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But girls are, of course, not afforded the same liberty, because girls who want to know how their bodies work are obviously filthy little molesting sluts who ought to be publicly shamed and sent back to the kitchen to bake cake.

Lena Dunham was not a child molester. She simply wanted to to find out what a vagina looked like. Meanwhile, her sister was busy shoving pebbles in there, which should show you the relative maturity and comprehension level of these two children.

Like all kids, they were pretty clueless. As far as I'm concerned, it's a cute and funny anecdote about two little girls awkwardly growing up.

Her masturbation story might be a little uncomfortable for some given that so many women, even as adults, aren't comfortable with masturbation, let alone in a shared space , but it doesn't constitute a sexual crime, nor does it make Dunham some kind of sex freak.

Lena Dunham is certainly not someone whose work I seek out regularly — I am a fan insofar as she's a hardworking woman in a male dominated industry, but that's about it.

But she's not a child molester. I did a lot of weird things when I was trying to figure out what my vagina was, and what the strange tickle feeling that began happening between my legs meant.

I went through puberty at 10 years old, and it's important to remember that for a lot of girls, puberty happens before you're ready for it, and before anyone has even bothered to tell them anything about the way their body works.

There's nothing malicious, creepy, or predatory about sexual discovery. So here are 6 things little girls do when they're discovering their sexuality that no one talks about but probably should.

Vaginas, as we know, are very neatly tucked inside a woman, for the most part. They're not as obvious and dangly as penises, at least.

So little girls have these bits between their legs that they can't really see all that well, and one day they realize they would like to know what those bits look like.

Our frame of reference becomes our friends and our sisters. We start sharing and looking and sometimes poking and possibly giggling and maybe being grossed out maybe awestruck with fascination and definitely filled with a million more questions about what those bits are and how they work, and how the hell does the baby get in there and then get back out again?

Most little girls aren't taught that's it's OK to touch yourself where as masturbation, touching and looking are all part of a male's sexual lexicon from a very young age, whether through socializing or the media , so we take our shame and we hide it in other vaginas.

And then we continue to explore them. When I was about 10 years old, my friend and I would play a game called "boyfriends" where we would each have a pillow for a boyfriend.

The movie date would escalate, and we'd begin kissing our respective pillow boyfriends, and then finally dry-humping them.

It was a crude simulation of what we were piecing together about sexuality, and we were most certainly not molesting each other by virtue of having a sexual exploration in the same room.

Little girls get sexually aroused too, but unlike men, who are able to tell stories of boners and masturbation publicly and with impunity, being a horny little girl is a dark and nasty secret that women have to carry around.

If my Barbie could talk, she'd have some stories to tell. Kids have huge imaginations, and once they start being exposed to a media full of sexuality, children begin to internalize and interpret what they see in the world around them.

That's incredibly normal, and insanely healthy. If we weren't able to absorb, process, and regurgitate information, ideas and emotions, how would society ever be educated, reflective, or even interesting?

Acting out sex with other props is art of a normal process not only for sexual discovery but for children interacting with the complex notions swirling around them on a daily basis.

I used to huddle with my girlfriends in the library and we'd read passages from the "naughty" parts of YA novels or look at pictures of genitals in medical books.

Again, this is all part of children figuring out the sex and body things that no one will talk to them about or hasn't thought yet to talk to them about.

It's not a perversion or anything strange or untoward. Little girls not only look at each others bits, some will, from time to time, be naked with their friends, and even try out kissing.

It doesn't mean they're lesbians or not lesbians or molesters or freaks. It means that they've found a comfortable place from which to try out some of the things they've heard about adults doing.

A lot of the time, it might not even be sexual. I hardly dared to ask her. China tea - or iced tea with lemon? Really she didn't mind.

It was all the same to her. She didn't really want anything. Hennie whispered, "Chocolate! But just as the waitress turned away she cried out carelessly, "Oh, you may as well bring me a chocolate, too.

While we waited she took out a little, gold powder-box with a mirror in the lid, shook the poor little puff as though she loathed it, and dabbed her lovely nose.

The waitress came back with the chocolate and the tea. She put the big, frothing cups before them and pushed across my clear glass.

Hennie buried his nose, emerged, with, for one dreadful moment, a little trembling blob of cream on the tip. But he hastily wiped it off like a little gentleman.

I wondered if I should dare draw her attention to her cup. She didn't notice it - didn't see it - until suddenly, quite by chance, she took a sip.

I watched anxiously; she faintly shuddered. A tiny boy with a head like a raisin and a chocolate body came round with a tray of pastries - row upon row of little freaks, little inspirations, little melting dreams.

