The Ins and Outs of My Vagina: A Penetrating Memoir

By Karin Freeland

The sexy, the funny, the humiliating, the gross, and a whole lot more!

"A funny, relatable, raw, and honest memoir about one woman's sexuality across the ages and stages of her life. Every woman will find something within the pages to relate to. You won't be able to put this book down."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karin Freeland Publishing
• Release date: Sep 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781792371929

Book preview

To Womb It May Concern,

We’re about to become very intimate with one another—after all, this book is titled the ins and outs of my vagina. I hope you are ready for some gut-busting, jaw-dropping, mind-blowing mishaps and misadventures!

You are invited to take an intimate glimpse into my personal life: the sexy, the gross, the funny, and a lot more. I hope you can relate to it and, along the way, have a few laughs you can share with friends (and maybe siblings and other confidants as well). My intent is for this book to provide a sense of comfort and camaraderie for women twenty-one and up, although I know some teens will probably sneak peeks at the juicier bits (as will a few guys).

I wouldn’t say that sharing these details of my life came easily. Believe it or not, I’m generally not this open with people, often covering up what’s truly going on in my life. Growing up, my mom avoided conflict like the plague. That has certainly played a role in my life and impacted how I deal with challenging situations.

Many people have asked me, How on earth did you come to write a book about your vagina? First, I would tell you that this book is about so much more than my vagina. It’s about growing up and going through puberty, learning to experiment and push your boundaries, finding love and creating life, and trying your damnedest to have an orgasm before you reach fifty. It just happens to be told through the lens (as it were) of my vagina.

It started out as a joke between my husband and me, while I was pregnant with our first child. My husband was always amazed at how clueless I was about how my vagina worked. In fact, it wasn’t until I started writing this book that I realized a vagina and a vulva aren’t the same thing! (I’ll tell you all about the exact origin in Chapter Thirty, All Lubed Up with Nowhere to Go, but, for now, let’s just say it involves some olive oil and the female taint!)

Names have been changed to protect the identities of those included in the book. I realize that, while I find most of this hilarious, many of those who contributed to my vagina misadventures likely do not wish to be identified.

My goal for this book was not only self-discovery, but to provide support for other women who, like me, truly don’t know their own respective vaginas.

In Vagina Solidarity,

Karin

Note: Throughout this book, you will read the word vagina quite a bit, including when I have conversations with her (referred to as V in much of the book). Please note that I have taken some creative liberties here. Despite the general use of the word vagina to refer to the whole of women’s genital anatomy, this is actually incorrect. The vagina is the birth canal where babies come out and penises (and/or dildos) can go in. The vulva is the external portion of women’s genital anatomy; it includes the inner lips, the vaginal opening, the mons pubis, and the external portion of the clitoris. Most of the nerve endings needed for women to orgasm are on the outside (the vulva), not the inside (the vaginal canal) of women’s genitals. In fact, only about 4%-18% of women are capable of achieving an orgasm from penetration alone. When we refer to our entire genitals as a vagina, we are linguistically erasing the part of ourselves that gives us the most pleasure (Mintz, 2017). The language I use in this book is for comedic purposes only, not to suggest any type of erasure.

My adolescence may be summed up in a few words: awkward , clunky , tragi c.

Awkward on account of my looks. To begin with, I spent an extra month in my mom’s vagina avoiding entrance into the world. Apparently, I’ve always had a thing for vaginas. That additional time in her birth canal proved costly for me, as it resulted in a deviated septum for life. My nose was so mis-formed that the doctor instructed my mom to massage my nose back into place for several months.

I wasn’t exactly beauty pageant material for other reasons as well. My ears stuck straight out of the sides of my head. They weren’t big per se, but I hadn’t grown into them, either. Lastly, my two front teeth had a gap between them that made me look like Bucky Beaver.

Clunky because of my personality. The Energizer Bunny had nothing on me. I could talk your ear off with zero effort. I had a lot to say and wanted to make sure everyone heard me. When it came to boys, I had no idea how to act around them. My personality only intensified, and I found myself stuck in the friend zone with boys through elementary school. Labeled a prude, I vowed to do anything it would take to change that over the next dozen years.

Tragic in the dramatic woe-is-me sense. Although I didn’t see it at the time, I had a relatively normal upbringing in the grand scheme of things. But there were a few notable unusual experiences that shaped my journey to womanhood, which I’ll share with you now.

