Seriously, if you are not comfortable with sex and swearing, do not read on.
This post is not intended for children and prudes.
I don’t want lots of angry messages. If this is you, please turn back. Consider yourself fairly warned.
Okay peeps. We Good?
What a beautiful word.
It’s probably not a word you say very often. Go on, try it out.
Enunciate. Kuh-n-teh. Roll it around on your tongue.
When it comes to words we don’t say, cunt is the last frontier. Say cunt, and your closest friends may squirm awkwardly. Say cunt in front of your mother, and she’ll spend a week berating herself for raising such an awful daughter.
No other word still holds this degree of horror. French Connection United Kingdom, or FCUK, is simply a play on words they love to exploit. ‘Shit Girls Say‘ has spawned countless parodies all over YouTube. (Media types like to talk about what a ‘viral success’ it is, but really they just enjoy the excuse to watch it at work.) Even the word ‘nigger’ is now more likely to be used as a term of endearment amongst friends than to imply racial hatred.
But cunt? Cunt still has all the power. Cunt can make things more awkward that an unclaimed silent-but-deadly. It can feel like a slap in the face.
The undeniably fabulous Caitlin Moran, in How To Be A Woman, wrote this on what she calls her vagina:
I personally have a cunt. Sometimes it’s ‘flaps’ or ‘twat’, but most of the time, it’s my cunt. Cunt is a proper, old, historic, strong word. I like that my fire escape also doubles up as the most potent swearword in the English language. Yeah. That’s how powerful it is, guys. If I tell you what I’ve got down there, old ladies and clerics might faint. I like how shocked people are when you say ‘cunt’. It’s like I have a nuclear bomb in my pants, or a tiger, or a gun.
Guys and gals have been inventing names for a lady’s lady parts since we were first able to talk about it. Pussy, minge, beaver… not one of them are particularly appealing. I get a bit of thrill out of calling it a vagina. There’s something so unexpected about it that people are a little bit shocked. Like I shouldn’t be comfortable talking about it so frankly.
(This is not the same for guys. Maybe it’s unfair of me, but if they call it a penis, I’m not shocked. I’m just mildly embarrassed for them.)
I couldn’t agree more with Caitlin Moran, It may not be something we think about everyday, but ladies: cunt = what we’ve got in our pants. It’s more powerful than anything the guys have got. It gives birth to friggin human babies, people! So what if we don’t wave it about like those men-folk. We definitely don’t play the ‘who’s is bigger’ game. But it’s ours. So please – never ever feel uncomfortable talking about it. I never want to hear the words ‘down there’ again. Whatever word you pick, just say it with – dare I say it – balls.
Almost a year to the day, I moved from Sydney to London. I waved good bye to my parents and moved in with my best friend and a suitably eclectic bunch of housemates. I put 10, 553.06 miles between us. And somewhere between then and now, I started to say ‘cunt’.
Oh, I dabbled in the past. At uni, saying ‘cunt’ was almost as much fun as saying ‘poo’. (Oh god, we were so mature.) I flirted with cunt, experimented with it, forcing it out of my mouth and ending up with a slight, goofy grin. Like my own mouth was shocked at what I said. The adrenaline high that accompanied these outbursts is similar to smoking a cigarette in your school uniform. Just LOOK at you, you REBEL!
That was then. In the years that passed, flirtation with cunt turned to romance, and ended with us so committed, we have joint bank accounts and a cat. Cunt and I? We’re in it for the long haul.
I love that people are shocked when I say it. But I couldn’t hate it more when someone attempts to half heartedly get in on the cunt love. It’s not a word that can be half said, trailed off, mumbled. That’s weak, people. The cunt love requires passion. It requires COMMITMENT. CUNT!
Now I’m not saying to go forth and scream it in public all day. That’s just bad manners. You wouldn’t run around the streets screaming ‘fuck’ all day, would you? (Would you? Well, whatever floats your boat.) It’s a special word. A time-and-place word. A not-around-your-granny-or-small-children word.
But, dear reader, if you’re still with me, I implore you this: next time someone’s been a jerk, or unimaginably rude, or has basically screwed you over, refer to them as a cunt. When you’re ranting to your best friend about this horrible person, don’t call them a wanker, or a jerk, or even a dickhead. Call them a cunt. Call them a cunt, and feel the tension lift from you body. Call them a cunt, and feel happy.
When I told my housemate I was writing this post, she said I absolutely had to look up the Vagina Monologues. They have a whole section on ‘cunt’, apparently. I refused to watch it beforehand – I didn’t want it influencing my own, personal love affair – but I looked it up straight after. Oh god. This woman TOTALLY gets me.
It seems I’m finding this everywhere at the moment. In between edits, I was flicking through an old copy of Frankie, when low and behold, I find an article entitled ‘Swear Bear’ by Benjamin Law (a particular favourite writer of mine). It’s short and sweet and brilliant. Go have a cheeky read.
I have a tendancy to publish these posts as soon as I write them, because (let’s face it) it’s just so exciting to see them up there, on your blog, for all the world to see. But I want this one to be good. No, brilliant. So I think I’ll sit on it.
Much like I sit on my cunt.