Born again hymen

Hymen enthusiasts,

I want to dedicate this post to the women who have respectfully shed their hymenous parts. This blog  is about what happens when you complete the rite de passage of the hymen preservation journey. This is what happens after the glorious moment that you are rewarded for your hymen preservation. The moment we all aspire to create. 

Let me explain. I sit writing this post while surrounded by such women, cooing over the fruit of their honourable loins. A multitude of accents clouds my immediate vicinity. This makes me proud, hymen enthusiasts, proud that hymen preservation has reached such a diverse international audience. How do I know they are members of the hymen board, you ask? Well, how could women be so happy, so content and so jubilantly displaying their tiny clones if they were not hymen preservers before these miracles wrapped themselves up and exited their bodies with them? So you see, it is obvious. As obvious as my hymen is present, hymen enthusiasts. Yes, that obvious. 

There is, however a slight problem with this moment.

Now I will have to be honest with you readers, these women bore me intensely. I am saddened to admit that I would rather tear my hymen out, cover it in chloroform and gag myself with it than listen to their incessant tales of stair masters and sleepless nights. There are leaking nipples everywhere, hymen enthusiasts. Nipples who cry milky tears while these women laugh heartily and bury their children in their bosoms. Their nipples are surely mourning hymen loss, I cannot think of a sadder thing. I have clearly stumbled across a meeting of such people, obsessed with these fleshy, mute companions, with their every burp and whimper, having completely forgotten the joys of hymen preservation. This is an existential moment if ever there was one. Surely what stands between us (the hymen possessors) and them (hymen completors) is the great journey of hymen preservation? They are the winners of the great marathon of our life-long battle with the hymen killers. What if, one were to resist the completion stage of our honorable journeys?  What if my nipples do not want to cry tears of soured milk and my hymen wanted to be left well alone, smoking it's tiny pipe and writing poetry within the depths of me? I have come up with a possible solution readers.

I ponder the option of being a hymen nun. 

I would be married to the holy cause and meditate hymen related thoughts. Being celibate does not concern me as I value my hymen more than any worldly desires. And desires are overrated anyway I think. I have seen what the world has to offer in the shape of men. Those men in badly fitting suits with sweaty palms who tell you about books they have never read. They are stupid and their heads are usually too big for them and lacking hair. I speak from experience. I never understood what was so appealing about a thrusting Reza with bulging, dead eyes, floundering desperately around you (this is what happened to my cousin Parichehr and although she now drives a very nice car, her soul is black and her hymen is gone forever). "The things I have seen..." She would tell me. " You have no idea what he looks like naked..." she would shudder at the thought. 

 "...And the smell...the smell..." She would cry from her eyes and her breasts. It was disgusting and my hymen gagged within me. I hushed it and tried to erase that sad, sorry image from my mind.

I always thought that conforming to the hymen process was the road to righteousness. Sitting amongst these shrieking children and leaking breasts makes me feel otherwise. Maybe the Mercedes driving, grey, shiny suit wearing Mehdi with the huge gold chain is not the life for me. Maybe my hymen was destined for a life of spiritual contemplation.

Maybe I don't want to be like everyone else, hymen enthusiasts. I am having what the people call an "epiphany". I don't want to part with my hymen and I am going to work out a way to make this an honourable pursuit. I think I have been chosen for a higher cause. 

My hymen agrees, I feel it smiling widely, tap dancing with gusto, deep, deep within my body...

Hymen envy

It is the 4th of July and the political climate is shiftier than the dash for seats on train carriages across London underground lines (even the delayed ones). What I mean to say is that things are shifting at a phenomenal rate, and that old ladies certainly need to learn that I don't care if you mixed up your stop. You get up, even momentarily, and you lose your God damn seat.

Apparently it is America's birthday or something today. Not the exotic sun-burned America with those women who dance so provocatively my hymen weeps for it's lost youth..no...the white America who gave diseased blankets to a bunch of people and then dressed up like them every November to thank them for dying so that they could build more McDonalds restaurants in Qatar one day. But I don't need to waste my time on that today, everyone else is writing about that. I want to write about a problem that Women of Hymen suffer from each and every day of their hymen-preserving lives.

Yes. I'm talking about that plague of negativity which strikes you as you hum hymen-related songs to yourself while walking down the Edgware Road. I'm talking about hymen envy. It hits you in the face like your mother when you ask her if circumcised penises get colder in the winter. It steals your breath like the realisation that your clothes have started to rot as you watch Keeping up with the Kardashians for fourteen hours solid and your vocabulary has been reduced to nothing but grunts and moans.