Discovering My Lady Parts

MY JOURNEY INTO UNDERSTANDING MY WOMANHOOD BEGAN ON a hot summer weekend in June. I lived with my parents and sister, Debra, in a modest house that was nestled in a quaint development, which was still being expanded. We were your typical Upstate New York, middle-class suburban family. If you’ve never been to Upstate, think rolling hills, winding back roads, and strip malls. It was the mid-1980s, so pigtails and ruffled-sleeve bathing suits were all the rage. I was five years old, maybe six. I was swimming in our circular-shaped, above-ground pool in the backyard, cooling off from the hot summer sun. I loved nothing more than to spend the entire day in the water to the point of turning my fingers and toes all pruny.

Let’s make a whirlpool! I shouted to my dad.

Okay, he replied. Follow me.

He began to walk briskly in one direction with my sister on his back. She wore floaties to prevent her slipping away from him. Both of us were like fish in the water, though. We might as well have been born in the pool.

My mom stood by, watching from the deck. Unless it was over 95 degrees outside, she rarely entered the pool. I can’t say I blame her; I’ve become the same way as an adult.

I giggled as I tried to walk in the same direction as my dad. Being vertically challenged (in other words, short), I had to use my feet to push off the pool floor. My head bobbed under water each time. I’d come back up giggling and gasping for air, as my dad passed me on his way around the pool. Before long, the force of the whirlpool had taken shape. I could now lie on my back and float around the pool in circles. It was a good thing, too, because I was getting winded from trying to create the whirlpool. It felt good to relax in the motion of the water.

Suddenly, I found I had to relieve myself. Since my parents were adamantly opposed to anyone peeing in the pool, I stuck my hand out to grab the pool ladder as I floated by it. I used my tiny arms to pull myself out of the whirlpool and exit the water. I snatched my towel to pat myself dry and ran into the house. Having done a subpar job of drying myself off, I ran upstairs while still half-wet and dripping water across the dining room carpet and on the stairwell.

Don’t run! You’re going to slip and fall! my mom shouted from the patio.

I rushed into the bathroom. Squeezing my legs together, I slammed the door and hopped toward the toilet. Heeding my mom’s warning, I tried not to slip. The tile floor felt cold on my wet feet as I made my way to the bowl.

It was no secret around school that boys have penises and girls have vaginas. As I sat on the porcelain toilet of our middle-class suburban house with my blue bathing suit dangling from my feet, I began to check out my vagina. You can imagine my dismay when I discovered that…I had a penis!

Well, let me explain.

I had not seen a penis up until that time—remember: I was only five or six—so it wasn’t as if I had any idea of what I was looking at as I peered down between my legs. Something was sticking out. Something pink and roundish. I poked at it.

Hmn, I said to myself. What can this be? I’ve never seen this before.

I finished urinating and tugged my wet bathing suit back on. I rushed downstairs to my Mom without having washed my hands.

Mom! Mom! I need to show you something. It’s an emergency, I called to her as I stepped out onto the patio.

I was still panting, with a dripping wet bathing suit, as I placed my hands on my knees and looked up at her. The sun shone right in my eyes, causing me to squint.

What is it, Karin?

"I have a penis!" I shouted for the entire world to hear.

Before she could respond, I lowered my ruffled bathing suit strap and revealed my discovery.

I don’t remember the exact words she used, but I do recall her reaction; it was somewhere between insane laughter and utter disgust. Mainly, though, she probably felt embarrassed, as our neighbors peeked across our patio to get a look at the girl with the male organ.

My mother grabbed my arm and dragged me back inside the house. She reassured me that I do not have a penis. She explained to me that lady parts consist of a lot more than just holes to pee from. They feature other things, one of which I had mistaken for a penis. I would learn all about them when I was older—much older. Obviously, my mom’s detailed explanation cleared things right up for me. I went back to swimming feeling relieved I hadn’t sprouted a penis overnight.

You might be asking yourself, How does she mistake a clitoris for a penis? Is hers so gigantic?

No. Mine has always been normal size. At least I think it is (and was). Then again, how would I know the difference? Even if I did, I can’t see any possible benefit to it. To this day, I have never heard of a guy looking for a woman with an abnormally large clit. But, if he’s out there, I might just be his dream girl.

Twat Was That?

FACT: IT’S POSSIBLE FOR A FETUS TO MASTURBATE IN THE WOMB. I don’t have any idea of what a fetus could possibly be fantasizing about. If I happen to have performed the act myself at that time, I can’t say I recall any specific images.

Don’t worry, I won’t probe any further into womb masturbation. Instead, let’s fast-forward a year or two to my first solo sexual experience that I can recall. Let’s say I was around age seven. It’s not as if I was keeping a diary about these things at the time, so I can’t be one hundred percent certain.

My mom was giving Debra a bath, and I was up next. She asked me to wait nearby, so I got ready—stark naked—while the tub drained. Apparently, I didn’t have a modest bone in my body as a youngster—a quality that would gradually change.

