Alix O'Neill | Contributing Writer | 1,008 day ago

I Was That Girl Who Broke Her Fanny - What It Feels Like To Become An Urban Sexual Myth

The Debrief: When friends of friends find out where I went to uni, they ask me if I ever met that girl who 'mutilated her muff.' Yep, that was me...

The bride's vagina doesn't generally get a shout out at the wedding, and certainly not during the Father of the Bride’s speech. Convention dictates you tell your daughter she looks radiant, say something vaguely inappropriate about the bridesmaids, and you might even throw in an ostensibly embarrassing-yet-really-rather sweet childhood anecdote. But ‘I remember the time our (insert Bride’s name here) broke her vagina’, you’re not going to find that in most guides to writing wedding speeches, are you? 

A bit of context is needed if I’m to going to say ‘father’ and ‘fanny’ in the same sentence, so let me take you back to 2004 - the year I achieved gynaecological infamy. Facebook had yet to drop the definite article, and if Twitter had been around, my hoo ha would have been trending like nobody’s business.

I was at uni in Dublin and had just started going out with my new boyfriend. It was Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent, when Catholics like myself like to smear burnt palm branches on our foreheads to atone for our boozing, swearing and fornicating the rest of the year. To please my mum, I dutifully nipped into church before meeting the gang in the pub. It was sunny, and I’d scored some major God points – life was good.

My boyfriend - let's call him Rex, for that is not his name - and his friends were sitting outside the pub when I arrived, smoking Gauloises and discussing the finer points of French philosophy. The area was fenced off by waist-high canvas panels stretched between two metal poles. To gain access, you had to go inside the pub through one door and out another. I estimated this manoeuvre would take about 30 seconds, and with a Smirnoff Ice and Guinness-flavoured snog waiting for me, this was an unacceptable delay. 

The pole lurched slightly, a brief gravity-defying moment, then CRACK – bar, fanny, face and pavement collided spectacularly.

Tossing a casual leg over the barrier, I threw a flirtatious wink in Rex’s direction. His face immediately registered an expression of doubt. This was not a good idea. Straddling the pole and balancing just about on my toes, I shifted my weight to the right to haul the other leg over and claim my kiss. The pole lurched slightly, a brief gravity-defying moment, then CRACK – bar, fanny, face and pavement collided spectacularly.

I came to, a concerned Rex dabbing my blood- and ash-stained face with his monogrammed hanky (whether the concern was for my face or the hanky is still unclear), and a circle of rubbernecking strangers taking in my splayed form. Be cool. BE cool. Of course, there’s no possible way to be cool when your lady bits have been so publicly violated. So I lay there, as instructed by the royally pissed off bar staff, until the ambulance arrived, its sirens gleefully trumpeting my ignominy.

The hot, young doctor (natch) ruled out concussion before sending me to Radiology for an x ray. I’d like to say I rocked the backless paper gown look while lying face down on a gurney as I waited, but few arses look good in the strip lighting of a hospital corridor. Especially pale Irish arses. Plus, there was a bit of a neglected bush situation going on that didn’t help matters.

The x ray confirmed my fanny was fucked, though only temporarily. If I remember correctly, I had fractured my pubic ramus bone. Which is posh doctor speech for breaking your fanny. Nothing that some crutches, a hefty dose of painkillers and a two-week sex ban wouldn’t cure. But still, I had broken my fanny. 

Leaving the hospital a few hours later, Rex’s friend Ben called to check in on me. ‘I hear Alix broke her fanny.’ And so an urban legend was born. A decade on, and on hearing where I went to university, friends of friends of friends will ask if I was familiar the girl who ‘mutilated her muff’. ‘Did you know she ended up in a wheelchair? And NEVER had sex again!’

My vagina and I went on to have years of great sex, thank you very much. And Rex? There’s something about a crisis that cements a relationship. A man who holds your hand for six hours in A&E, chivalrously ignores the fact that you’re going commando then takes you home for chow mein, well, he’s a keeper. So I married him. With my vagina, the matchmaker, proudly looking on. To the bride and pune!

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Follow Alix on Twitter @alixoneill

Tags: Sex, Sex O\'Clock, Sex Ed