Eve Ensler ✎ The Vagina Monologues

Eve Ensler

The Vagina Monologues

(1996)

 

 

My vagina is a shell, a round pink tender shell, opening and closing, closing and opening. My vagina is a flower, an eccentric tulip, the center acute and deep, the scent delicate, the petals gentle but sturdy. I did not always know this.

 

***

 

Turned out that Bob loved vaginas. He was a connoisseur. He loved the way they felt, the way they tasted, the way they smelled, but most importantly he loved the way they looked. He had to look at them. The first time we had sex, he told me he had to see me.

 

***

 

Stop shoving things up me. Stop shoving and stop cleaning it up. My vagina doesn’t need to be cleaned up. It smells good already. Don’t try to decorate. Don’t believe them when he tells you it smells like rose petals when it’s supposed to smell like pussy. That’s what they’re doing, trying to clean it up, make it smell like bathroom spray or a garden. All those douche sprays, floral, berry, rain. I don’t want my pussy to smell like rain. All cleaned up like washing a fish after you cooked it. I want to taste the fish.

 

***

 

What does a vagina smell like?

Earth.
Wet garbage.
God.
Water.
A brand-new morning.
Depth.
Sweet ginger.
Sweat.
Depends.
Musk.
Me.
No smell, I’ve been told.
Pineapple.
Chalice essence.
Paloma Picasso.
Earthy meat and musk.
Cinnamon and cloves.
Roses.
Spicy musky jasmine forest, deep, deep forest.
Damp moss.
Yummy candy.
The South Pacific.
Somewhere between fish and lilacs.
Peaches.
The woods.
Ripe fruit.
Strawberry-kiwi tea.
Fish.
Heaven.
Vinegar and water.
Light, sweet liquor.
Cheese.
Ocean.
Sexy.
A sponge.
The beginning.