During my wait, I happened upon a sleeping bag on the floor of my parents’ bedroom, probably a remnant of a Girl Scout trip. I figured that I might as well bide my time in the sleeping bag until it was my turn to bathe.

I slid inside the material and zipped myself up tight. I buried my head within. It felt like nighttime, even though the sun was shining through my parents’ large picture window. The hardwood floor underneath me was unforgiving. I wished I had a pillow but couldn’t be bothered to get up and find one. I was wiggling my legs around to situate myself when I was overcome by a certain sensation that sprang forth between my legs and rose up throughout my body.

My head began to spin with thoughts: What is this? I’ve never felt anything like it before. Is it getting hot in here? Maybe I should stick my head out and get some air? No, I kind of like it, whatever it is.

I squeezed my legs harder together. The intensity of the sensation increased.

How am I making this happen? Is it magic? I hope bath time never comes….

Does anyone know what I’m doing in here? Why do I feel like I’m doing something terribly wrong?

At the same time, it was such a wonderful feeling. Moments passed, during which time I felt like I had disappeared into another universe. I wanted to remain in this sleeping bag forever with my legs clenched tight. I reached a point where I couldn’t squeeze any harder, but the feeling lingered. I had no idea what my body was trying to achieve. Butterflies filled my stomach. My head became dizzy.

Karin, come on, it’s your turn! my mom shouted from the bathroom.

Her voice rang in my ears like a jet breaking the sound barrier. I didn’t want to budge, but I had already been disturbed and the blissful moment had dissipated.

"Karin!" she repeated.

I released my legs and unzipped the sleeping bag. Just as my reddened face popped out, Debra whizzed by draped in her towel. I wrestled out of the sleeping bag and forced myself to my feet while trying to keep my legs as close together as possible. I waltzed, somewhat shamefully, into the bathroom.

What have I just done?

I wondered if anyone could tell if something was different about me based on my appearance. I wiggled past my mother and plunked myself in the warm, bubbly water. She poured water over my head and began lathering baby shampoo into my hair. Everything seemed perfectly normal; she didn’t reveal a trace of being onto me and, in fact, hummed a tune from the musical Cats. How fitting!

I lay in bed that evening and stared at the ceiling with only a glimmer of light shining on my bed from the hallway. I wondered if I could recreate what had happened in the sleeping bag. I wanted to try…but I was petrified.

What if I cause that part of my body to pop off?

And what if…God already knows I’m doing this? Is it a sin? Am I going to be allowed into heaven?

The fear of being caught by my mother and cast into hell didn’t deter my curiosity. It wasn’t long before I began to lock myself in my room and conduct mini-discovery sessions on my body. Night or day, whenever my family members were occupied, I would squirrel away in my room and experiment. Although I perpetually feared getting exposed, the temptation of pleasure always outweighed the risk.

And yet…even though I enjoyed the self-gratification, I did not experience the ultimate pleasure. Not that I could possibly have known what that was at the time but, of course, eventually I would learn what I had been missing...

The Big O: the bane of my existence.

Bushwhacked

LET’S FACE IT: WHEN YOU ARE AN ADULT, PUBES SUCK! SHAVING them, waxing them, seeing them jut out of your white bathing suit, getting them lodged in the teeth or throat while performing oral stimulation….

What’s the point of them? They don’t even keep a vagina warm in the winter.

Women spend thousands of dollars each year removing pubic hair. No one wants pubes as an adult.

And yet…when I was in sixth grade and the other girls in my class were getting their pubes, I desperately longed for those short and curlies! I prayed to God every night to bestow a few strands upon me down there, just to give an indication that I was becoming a woman. It didn’t feel like a lot to ask. It wasn’t as if I was asking for world peace.

Morning after morning when I awoke, I peeked inside my underwear to see if anything had sprouted down there. Each time, I would be met with utter disappointment.

Flashback to a sleepover…

The year: 1991.

The setting: a dimly lit, finished basement in my friend Jenna’s house.

The cast: ten girls from my elementary school, including myself.

Bowls of chips and pretzels were scattered around the room, along with a few two-liter bottles of soda. (We were too young to care about calories or sugar intake.)

We had already watched a movie and done each other’s makeup. It was nearing 1:00 AM and there was only one thing left to do….

Who wants to play Truth or Dare? a girl named Tina asked the group.

Yeah, I do! someone chimed in.

Me too, followed another.

That was all it took. We had a consensus and began to play Truth or Dare. The game began innocently enough, as it always does.

TRUTH: Do you like Johnny?

DARE: Prank call—Brian.

TRUTH: Would you rather kiss Todd or Chris?

These are easy; they’re throwing out softballs. This is getting boring, even for a sixth grader.