If you have ever been the subject of hymen envy than you know what I mean. If you have not then you are either a whore or a liar. In an effort not to judge you whores and liars let me tell you a little bit about hymen envy (as if you didn't already know what it was).

Inevitably, you will be living in a world where hymens are made to feel ashamed of their existence. I want to appeal to the world to reconsider this cruel and inhumane pact. But more about the Hymens Are People Too Campaign later.. In this world you will occupy offices, restaurants, buses, planes, trains and automobiles which regard your hymen with utter disdain. To them we say "fuck you and the void where your hymen should have been". Because the disdain levelled at you, the disdain which presents itself in the guise of progressive feminist thinking, secular contemporary liberalism and all of that other crock of shit they try and 'liberate' you with- it is hymen envy. They envy your hymen. Your beautiful taut hymen. Like a ribbon which adorns the final steps of a ten mile marathon, your hymen waits patiently for the right reasonably wealthy, culturally appropriate suitor to lavish you with things you dont need and then poke at your hymen with mediocre thrusts of his uninteresting penis. Just think about how happy that moment will be. Now think about all those girls who will never have that moment. Because it is for that one heroic moment that we preserve our hymens after all. They will talk you down, they will ride their white whore horses at you and try and 'save you' they will huff and they will puff but ladies...don't let them blow your hymen down.


Hymen envy kills (hymens). Remember that.

God bless us and our hymens. Every last one.

There's a hymen in Berlin

 and it's name is...

I thought it might be a bit creepy to name my hymen although in a world where Vampire love, skype sex and paying for those little see through bags to put your toiletries in at airports have become somewhat normalized, what IS creepy really?

My absence has been due to some non-hymen related incidents, the details of which I won't bore you with. Ok maybe just a bit then.

It was winter and there was snow everywhere. Not the shitty London "can't decide between rain and snow" snow, but proper snow. To get a true idea of what I mean you should compare the inside of your freezer to a scene in Dr Zhivago, a good one with crying women and Omar Sharif looking broodily into the distance. Now conjure up a winter's day in Stratford and pound it over the head with one of people dressed in elaborate furs in Siberia. So there I was (in the latter scene), ploughing through the snow uphill with my inadequate London shoes and my inadequate Middle-Eastern eyes frozen to a slushy pulp inside my skull. Annoying Norwegians whizzing past me in their adequate clothing and their appropriate Scandinavian attitudes. Smug and non-communicative and infinitely successful in all of their endeavors. I couldn't beat them, or join them, so I left them.

If you've lost the plot then that makes three of us. Me, you and my hymen. I think I was trying to say that I was somewhat distracted from the world of blogging and of informing you all of how crucial hymen preservation is. But fear not hymen enthusiasts for I am in Berlin now. There aren't many hymens here but the weather is nice and the falafels are cheap.


Like the missionaries who freed the savages of the world from their primitive religious beliefs, I come to this strange and colorful land bearing superior ideas about morality and sex (or lack thereof). In return I sway gently to the sound of their crazy old people shouting on the trains. Their melodic cries of "incestuous foreigners" running warmly through my body and brightening my days substantially. Sometimes I take a deep breath on the U-Bahn,  trying to identify the different smells which erupt from the armpits of commuters. What's that today then I hear you ask? Gouda? A hint of Parsley mingling with chicken soup? Marvelous. Marvelous I tell you.

I started my trip here talking to a woman who didn't even remember having a hymen. I felt needed and worthwhile. As I stepped over the carcasses of the homeless in Kreuzberg and skipped past the destitute in Charlottenberg I saw strange woman, dressed as men and kissing each other, as if it were normal. I felt then as I do now, that much work needs to be done here. I just didn't know where to start.

but like a falafel and halloumi sandwich with sauerkraut, sometimes the fusion of otherwise incompatible ingredients is the key to unlocking life's little secrets. Those women who copulate with each other do so without damaging their hymens. We should remember that and hold true to the sentiment- Gay is (somewhat) ok. Let them copulate until its time to get married and engage with real life again.

Similarly men do not have hymens (I am told by my worldly friends), so gay men can't be bad actually. We must remember, in this crazy and mixed up world, that if there is no danger to our hymens, no ill intentions should be harbored for those around us. Berlin has taught me this and so much more...

Signing off until next time, me and my hymen.

Are you there God? It's me...hymen.

