

Whore

Whore, I am. Slut, I strive to be.

Not an artist, dancer, or warrior poetess

Certainly not a mother or a lover

Books I read to pass the time

Degrees bring home the bread

But future, present, past

I dedicate to lewd immortality

Lascivious eroticism, salacious sensuality

The clothes I wear, a dangerous duality

From a distance excite

Come nearer, they invite

Skirts and shirts to turn you on

Hair length to fuel your desire

Oh, what a world of opportunity!

Wanted: female, flirty, fun

Experience, not necessary

Entertain us, the Drinks Are Free

Before I knew my identity

A base prostitute with a wild sexuality

Strangers’ greetings confused me

Oh sweetheart, you are so pretty.

Now, I know I cannot fail

For your neighborhood harlot

Beauty and sensuality suffice

Success never escapes

My bouncy bottom

My luscious breasts

My blushing cheeks

My big, brown, childish eyes

Pleading for your acceptance

Pining for your attraction

Yearning for molestation, manipulation

And when finally, finally I hear

You respond to everything I do

to everything I believe

to the way I make you feel

Without even trying

Finally you understand my vibrant colors

when you utter your righteous truths

I am what I am

Just as you are who you are

I Celebrate my success

My Fair Lady

There were no Connie Chatterleys

resting beautifully on their backs

having casually brought socialism

to England.

.  

There were no little girls

sitting at her feet

adoringly rubbing toe-nails. 

.

There was the cold creature

that ate her locks.

.  

This difference she made in the world

was only losing those three organs

she had. Watching them searching

in the woods of Tennessee only

to be mistakenly bleeding

from the blind above.

—By Stephanie Derstine. 

(*This poem appeared in Vagina’s Winter Issue)

Meet Me In The Middle: A Poem

As I am a reasonable woman, I have decided in the spirit of fairness to entertain the notion that certain men may have a better one on one relationship with my vagina than I do.

As such, I am willing, for the briefest of moments, to suspend my indignation and sincerely consider the various rules and regulations that these gentlemen have recommended levying against the nation’s female reproductive sect.

I will do these things… once some conditions have been met.

Gentlemen, when you can pass a mango sized object through a slightly dilated penis, I will sincerely consider you the arbiter of truth concerning my reproductive organs.

If you can tolerate your body rebelling against itself for 4 to 7 days EVERY MONTH for AN ENTIRE YEAR without curling up in the fetal position in a corner of your house, then I will say “Hey, this dude might know what the hell he’s talking about.”

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