He offered them to her. Take them away. He offered them to Hennie. Hennie gave me a swift look - it must have been satisfactory - for he took a chocolate cream, a coffee eclair, a meringue stuffed with chestnut and a tiny horn filled with fresh strawberries.

She could hardly bear to watch him. But just as the boy swerved away she held up her plate. The silver tongs dropped one, two, three - and a cherry tartlet.

I felt much more comfortable. I sipped my tea, leaned back, and even asked if I might smoke. At that she paused, the fork in her hand, opened her eyes, and really did smile.

But at that moment a tragedy happened to Hennie. He speared his pastry horn too hard, and it flew in two, and one half spilled on the table.

Ghastly affair! He turned crimson. Even his ears flared, and one ashamed hand crept across the table to take what was left of the body away.

Good heavens! I had to fly to the rescue. I cried hastily, "Will you be abroad long? But she had already forgotten Hennie. I was forgotten, too.

She was trying to remember something She was miles away. When I didn't go on she came back and looked at me, very puzzled. But that took a whole cake to consider.

Even then, "Oh well, that depends! I seized the butterfly list off the table. What about tangerine and ginger? No, something cooler.

What about a fresh pineapple cream? Hennie strongly approved. The waitress had her eye on us. The order was taken when she looked up from her crumbs.

I like ginger. You can bring me one. We were dancing to that all last Christmas. It's too sickening! Hennie said: "Ripping! This place?

For the first time she stared about her, trying to see what there was She blinked; her lovely eyes wondered. A very good-looking elderly man stared back at her through a monocle on a black ribbon.

But him she simply couldn't see. There was a hole in the air where he was. She looked through and through him.

Finally the little flat spoons lay still on the glass plates. Hennie looked rather exhausted, but she pulled on her white gloves again.

She had some trouble with her diamond wrist-watch; it got in her way. She tugged at it - tried to break the stupid little thing - it wouldn't break.

Finally, she had to drag her glove over. I saw, after that, she couldn't stand this place a moment longer, and, indeed, she jumped up and turned away while I went through the vulgar act of paying for the tea.

And then we were outside again. It had grown dusky. The sky was sprinkled with small stars; the big lamps glowed. While we waited for the car to come up she stood on the step, just as before, twiddling her foot, looking down.

Hennie bounded forward to open the door and she got in and sank back with - oh - such a sigh! Hennie grinned at his friend the chauffeur. Then he composed himself and sat on the small seat facing us.

The gold powder-box came out again. Again the poor little puff was shaken; again there was that swift, deadly-secret glance between her and the mirror.

We tore through the black-and-gold town like a pair of scissors tearing through brocade. Hennie had great difficulty not to look as though he were hanging on to something.

And when we reached the Casino, of course Mrs. Raddick wasn't there. There wasn't a sign of her on the steps - not a sign.

But no - she wouldn't do that. Good heavens, no! Hennie could stay. She couldn't bear sitting in a car. She'd wait on the steps. At that she threw back her coat; she turned and faced me; her lips parted.

I - I don't mind it a bit.

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No one thinks that's weird. But girls are, of course, not afforded the same liberty, because girls who want to know how their bodies work are obviously filthy little molesting sluts who ought to be publicly shamed and sent back to the kitchen to bake cake.

Lena Dunham was not a child molester. She simply wanted to to find out what a vagina looked like.

Meanwhile, her sister was busy shoving pebbles in there, which should show you the relative maturity and comprehension level of these two children.

Like all kids, they were pretty clueless. As far as I'm concerned, it's a cute and funny anecdote about two little girls awkwardly growing up.

Her masturbation story might be a little uncomfortable for some given that so many women, even as adults, aren't comfortable with masturbation, let alone in a shared space , but it doesn't constitute a sexual crime, nor does it make Dunham some kind of sex freak.

Lena Dunham is certainly not someone whose work I seek out regularly — I am a fan insofar as she's a hardworking woman in a male dominated industry, but that's about it.

But she's not a child molester. I did a lot of weird things when I was trying to figure out what my vagina was, and what the strange tickle feeling that began happening between my legs meant.

I went through puberty at 10 years old, and it's important to remember that for a lot of girls, puberty happens before you're ready for it, and before anyone has even bothered to tell them anything about the way their body works.

There's nothing malicious, creepy, or predatory about sexual discovery. So here are 6 things little girls do when they're discovering their sexuality that no one talks about but probably should.

Vaginas, as we know, are very neatly tucked inside a woman, for the most part. They're not as obvious and dangly as penises, at least.

So little girls have these bits between their legs that they can't really see all that well, and one day they realize they would like to know what those bits look like.

Our frame of reference becomes our friends and our sisters. We start sharing and looking and sometimes poking and possibly giggling and maybe being grossed out maybe awestruck with fascination and definitely filled with a million more questions about what those bits are and how they work, and how the hell does the baby get in there and then get back out again?

