Lana Del Rey once said: “my pussy tastes like Pepsi Cola,” and I said, “challenge accepted.”
That lyric really fucked with me though, both psychologically and pH balance-wise. I remember when I thought I could achieve a Lana Del Rey flavored pussy by dousing myself in Jessica Simpson’s Pink Sugar edible perfume. In other words, I know exactly how to give myself bacterial vaginosis (brag).
When that didn’t work, I set out on a quest to taste like I was straight out of a soda fountain beverage dispenser. I read all the articles. I watched all the YouTube videos. And so you don’t have to, I have compiled the general things the internet says affect how you taste:
Closer to Lana Del Rey Pussy: pineapple, thorough hydration, probiotics, boric acid suppositories, and those miracle fruit tablets that fuck with your taste buds and make sour foods sweet.
Further from Lana Del Rey Pussy: your toxic situationship’s penis, tobacco, alcohol, coffee, pungent foods like asparagus or garlic, spicy foods, and dousing yourself in Jessica Simpson edible perfume. (i.e., the finer things in life).
Here’s the thing, pH balance and vaginal health are important and impacted by the things we consume. They are also impacted by our hormones, our hygiene, and our stress levels. If our pH levels are off, we might experience burning, itching, scents reminiscent of a fish market and/or French cheese shop, and yes: an unpleasant taste. Many of us feel self-conscious about our taste though, even when we're healthy, simply because we don’t taste like Pepsi Cola.
For me, it wasn’t until my late 20s and a brief romance with the charming protagonist of a reality show that I learned it isn’t that deep.
I met him at The Happiest Hour for happy hour in the West Village. He looked at me like I was the only item on the menu worth trying. As soon as we sat down, he put his hand on my knee with the familiarity of someone who had touched me thousands of times.
“Is this okay?” he asked, even though he obviously knew it was okay.
“It is definitely okay,” I answered, obviously asking for more.
We had one of those first dates that felt like a fifth. The kind where you consensually trauma dump on each other, but in a hot way. A way that makes you feel understood. He shared that his natural inclination to caretake developed when he had to raise his younger siblings after his dad left. I pretended I hadn’t already learned this from binge-watching his show the previous week. I gazed deeply into his eyes, slowly drawing the olive from my martini to my tongue, and whispered, “Maybe you should let me take care of you.”
He got the check.
We moved as a flurry of intertwining limbs and tossed clothing items through his apartment. Hands and tongues danced to the low vibration of moans and soft giggles, guiding us from one doorway to the next. He lifted me onto the island of his kitchen as he traced a path down the front of my body with his mouth. For a second I let go, but then my thinking brain realized where this path was leading and jolted back on. I swiftly pulled him back up to my face by the chin.
“I’m not prepared for that just yet,” I deflected as seductively as possible. He looked at me with a blend of earnestness and confusion. I met his look with vulnerability and explained that I’m usually too preoccupied with how I taste to truly enjoy being tasted. Gently pushing my hair behind my ear, he said, “Maybe YOU should let me take care of you.”
He reached for his headphones and asked, “Classical or jazz?”
Surrendering to whatever was happening, I replied, “This feels more like a jazz context.”
He placed the headphones over my ears and gently blindfolded me with the belt of my kimono. He lowered me onto the counter and instructed me to breathe. I exhaled tentatively, arching my back to the sound of the saxophone, and felt his tongue between my legs. I inhaled again, hoping I tasted okay for him. Hoping I was okay for him. Suddenly the music stopped and he whispered the three affirmations of cunnilingus into my ear:
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You taste amazing
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I’m having an amazing time
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We are in no rush
And finally, for the first time: I relaxed into receiving.
In that moment I remembered: sex isn’t civilized. It’s like jazz: a tangle of rhythms and melodies that defy order. A rebellion against the aspiration to be predictable or perfect. Our bodies aren’t meant to taste like candy or smell like flowers, because they aren’t. Which is perfectly fine. In fact, it’s more than fine—it’s incredibly hot. And the hottest thing our sexual partners can do is help us remember that by affirming how desirable they find us, just as we are.
