Let's Talk About...

Cunt Spunk

Host Lianne Sonia waxes poetic on Wittgenstein, vaginal secretion, Beverly Hills 90210, the Encyclopedia of Sacred Sexuality, and the importance of re-languaging our erotic consciousness.

Transcript:

Listen:

When I was 14, a boy who liked my friend but settled for me tried to jam his fingers inside me. There was a blizzard outside, the lights were off, and my parents were home. Nothing says romance like your father audibly complaining about his hemorrhoids in the next room. I liked this boy. I was flattered by and greedy for his attention, even though the truest part of me knew I was not being honored myself. We sat next to each other on the couch in my parents’ living room and stared at the TV screen in front of us to avoid staring at each other, barely touching, until he—to his credit—bravely initiated contact with his hands and I—to my credit—upped the ante by straddling him on his lap, a move I must have learned from Beverly Hills 90210, a show that my mother, to her credit, forbade me to watch because of its highly sexualized content. The show featured adult actors who—I suppose to their credit—were masquerading as teenagers, and was unrealistic not only because it featured a cast of supermodels well beyond their teenage years, but also because it portrayed these alleged teenagers as sexual superstars. Their mature libidos and passionate affairs seemed a far cry from the fumbling dealings of adolescent courtship at my high school, where boys feigned manhood, and their hyper-masculinity was as ill-fitting as the baggy pants they wore around their wastes. Straddling this boy as he negotiated his hand down my pants and attempted to locate my Peach Pit, I wondered how these  “teenagers” from Beverly Hills were so savvy when it came to sex and if their first foray into fondling was as awkward and unpleasant as mine was shaping up to be. 

 

All of the sex scenes I’d seen on TV had led me to believe that I was going to dissolve into paroxysms of pleasure immediately upon contact, that the boys magic finger-wands would transport me to otherworldly realms and I would cease to be the woman I was. But his fingers were more like dental wands, prodding my soft tissue in preparation for a root canal, unfortunately without the anesthesia. In lieu of transformational pleasure, I experienced extreme physical discomfort in conjunction with overwhelming anxiety. Of course, it never occurred to me to communicate my discomfort. Because surely it was my fault, a genital defect, perhaps, preventing me from the effortless pleasure I’d seen the supermodels on Beverly Hills experience. Surely this boy, who I assumed had meticulously studied the ins and outs of female pleasure by watching hours upon hours of internet pornography, knew more about the inner workings of my inner being than I did at the time, so I best defer to him. And surely I would catastrophically alienate and offend him while unbearably humiliating myself if I dared to chastise his technique. And so I stayed silent, like so many women before me, as he attempted to frack my vaginal walls. His fingers fumbled aggressively around the pristine folds of my blossoming womanhood, which intuitively recoiled from his unintuitive touch. Fortunately the incident was quick and dirty—pornography does not teach patience as a prerequisite to pleasure—and when he decided I’d had enough, he slid his hands out of the lacy and supremely uncomfortable panties I’d purchased from Victoria’s Secret to signal my own erotic prowess and we resumed our static positions on the couch, fixing our attention determinedly on the TV. After about fifteen wordless minutes, he stood up, walked towards the door, muttered “Peace” over his shoulder, and flashed me a peace sign with the very same fracking fingers that had been inside me. When I passed him and his friends in the school hallway later that week, one of them flashed me the same peace sign, then made a show of sniffing his fingers, wrinkling his nose in disgust, and shouting “cunt spunk!” while the rest of them snickered. 

 

So, let’s talk about cunt spunk for a second, shall we? 

 

Words are vital portals to meaning. Many mystics consider language to be the spiritual DNA of reality. The philosopher Wittgenstein posits that the limit of language is the limit of experience. So, it’s worth considering how the term “cunt spunk”, when used with the intention to mock and malign, might limit my experience of and relationship to this most sacred nectar. 

 

The more clinical term for “cunt spunk” is “vaginal secretion”. Let’s break it down etymologically. Vagina is latin for sheath, which is a close-fitting cover for something, particularly for something that is elongated in shape. Of course Latin, the patriarch of the romance languages, would etymologically assign the vagina the sole serviceable function of protecting the male phallus. Vagina also shares a root with the word vanilla, which implicitly suggests that female sexuality should be docile and bland rather than wild and ferocious. 

 

Now let’s consider the etymology of the word “secretion”, which is a bit of a juicy word itself.  It may evoke a squeamish, visceral response like the word “moist” does for some people, or an uncomfortable visual, like its verbal cousin “ooze”, which is at once sterile and disgusting. I think of hospital wounds and ass pimples. Yet, considered etymologically, there is also something feminine and mysterious about the word secretion, which has a common ancestor with the word “secret.” In a way, a secretion is a revelation—it is the process through which a clandestine substance reveals itself. Adding an “e” to the end of “secret” — initiates this process; as secret (a noun) becomes kinesthetic (a verb). Hence, my vaginal secretion is the kinesthetic revelation of my most secret being, a viscous erotic blueprint containing the DNA of my arousal.

 

To me, what makes sex feel intimate is the shared immersion in intimate scents. Along with arousal, there’s a subtle deepening of self-knowledge I experience when I smell myself on another, my nectar dripping from their face, a nectar so secretive it must be coaxed from me with cunning and skill, desire and devotion. That my partner will become more intimately acquainted with my scent than I ever will is a testament to our existential and olfactory interdependence: complete self-gnosis is nearly impossible without the passionate kiss of a lover post-cunnilingus. In a universe where, despite our staggering individuality, it is easy to feel redundant, or at least insignificant, the gorgeous singularity of my vaginal scent confirms the uniqueness of my being with a raison d’ê·tre: I alone exist to secrete this remarkable erotic nectar, sui generis, without which the universe would be an infinitesimally less ambrosial place.

 

Sensual language allows for a sensual experience. The Encyclopedia of Sacred Sexuality refers to vaginal secretion as “divine serum” and explains that in various traditions, this divine serum was thought to increase health, longevity, and mental acuity. It was therefore a highly coveted and celebrated substance by all of society. Imagine how radically different that night on my parents couch might have been had I been raised to regard my own vaginal secretion as a sacred elixir, worthy of reverence. Imagine how differently my irreverent suitor and his pussy-mocking posse might have regarded me if the common vernacular for vaginal secretion was “divine serum” instead of “cunt spunk.” Language is culture, and such language might have signaled me to conceive of my sexuality and its associated fluids as something spectacular rather than something shameful. May all young women at the outset of their sexual journeys be armed with such empowering vernacular. 

 

Many years after the couch incident, I was being pleasured in the jungle of Costa Rica next to a waterfall (a significant upgrade in terms of ambience, let me tell you) by a very sexy man with a beard who just could not get enough of me. After my fifth orgasm, he emerged from between my legs, his beard glistening, and gave me a deep, wet kiss. And in that moment, I remember thinking, damn, my cunt spunk sure is sweet.  

©2020 by Strippers and Sages.

Contact