“In my village men were never relied upon for sexual pleasure, and would never be trusted to penetrate a hymen. Girls were brought into womanhood by women through the Drusha ritual. It was not uncommon to climax several times during the ceremony. In fact, that’s what happened to me.”–Lakshmi, a Veccan leader, age 82
In 1977 anthropologist Suzanne O’Poole published her findings documenting the cultural patterns of the isolated Vecca Tribe on the island of Mhowra. During twenty years in the Nicobar Island region, O’Poole learned several of the tribal languages and conducted interviews with hundreds of natives.
“Mhowra is by far the most fascinating of all the Nicobar Islands. The Vecca tribe is a matriarchy where women not only rule, but thrive,” O’Poole states.
“Snooze. Go back to the part about the hymen!”
“No the climax!”
We are reading an article in National Geographic: Rachel, Maggie and Becca. Typical sleepover, only this time, we plan to create a Drusha ritual of our own. Google doesn’t exist yet, so all we have to go on to design a ceremony is what this one glossy magazine hints at with its photos of girls our age wearing nothing but long shell necklaces over syrup-colored skin.
“Their boobs look funny.”
“Say nipples, Maggie, we know that’s what you mean.”
“No, she means their va-coochies.”
“Don’t say the v-word!” Giggles all around.
Under each burst of laughter is a bit of nervousness. All the places we don’t like saying the names of on our own bodies are awake, have been awake for years. We know that the pressure against our new bras is from nipples grown hard. We know that the dampness in our panties is from vaginal secretion. We don’t have to say the words to feel it.
Soon the vodka we’ve stolen from Rachel’s parents’ liquor cabinet will ease us out of our modesty, will ease us out of our new bras and cotton briefs, too. We know that with Rachel’s parents away at Cannes, we have plenty of time to claim our own virginity, which we’ve defined as taking in something as big as the average penis: 5.1 inches long and 4.7 inches in circumference (according to the Encyclopedia Britannica). Yesterday we bought an entire basket of groceries just to camouflage three plump cucumbers.
It’s obvious that the boys in our class would botch the job. The ones who aren’t morons are timid.
We considered finding experienced men, but have heard that they’re only out for themselves. Even if they lick us between our legs until we’re wet, even if they spend lots of time tonguing our clits, even if they finger our vaginas gently until we consent to something bigger, ultimately they’d be heavy on us breathing man breath in our faces and humping blindly, grunting until that too-soon final, loudest grunt indicates it’s all over almost as fast as it started. Because everybody knows that fucking a virgin makes a guy come too fast. That’s what happened to Judy when she let her dad’s agent fuck her.
So we’ve decided to take matters into our own hands with a Drusha ritual. The main aspect of losing our virginity, we’ve decided, is that someone else has to do the the entering. The penetrating. Real sex is supposed to happen to you.
We’re pretty sure that there were no jacuzzis on the island of Mhowra–especially not in 1907 which is when dear old Lakshmi had her climax-inducing deflowering–but we think the hot tub is the best place to start. Especially since Maggie hasn’t even used a tampon. Ever. Her body needs coaxing and Rachel says that pressing up against the jets has to be the best foreplay in the history of the universe.
While the bathtub fills, we crank the heat up as high as it will go to make an island climate. There’s an album of drum music that we found in Rachel’s dad’s collection. We put it on repeat. We turn out all the lamps and light candles.
We are beautiful. When Maggie bends over to slide her panties down there’s not even a roll at her middle. Her stomach is so skinny it’s jealous-making. We want to palm her little pudge of a belly–just rest our hands right under her navel. But then we see Rachel. Standing here in her parents’ giant bathroom, sweating because it’s got to be close to 85 degrees already. When she unclasps her bra, her breasts pop free. Seriously. They are round and look edible. Much prettier than the hanging Veccan ones.
We can tell the vodka has done its job because we think about kissing one of Rachel’s nipples when all of a sudden hands are touching our vulvas, cupping the wetness there. We’re not even in the bath yet, but everything is wet. Fingers slide along our slits. Rubbing labia. Circling lips. Our tongues lick collar bones, whisper giggles, bite earlobes.
“I’m tickling your v-word.”
Our hips are rotating away from and into slippery hands.
Now we’re in the bathtub, huge enough for us each saddle a jet. We don’t moan, we laugh. Moaning is too sexual. Laughing keeps it play.
Maggie laughs the hardest. “It’s too much.” We know she’ll be the last to cross over.
Not Rachel. Rachel’s already handing us her cucumber.
“Put it in me.” She sits on the edge of the tub with her legs spread wide. We have never seen a vulva that wasn’t our own. We watch her hold her labia open with both hands. We see the dark skin of her hole’s entrance, the shiny line of her closed vagina.
The drums are drumming. The water bubbles from the jets. The steam rises like a night on the island of Mhowra.
“Put it in me,” she says again.
We grip the slippery shaft and let the curved end rest between Rachel’s labia where her hands pull the skin wide.
“Push it.” She is so certain. So ready.
We are not.
But we twist the vegetable, slowly pressing it upwards until it slides in a centimeter.
“Aaahhhh.” Now there is no laughter. This is a moan.
Rachel puts one hand on each of our shoulders. Sweat drips from under those fat round breasts. We are reverse midwives stretching her open. We twist and press up some more. It’s going into her. She moans louder. It’s going into her!
She squeezes our shoulders hard and leans forward, now squatting in the tub instead of sitting on the edge. Her ass hangs over the surface of the bubbling water.
“Does it hurt?” Maggie asks.
“Shut up,” Rachel says.
We don’t know what to do. Maggie starts crying. Half the cucumber is in Rachel’s cunt and she’s rubbing her nipples. She says, “Don’t stop,” even though her skin stretching around the shaft looks like it’s going to rip.
We push up two more inches until she moans again. We panic that the dildo is stuck inside her, but as soon as we let go, her vagina pushes it out. Before it leaves her body she grabs it and slides it back in. “Do it,” she tells us. “Fuck me.” And we wonder if this is how it was for the Veccan girls.
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