In a world where the uncertainty of sky fairies plagues us all, I wonder...how any of the people on either side of the debate realize that the single most important thing, more than mapping out a moral universe and understanding the purpose of one's existence is waking up next your husband, looking into his ethnically homogenous eyes and seeing his glee at having deflowered you marvelously the night before.

You won't know whether he was any good because if you had any point of reference you would be relegated to a life of eternal damnation (not quite sure what that would entail but in my head its a place where Phil Collins plays on repeat and people feed you complex carbs with complete disregard for water retention...and everyone is wearing Uggs and leggings with a top that doesn't quite cover their derriere..so you feel like you are at Nandos looking at lots of bare asses; NB: THEY ARE JUST TIGHTS, cover up people...). Anyway, so whether he was any good is beyond the scope of this highly informative blog, the important part is the fulfillment of you God given duties. That is, you have completed your transition from girl to woman, you are in a heterosexual union, sanctioned by God, having been deflowered by a man who has a nice car and a name like Mehdi. Whether his hairline is receding is not important. Whether his breath smells like khiar shoor is also unimportant. He works in a company whose exact purpose you do not understand, and whose name you do not care to know. The important thing is the car (symbolic of his ability to buy you clothes from trashy designer brands), and the fact that he likes beige leather sofas. You are Iranian after all.

Surely this transition into womanhood trumps all the praying, the abstaining from fun and other various spiritual duties sky-fairy believers have to adhere to? It is tricky to achieve and yet the most prestigious and rewarding endeavor of all.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm obviously religious. You have to be to be a virgin. Its a basic rule of hymen-preservation. All I'm saying is, in the hierarchy of moral deeds, above and beyond the rituals and readings is a big fat sign that says " NONE OF IT MATTERS UNLESS YOU HAVE A HYMEN BITCH". Obviously the word "bitch" is translated into a culturally relevant exclamation. Obviously.

I never really had any interest in the book itself, I think it is way more important to pick and choose what suits you, based on what third, fourth and eighth party members occasionally tell you throughout your meaningless existence. That's some real religious gumption right there. This is how I know for instance that drinking is bad, sex before marriage is bad, Thanks giving has nothing to do with hymens (the day I learnt that was pretty embarrassing), eating pork is bad, condoms are bad, the Vatican are good, the pope is old, gay people are born without hymens, Christmas is holy, Jesus was a man, Abraham had sons, Mary was the mother..or was she the prostitute? Anyway prostitutes are bad...but Mary was good...maybe because she knew that prostitution was bad. The important thing is that no one married her because she didn't even TRY to have a hymen, but her realization that this was a bad thing meant that we always pray to her at Christmas so she keeps our hymens safe throughout the holidays which is important because you are so busy running around and drowning in consumerism at this time of year that your hymen is super neglected.

Happy holidays hymen-enthusiasts!

The failure of Tunisian dates and a hymen related polemic to rival none

Dear Tunisia,

I would have thought the revolution and subsequent new political order was a symbol of your infinite national capacity for resourcefulness and wisdom. I watched upon your jubilating peoples with such glee and optimism that it now saddens me to address you in order to ask one simple question which challenges all former points;

" Why are your dates so unbelievably bad?" I am being kind. They suck. You have effectively ruined the tiny glimmer of sunshine in my otherwise dark and gloomy existence; my nostalgic Iranian country-side breakfast of scrambled eggs with dates is nothing like I imagined it would be. How can I invest time and energy into hymen preservation when you smite me so?

You have made it almost impossible for me to sit and ponder new additions to my" why it's good to have a hymen" list. I have the same 4 I had yesterday. I have made no progress and it is due solely to your dates, with their rubbery, tasteless texture and empty promises of childhood flashbacks.

I sit here, full of egg and date-impersonators, full but unsatisfied re-reading my 4-point list;


Why it's good to have a hymen

1. I can tell people I have a hymen with the knowledge that if they spontaneously pull out a rubber glove and magnifying glass I can sit calmly and continue to drink my special blend tea while they carry out the relevant tests. I will look cool and maintain my integrity. I can get up afterwards and swing on my preppy scarf with a simple " you done?". I will forever be known as a rockstar.

2. I can allude to my hymen when people doubt my chastity..like when I laugh too loudly in public or my skirt feels a little shorter than I remember it being and I feel that glassy gaze of an elder and their thought bubble crystallizes in one big cloud, forming the word "whore" between us. I can swerve the conversation onto some hymen related trivia and perform the appropriate conversational winks and nudges to confirm the presence of my beloved hymen therefore removing all traces of doubt that I am in fact...a hymen possessor.

