I Am Not Measured By Your Friction.

They told you tightness meant virtue.

They told you blood meant truth.

They told you that the body keeps score—and that yours could read it like scripture.

But they lied.

Let’s get one thing straight from the start:

You can’t measure a woman’s worth by the tension of her pelvic floor.

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I am not a knot to be untied.

The vagina is a muscle, not a moral compass.

It stretches. It relaxes. It adapts.

Some of us are naturally snug. Others are soft like silk.

Some clench when nervous.

Some open when safe.

Some have done kegels since 2007. Others are just… blessed by physics.

But none of that tells you anything about who I’ve loved, how often, or why.

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Let’s talk about “tight.”

“Tight” could mean:

I’m anxious.

I’m not aroused.

I’m cold.

I don’t trust you.

I’m clenching out of habit or trauma or resistance or fear.

“Tight” does not mean I’m pure.

It does not mean I’m yours.

And it sure as hell doesn’t mean I’ve been “untouched.”

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And “loose”? Don’t even.

Loose means:

I’m relaxed.

I’m unbothered.

I feel safe in my body.

I might’ve stretched pushing out a child or holding space for myself through grief.

Or maybe, I’ve just lived—freely, fully, and without shame.

That’s not promiscuity. That’s presence.

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The myth is yours, not mine.

You were taught to judge me by friction.

To believe that my value lives in resistance.

To assume you could feel my past, like a ghost pressing up between us.

But sweetheart, let me tell you:

Your ego is not a diagnostic tool.

My body does not exist to prove your expectations right.

You are not the virginity police.

And I am not your trophy case.

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If you can’t feel my history, maybe it’s because:

It’s not for you.

It lives in poems, not pressure.

It lives in the softness of my eyes, not the tightness of my walls.

It lives in the courage it takes to show up in a world that keeps mistaking anatomy for character.

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So next time you think “she felt loose,” maybe ask:

“Was she bored?”

“Was she breathing through old trauma?”

“Was she disassociating while I mistook her silence for consent?”

“Was she actually okay, or just trying to get through it?”

Because bodies speak. But they don’t always say what you want to hear.

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I am not measured by your friction.

I am not your redemption story.

I am not a prize, a test, or a threshold.

I’m a living, feeling, evolving being—

and if you want to know me?

Ask better questions.

Start with the ones that don’t involve your ego.

This isn’t a rejection of values. It’s a rejection of measuring them with anatomy.

I believe in the sacredness of keeping oneself for another—but not because my body is a receipt. Because love, like truth, is a choice.

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