In those days, when you brought so many girls together, things were bound to take a turn for the worse at some point. Suddenly, without any warning, the first real zinger shot across the basement…

DARE: Show us your boobs.

Then the second…

DARE: Moon us!

Next…it was my turn. I was on the receiving end and couldn’t back down. The tension mounted as the group of girls focused solely on me.

My inner voice began to shout: Don’t say DARE! Don’t say DARE!

I could feel the girls silently willing me into uttering the one word I didn’t want to say. My resolve was weakening; I knew I was going to buckle at any moment.

ME (squinting, in an attempt to look tough): Dare!

DARE: Show us your pubes!

Damn it! Of all DARES, why did I have to get this one? My worst nightmare was coming to fruition. I was the shortest one in the group, and the girls had already deduced that there was some correlation between height and time of puberty. They had conspired together, specifically choosing this DARE because they believed I had a barren desert down there.

Nevertheless, I received the challenge and had to face up to it. Karin Freeland never backed down from a DARE!

I stood up, revealing my New Kids on the Block tee-shirt and striped granny panties from JCPenney. My bare feet felt cold and numb on the tiled basement floor. My cheeks turned beet red as I tugged down my underwear.

The room became silent. The other girls gawked, open-mouthed in amazement. Without any warning at all, a bush snapped out of my panties like a tree branch that had been pulled back and then released.

I quietly celebrated in my mind: I have pubes—lots of them! I’ve been vindicated!

They were curly, they were thick, and they were glorious. They had seemed to grow in overnight but it was probably closer to two months. A small fly could have gotten lost in that forest. Despite all of my fears of being a late developer, all signs were now to the contrary: My vagina had miraculously knitted itself a fur coat.

Aunt Flow Pays Her First Visit

JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL WAS AN INCREDIBLY AWKWARD TIME FOR ME, as it is for most kids entering their teen years. Outside of my early physical development, it was not a sexually active time by any stretch of the imagination. (Perhaps the glasses and retainer had something to do with it?)

Now, just as sprouting pubic hair is a rite of passage for a girl, so is getting her first period. This one is bigger, though—far more significant. Technically, once a girl experiences her first menstrual cycle, she is a woman. I longed for the day when I would get my period but, like many things that seem cool when you’re a little kid, it’s much less appealing when it actually happens.

I was twelve years old at the time. I vividly remember that Tuesday morning and having been awakened at 5:20 AM by the bleeping of my alarm. My bedroom was pitch black, except for a sliver of light that peeked through the crack in the door. My hand reached over to slap the snooze button. I rolled over to get another ten minutes of sleep. When the alarm sounded again, I bolted out of bed and grabbed a towel from the hall closet before entering the bathroom. I flicked on the light and made sure both doors were locked, since my parents had their own entrance to the bathroom from their bedroom. I was less concerned about one of them coming in than I was about my sister entering uninvited.

I removed my oversized tee-shirt and threw it in a corner on the floor. I turned on the shower, so it would warm up before I got in. Standing only in my underwear, I pulled out the scale. I stepped on it to check my weight: eighty-one pounds. I nodded in agreement with the scale.

By now, the water in the shower stall was warm enough for me to step in. After carefully testing the temperature with my toes, I let the water spray over my hair and grabbed a bottle of Nexxus shampoo. Having long hair required that I apply just the right squeeze of shampoo as if were an art form. Too much, and it would take forever to rinse out; too little, and there would be no lather and I’d have greasy hair for the next two days. With my eyes closed, I lathered every strand before rinsing out the suds backwards down the drain. Once I was sure the shampoo was gone, my eyes flickered open through the water.

I happened to be looking down at my feet when something strange caught my eyes and made me gasp. Red water was pooling in the bathtub, along with the clear droplets.

Oh crap, I’m bleeding! What the hell is going on? I didn’t cut myself. I haven’t even started shaving my legs yet.

Then it dawned on me….

Is this what I think it is? It must be. This is the exact moment I’ve been waiting for. I’ve got my period—finally! It’s official: At the ripe old age of twelve, I am becoming a woman.

The more I thought about it, however, the less exciting this situation seemed to be….

Okay, what now? Oh, this is pretty gross. How long is this blood going to keep streaming out of me?

Reality began to sink in, as I struggled to figure out how I was going to step out of the shower, leave the bathroom, and get my mom to help me without making a mess everywhere and tipping off other family members. I certainly did not want my dad to know.

I reached for a bar of soap and lathered up a washcloth. As I cleaned myself off, it struck me that the timing of this event couldn’t have been better. I’d had nightmares about it happening in class and staining my jeans. It would have been mortifying facing the jeers of my classmates as I dashed out to the girls’ room.

Instead, I had all the privacy in the world. I thought about