Gather ’Round. Let Me Show You My Pussy*

Vulva Art by Simone Farschi

*I recognize that the word pussy, used to name the space between a woman’s thighs, will stir reaction. I invite you to notice what arises—affection, discomfort, neutrality, curiosity—and allow that response to inform your relationship with your own pussy. All reactions are welcome. Even the ones that live in the margins.

I am the last to share during Genital Show & Tell.

Volunteering to take every woman’s Pussy Portrait—mini Polaroids of opened vulvas framed by deliberate, reverent hands—bought me time. Time to breathe. Time to steady myself. Time to prepare for what I already knew was the part of the BodySex retreat that made me most nervous.

I had written before about why BodySex called to me: an invitation to welcome the bold, beautiful reality of the female form and the vast pleasure it is capable of receiving. I had never attended a nude retreat. I wondered whether my body would feel as secure in a space where I was not leading, guiding, or holding others—but simply there to witness and be witnessed.

The day before we began, Simone asked me what my intention was.

“Just presence.”

To be here. To be now. Presence has been my meditation through grief this winter. It has also revealed its quiet divinity. God is. And there is only now, if we choose to meet it.

We gather at the base of the stairwell. I hold a bundle of burning sage, whispering prayers and petitions for energetic release before the weekend’s work begins. Afterward, the women disrobe and join Simone in the circle.

“Look around the room,” she says. “Acknowledge what you see.”

The room fills with reverent witnessing. I take in what is silently communicated: We are all here. We are bravely inhabiting these bodies. And that, on its own, is beautiful.

I look at my own pussy, yes. But I had never shared her with other women outside of clinical or familial necessity—OBGYNs, my midwife, my mother, my grandmother. Never for education. Never for reverence. Yet I’ve come to understand that this kind of classroom is essential for girls and women who wish to live in a world where our pussies are neither taboo nor weaponized—neither shamed nor compared.

When it is my turn, I feel calm.

I sit at the top of the circle, legs open, a mirror and small light illuminating my portal of pleasure. A quiet pride settles in before anyone speaks. Still, I momentarily forget the many beautiful variations of vulvas I’ve just witnessed. My own feels suddenly singular.

She is met with kindness. Witnessed for her color—inner and outer—in a way I had never experienced before. Affirmed. Celebrated.

I notice she is shy. It takes a moment to soften, to release enough to show the location of my vaginal opening. I say very little. I let Simone’s guidance and the voices of the women carry the moment while I choose presence—with myself, with her, with the now.

Later, I realize that what I imagined would be extraordinary was, in fact, profoundly ordinary. I saw vulvas like mine—similar in color, in size. Others differed in ways that spoke to the beauty of lived experience. Flowers. Hearts. Moons. Quiet echoes of the Divine feminine rendered in flesh.

By the second day, when Erotic Recess arrives, we have already crossed a threshold. We have shared one of the most protected spaces of our bodies—guarded externally by our legs and internally by bone and organ and instinct.

We are invited into fantasy. Into sensation. Into what we are ready for.

At first, I doubt my body will feel safe enough to orgasm here. But with my eyes closed, focused on desire, I let my moans take up space. Soon, the sound of my pleasure encourages others to stay with theirs. The room fills with arrival. Listening to other climaxes feels like collective triumph.

Yes. Yes, girl. Get yours.

During the Goddess massage, it becomes clear that my body was ready all along. Ten hands glide over my naked form with lightly scented coconut oil. It is a ritual of receivership. My body says yes—not to arousal, not to wanting more—but to being held. To being nurtured.

I have been kind to this body. Through injury. Through childbirth. Through illness and celebration. Devotion to this vessel has long been my practice, and I remain a student, knowing change is inevitable. The Goddess massage feels like a natural extension of that devotion.

The anchoring force of BodySex is community witnessing.

While we have agreed to hold one another’s stories with privacy, I must say this: witnessing healing in real time made our presence essential. You had to be there to receive the medicine. To understand the impact.

And in my experience, the most transformative spaces are always like that.