I didn't think this essay needed to be written again. I thought it had already been written. I thought the work was done. Sometimes, I am terribly, woefully naïve.

So, here I sit, mouth agape, having just read an essay about a woman who appears to feel nothing but shame for having a vagina.

I get that in a figurative sense. We earn less than men. We are harassed in the streets. There is no solace regardless of whether we're a virgin or a whore.

But literally? That I don't understand at all. So, I'm going to just put this out there loud and proud. I love my pussy. I love her. And my lovers love her.

She looks like a pussy and smells like a pussy and she's perfect in every way. The most perfect thing about me in some ways. She is how I got pregnant with my amazing daughter.

She brings me incredible pleasure at my hand and at the hands and mouths of those I share her with.

She smells differently depending on the time of month it is or whether I've just had an orgasm or whether I'm craving one. She smells differently depending on whether I just took a shower or whether I spent the day hiking or writing.

But she never, ever smells to me of shame.

I am ashamed of the world for treating women the way it does. I am ashamed that women have absorbed these hideous messages. But I have never and will never be ashamed to have a pussy.

If you think there is something wrong with the way a vagina smells, you need to get your head rewired. The smell of my lover's pussy makes my head swim and the taste itself makes me swoon.

In fact, just looking at her, legs spread, pussy open wide, lips gleaming and swollen... Hmmm... Don't even get me started.

Remember those consciousness-raising groups where women sat in circles and put mirrors between their legs and looked, really looked at themselves? Spread their lips and took in the colors and curves and shapes and shadows?

Maybe it's time to do that again. I'm serious. You don't have to do it in a group if that's too terrifying. But, if you have a pussy, when was the last time you really looked at her and were amazed?

Take some time. Take a look. Surprise yourself. For the first time. Or again for the first time. Open her. Watch her bloom under your touch. Forget the icky feelings that other people have put on you and focus on the feelings you would have if no one told you how you were supposed to feel about your pussy.

How could you hate something so mesmerizing unless outside forces brainwashed you to?

Hating our pussies is equivalent to hating ourselves and it's a way to keep women feeling less than. Less powerful, less worthy, less sexual. In other words, to marginalize us. Well, f*ck that. Shame is the tool of dictators and bullies. But it only works if it is internalized by its targets.

You know, I've actually felt ashamed about not being ashamed. I've felt ashamed for wondering why lovers I had (in the very distant past now, thank goodness) didn't revel in my pussy.

But I've always known it was them and not me. I've always known that people were just scared of the power of the vagina -- of their own and the vaginas of others.

I don't generally recommend that women take a page from the male book of sexual behaviors. But in this case, I'm going to have to suggest it. Men love their cocks. They brag about them and parade them and gleefully derive pleasure from them and wield them like some sort of magic sword, feeling like they are the luckiest creatures on earth to have received one.

But the boys' club has nothing on us. Nothing. I don't want to start a battle of mine's better than yours. But it is. The pussy can have multiple orgasms. Dramatic orgasms. Out if this world orgasms. She can give birth. And, my God, she's beautiful. She's pretty f*cking phenomenal and anyone who doesn't see that is just terrified or at the very least, intimidated.

They're terrified of the power between their own legs or terrified that if women fell in love with their pussies and operated them to their fullest, women would be the most powerful creatures on the planet.

Think about it. We can make babies. We can come over and over with multiple kinds of orgasms. We have the world between our legs and all people ever talk about is how to make pussies look different or smell different or remain hidden and shrouded and polite.

But pussies aren't polite. They are rich reds and deep pinks and dark browns and endless blacks. They are wet and dripping and open and swollen and hungry. Yes, I said it. They are hungry. Hungry for passion and pleasure and power.

The thing is, we all benefit is we end this insane war on pussies. When you love your own, you don't have to spend any time or energy or money to fix something that was never, ever, ever broken. When you love another woman's pussy, you are empowering her to enjoy her body, to love herself, to stop hiding her desires and needs, sexual and otherwise.

I can feel the waves of hate mail. "Who do you think you are?" "I bet your pussy smells like dead fish." "Who would want to f*ck your pussy anyway?" But none of that is about me. And it's all about the person saying it.

"Who am I?" the first person is really asking. "I worry that my pussy or my lover's pussy smells bad," the second is saying. "Will anyone want to f*ck me?" the third is asking.

These days, if you hate yourself, the world rallies around you. "I'm so fat." "I'm so ugly." "My pussy smells like shame." And the war cries rise, "Me too! Me too! Me too!"

But what about rallying around the positive for a change. Not my pussy smells bad, but that's OK. But instead, my pussy is amazing.

Amazing.