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.