3. I can refer to myself as " a hymen possessor".

4. I can get out of strenuous exercise proposals with no more than two simple words and a pained expression on my face "...My hymen..."

In conclusion, your dates are dry like the desert.

Signing off,

Hymen Possessor

Doing the splits

You are 14. Your mother tells you that you will soon have your first period. You wonder where the hell it has been this past year as almost every girl in your class has cried and stuffed cheap toilet paper into their panties at least once. When will your dramatic moment come? When can you shriek and wail and be handed a banana and welcomed into womanhood? Your mother tells you it is the hormones in their food that make their periods come early. You wonder whether you would trade your lovingly prepared chelo-kabab and ghormeh sabzi for a pair of tits and the opportunity to complain about PMS. What is PMS anyway? Why do people let you yell and cry and blame it on three useless, meaningless letters. Anyway who cares...where are my breasts? Stupid Iranian food with its fresh ingredients and lack of hormones.

" Don't do the splits." Your mother says.
" Why?"
" You'll tear your hymen."
" My what?"
" Your hymen. Your...curtain..."
" My curtain?"
" Yes. Your curtain. Stop it."

I sat and pondered my hymen. If it was indeed a curtain, surely it would only be attached on one side, allowing the other side to move freely. Would it cascade like silk or is it more like a velvet curtain at an opera? Why couldn't I reach down and tuck it in somewhere to stop it rupturing? Either way, the thought that I could tear anything down there made me immediately stop doing anything which required me to open my legs further than they absolutely had to be. I started imagining tearing my eyelids and nose apart. I touched myself with the greatest delicacy from then on.

You are 16. He put his hand up the back of your top and you counted ten seconds before pulling away and saying;
" we should stop."
" Why?"
" Because we might go too far.."
" Too far how? You mean sex?" He is breathless and his face is red. You want, more than ever, to tell him that you do not even find him attractive when his face is a normal color, that you are here simply to fulfill a societal requirement to prove that you CAN have a boyfriend. You want to tell him that you imagine yourself removing your shoe and batting him in the face with it until he bleeds because sometimes (especially when he gets aroused) you find him incredibly repulsive.

" Yeah...I don't...I'm...waiting."
" Waiting? Waiting for what??!!" He says. He spat on you when he said that. His aftershave smells like cake AND he spat on you. He is truly repulsive.  You want to tell him that even if the small matter of your hymen wasn't in the way you wouldn't let him anywhere near your naked body. Even if your naked body occasionally resembles a sack of onions beaten into the rough shape of a woman like thing. It is still far too good for a man who smells like cake and spits at you when he talks. Also, you haven't gotten the hang of shaving your intimate area and you have cut yourself more excessively than a self-harmer. Your vagina is not ready for a public unveiling. One day your vagina will be soft as the petals of lilies and you shall decorate it with tiny jewels all the color of the rainbow. When your knickers are finally drawn down a choir of angelic voices will serenade The Chosen One and tears of joy will cloud his face as he comes across your hymen, in a tuxedo smiling bashfully and sipping a martini to your and his good health. One day your vagina will stop looking like Rasputin after a day at the seaside. It will. I promise. But when that day comes, the man who will gaze lovingly upon it will neither smell like cake nor spit at you when he talks.

" My wedding night. Its a cultural thing...we don't "do" sex before marriage." I say proudly.
" I won't tell if you don't..." he says and leans in with an expression that in his head must be like Omar Sharif in his hayday...in that film where its winter all the time and everyone is sad...what is it...Cleopatra...no wait...anyway in reality he looked like an aroused prawn. His forehead is so crinkly you want to take your shoe off and...no wait..that's not fair. A fish. He looked more like a fish because his eyes are too close together and they are small and beady and emotionless and he is making a strange shape with his mouth. You want to hit him with a fish. Let's see how much he likes that. A duel with one of his own. A FACE DUEL.

"err..They can tell...My hymen will be..well...it won't be there." You have your hand on his face and you consider pushing your fingertips into his eyes and pressing so hard that he squeals.

" What the hell are you talking about? Take your god damn clothes off!" Now he says it rather whimsically, what with your hand over his face and a little jaunty laugh at the end to make absolutely sure that he does not sound like a rapist.


You told him he smelled like cake and left. You felt empowered.

" Its just me and you...on my wedding night you'll score me a lifetime of prestige!" You whispered to your hymen at the bus stop. Now I'm sure you'll think you imagined this, but you had the distinct impression that your hymen winked back up at you in response. You are happy, ignorant and virginal.