voyeur

In my day job, a working knowledge of anatomy and physiology is a requisite. My education provides me with this information in a variety of different iterations: there is microscopy, there is biochemistry, there is gross anatomy and the physical exam. There are infinite ways to view the body, and every field that takes care of it develops a unique perspective and language to talk about the organism we live in. Many of these perspectives are things that you can only see on other people, and never on yourself, without a particular creativity or circumstance.

A friend recently had surgery. He told me over burgers that he read the operation report as soon as he was lucid. We have an infinite fascination with the parts of our bodies that only other people can see: the inside of my friend’s spine is a vision he himself only understood through the lens of the surgeon’s notes.

There is a particular anatomical, surgical posture that most women loathe but will experience at some time or another: the dorsal lithotomy position. Supine, thighs spread apart, ankles cupped in stirrups, examiner viewing the full expanse of the anatomic perineum: from the mons on back to the coccyx, and from the inner crease of each thigh across. This diamond of flesh is one of the houses of my identity. It is an inflow and outflow of my body. I can observe this patch of my body (and I have on multiple occasions), but its biological responses to stimulation are things that I never see. The mirror that reflects back to me the image of my own anatomy is not convenient to hold when I’m more interested physiology.

I have spent much of my sexual, adult existence wondering: what do my lovers get to see that I never do?

I have an answer to this question.

One night as I was videochatting with a friend, I sat on my bed and angled the top of my computer so that she would get a full view of my face instead of an unfettered look up my skirt, and I had an epiphany. I’m sure I’m not the first one. In fact, I’m positive that I’m not and that there is, in fact, an entire industry based on the thing that it took me greater than two decades to figure out.

If my laptop was angled correctly for my curiosity, I could get a full view of my anatomy, and my own sexual response to stimulation. The idea gripped me. I had to test my hypothesis.

After my video chat was done, I stripped below the waist. I sat on my comforter—white, with lime green dots—with my thighs spread up and apart, and no stirrups cupping my feet in this makeshift dorsal lithotomy. My computer screen reflected to me a larger than real image of my vulva: I saw the paleness of my thighs and belly, the reddish line where the elastic of my panties had been, the triangle of brown hair on my mons, and the darker, pigmented skin of my outer labia.

I followed a routine, but with a new sense of curiosity. I snaked my left hand down my stomach, and parted open the fleshier outer lips to reveal their pinker, more delicate inner workings.  The sight is familiar to me: the right inner labia is a small ridge, barely there at all, and the left protrudes from my body by somewhat less than a centimeter, with an abrupt angle. They are hairless and slick, and at their top they fuse to form a thin, slender band of tissue that just barely drapes over my clitoris. Many of my partners have commented that I have a somewhat minimal topography: my clitoris is small, hides behind its hood, and is barely visible when dormant. When I am not aroused, it is about the size of a button that holds down a man’s collar.

At the moment, everything is a light shade of pink and slightly paler than the lips on my face.

I watch my right hand join my left. The middle finger reaches down to the opening and finds it wet. It moves back up towards the clit and rubs it in a circle once: I am surprised to see the whole of my sex move around when I do this. I know that none of these landmarks are fixed, that all of it is fluid and flexible, and I have seen enough porn to see other women’s vulvas manipulated like I am manipulating my own, but there is some novelty to see the whole of my labia moving around in unison when I manipulated my clit.

I repeat this motion.

I sigh.

I notice on the screen that my labia are changing: they become thicker. They are redder. There is more shine to the opening of my vagina. I can watch my hips gyrate in involuntary circles in response to the sensations coming from my own touch.

I am transfixed.

My left hand explores my opening. A finger, then another, slip in and curve around, pressing on the back of my pubic bone. I hold my wrist at an unfamiliar angle so that I can still observe my experiment.

There are oscillations: I go back and forth between feeling and witnessing. Looking at the screen and feeling momentarily self-conscious can back off the feeling of approaching an orgasm, but then the sight of my arousal arouses me further. These oscillations are, ultimately, ascending to a peak.

My labia are red and engorged. My clit is obvious and sensitive, the hood no longer obscuring my view. My short fingernails are white bands that contrast with the deepening tones of my flesh that they help to expose.

The orgasm is powerful. I momentarily close my eyes, I pant and enjoy. I have the presence of mind to open them and observe. I am surprised that the waves that I feel are not immediately visible: I feel my insides wrapping around my fingers but this muscular contraction is impossible to view.

In the same moment that I am coming, I feel and I see, and I pull my fingers out. This changes everything.

I can observe undulations of my body. I can see my vagina pulling in and pushing out. I can see fluid leaking out from me and down to the sheets. I can see the colors changing in my labia. I am in wonder of my own body, how the physiology and the feeling are tangled in each other.

I am the observer, the actor, and the object.