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.