When a girl is born, we marvel at the miracle of her tiny body - counting each finger and toe, celebrating every inch of it. But fast-forward a few years, and suddenly the rules change. “Cover yourself up, close your legs, don’t play with yourself!” becomes the soundtrack of girlhood. One minute we’re goddesses-in-training, the next we’re talked into shame and guilt. No wonder most of us become alienated from our senses and desires.

Yet, some women manage to shimmy right through the cracks of patriarchy. Shamelessly sexual, they turn their pleasure into their power, breaking all the rules, inciting other women to do the same. They never stop celebrating every inch of their bodies. They are Sensual Rebels. And yes, I'm one of them.

As long as I can remember, the Muse of Sensual Rebellion has been calling me. In nature, in the form of juice-dripping peaches and fragrant, vulva-shaped flowers. In the Bible, as lusty Lillith, seducing Eve to take a bite out of the apple. On television, through Mae West's dirty one-liners and scandalous curves. I saw - and still see! - her literally everywhere. And each time, I readily accept her invitation to relight my inner fire.

As I grew up, it hit me: my creativity, confidence - even my character - was powered by my vagina. Long before Naomi Wolf wrote about the brain-vagina connection in Vagina, I was calling mine 'my personal nuclear power plant.' Meanwhile, I watched other girls give away their precious power by following all these ridiculous social scripts. "Don't be bossy." "Don't be too sexy." And: "Don't EVER be too much." "Don't be ridiculous," I thought, and decided to start my own juicy revolution.

-XXX- Marlies