My first and most sincere reason why no one should say “popping the cherry” is that cherries do not actually pop. Balloons pop. Tires pop. Pop rockets pop. My vagina most certainly does not pop.
When I think of cherries, I think of Coke, cherry printed clothing, clown’s noses, picnics. What does not come to mind, is once again, my vagina.
According to the lovely folks at Kotex, who should know a thing or two about vaginas, “popping the cherry,” is “…a slang expression that refers to a girl losing her virginity. In some cases, a girl’s hymen (thin membrane in the vaginal opening) breaks when she has intercourse for the first time. This can cause bleeding and is sometimes uncomfortable. In other cases, the hymen rips during other sexual or non-sexual activities. Regardless, the expression ‘popping your cherry’ refers to the act of having sexual intercourse for the first time.”
Blah blah blah sex sex fruit cherries hymen blah blah sex.
Things that are commonly associated with cherries include: perfume, blossoms, pies, trees, bombs, Twizzlers, t-shirts, snow cones, lollipops, pop tarts, your step-dad’s necktie, your great-aunt’s first name, your least favorite toothpaste flavor, lip gloss, cobbler, Lana Del Ray, your iPhone case, your mum’s iPhone case because she’s a copycat and tries real hard to appear youthful, cherry festivals, jam, cherry hill, cherry farms, black cherries, yellow cherries, mother-fucking regular red cherries.
I asked my fiance what “popping the cherry” means and he just stared at me. Didn’t answer. This was, of course, a trick question to ascertain how gross he is, and he wasn’t taking my bait. How entirely transparent of him.
There are widespread theories about why men curl into themselves whenever vaginas are brought up in conversation: vaginas are all red and disgusting, moist, smell weird, have lots of folds, look like peaches, can be hairy, can be hairless, dispense children, bleed uncontrollably, et cetera.
I have widespread theories too, one of which is entitled: Penises are gross. Also ball sacks. Also, men.
More than a few times, I’ve sat around a table with women, sipping some chilled pino grigio and ruminating the many ways men’s lives are easier: less sexual harassment, no breasts, no monthly blood geyser, no extensive hair removal, no makeup, no asshole waxing, no child-birth, et cetera. But ladies, men have it hard too, alright? They have a dingy between their legs, which sometimes gets in the way, and hurts in very cold weather. They’ve got their own struggles.
Recently, I overheard a group of teenage boys joking about popping someone’s cherry, standing outside of a Nektar Juice Bar, because stereotypes are not always true. As I passed by, I could just smell how hard they were trying to be cool, and that made me sad. Boys do have it tough. Imagine having to act like a macho asshole just to fit in with other macho assholes, all while sipping a Green Apple Detox.
I will end this rant with an ode to my good friend, the cherry. Thank you, for providing my body with vitamins A and C, potassium, calcium, and iron. You’re a fucking Rockstar. I’m glad you were discovered in Asia Minor in 70 B.C. by the Romans, who brought you to Britain, who brought you to America (all hail the U.S. of A). I adore you so much that I’d like to bake you into a pie and just throw you in someone’s face. Peace hope and love my friend.