I have been avoiding the topic. There was that time, and it would be a perfectly acceptable scene in fiction. It has dramatic structure. It has all the elements, but I am ashamed to write about it. I was too young to know better. It is a small thing. Just a moment in the inner life of a child that will resonate with a reader. I should just let it be on the record, laugh about it. Move on to the next blog post as if it does not unsettle me.
There are other moments that will be omitted. The breaking of a moral code that I have built my life on. A moment when I probably acted inappropriately. That time I made someone cry and wished I hadn't. The moment when I debased myself and it was no one's fault but my own. A liturgy of unspoken moments. The silences are deafening.
The secret blogposts burble beneath the vacuous chatter. Yes I did this and I did that and isn't it all so funny and shocking and sexy. Under all the frivolity I remember that there were moments that I am not proud of and I am still not brave enough to write them down. Cowardly vagina. Scared and secretive vagina. The brittle bravado shining on the surface of my body like a piece of armour.