Most little girls aren't taught that's it's OK to touch yourself where as masturbation, touching and looking are all part of a male's sexual lexicon from a very young age, whether through socializing or the media , so we take our shame and we hide it in other vaginas.

And then we continue to explore them. When I was about 10 years old, my friend and I would play a game called "boyfriends" where we would each have a pillow for a boyfriend.

The movie date would escalate, and we'd begin kissing our respective pillow boyfriends, and then finally dry-humping them. It was a crude simulation of what we were piecing together about sexuality, and we were most certainly not molesting each other by virtue of having a sexual exploration in the same room.

Little girls get sexually aroused too, but unlike men, who are able to tell stories of boners and masturbation publicly and with impunity, being a horny little girl is a dark and nasty secret that women have to carry around.

If my Barbie could talk, she'd have some stories to tell. Kids have huge imaginations, and once they start being exposed to a media full of sexuality, children begin to internalize and interpret what they see in the world around them.

That's incredibly normal, and insanely healthy. If we weren't able to absorb, process, and regurgitate information, ideas and emotions, how would society ever be educated, reflective, or even interesting?

Acting out sex with other props is art of a normal process not only for sexual discovery but for children interacting with the complex notions swirling around them on a daily basis.

I used to huddle with my girlfriends in the library and we'd read passages from the "naughty" parts of YA novels or look at pictures of genitals in medical books.

Again, this is all part of children figuring out the sex and body things that no one will talk to them about or hasn't thought yet to talk to them about.

It's not a perversion or anything strange or untoward. Little girls not only look at each others bits, some will, from time to time, be naked with their friends, and even try out kissing.

It doesn't mean they're lesbians or not lesbians or molesters or freaks. It means that they've found a comfortable place from which to try out some of the things they've heard about adults doing.

While we waited she took out a little, gold powder-box with a mirror in the lid, shook the poor little puff as though she loathed it, and dabbed her lovely nose.

The waitress came back with the chocolate and the tea. She put the big, frothing cups before them and pushed across my clear glass.

Hennie buried his nose, emerged, with, for one dreadful moment, a little trembling blob of cream on the tip. But he hastily wiped it off like a little gentleman.

I wondered if I should dare draw her attention to her cup. She didn't notice it - didn't see it - until suddenly, quite by chance, she took a sip.

I watched anxiously; she faintly shuddered. A tiny boy with a head like a raisin and a chocolate body came round with a tray of pastries - row upon row of little freaks, little inspirations, little melting dreams.

He offered them to her. Take them away. He offered them to Hennie. Hennie gave me a swift look - it must have been satisfactory - for he took a chocolate cream, a coffee eclair, a meringue stuffed with chestnut and a tiny horn filled with fresh strawberries.

She could hardly bear to watch him. But just as the boy swerved away she held up her plate. The silver tongs dropped one, two, three - and a cherry tartlet.

I felt much more comfortable. I sipped my tea, leaned back, and even asked if I might smoke. At that she paused, the fork in her hand, opened her eyes, and really did smile.

But at that moment a tragedy happened to Hennie. He speared his pastry horn too hard, and it flew in two, and one half spilled on the table.

Ghastly affair! He turned crimson. Even his ears flared, and one ashamed hand crept across the table to take what was left of the body away.

Good heavens! I had to fly to the rescue. I cried hastily, "Will you be abroad long? But she had already forgotten Hennie.

I was forgotten, too. She was trying to remember something She was miles away. When I didn't go on she came back and looked at me, very puzzled. But that took a whole cake to consider.

Even then, "Oh well, that depends! I seized the butterfly list off the table. What about tangerine and ginger? No, something cooler.

What about a fresh pineapple cream? Hennie strongly approved. The waitress had her eye on us. The order was taken when she looked up from her crumbs.

I like ginger. You can bring me one. We were dancing to that all last Christmas. It's too sickening! Hennie said: "Ripping!

This place? For the first time she stared about her, trying to see what there was She blinked; her lovely eyes wondered. A very good-looking elderly man stared back at her through a monocle on a black ribbon.

But him she simply couldn't see. There was a hole in the air where he was. She looked through and through him. Finally the little flat spoons lay still on the glass plates.

Hennie looked rather exhausted, but she pulled on her white gloves again. She had some trouble with her diamond wrist-watch; it got in her way.

She tugged at it - tried to break the stupid little thing - it wouldn't break. Finally, she had to drag her glove over.

I saw, after that, she couldn't stand this place a moment longer, and, indeed, she jumped up and turned away while I went through the vulgar act of paying for the tea.

And then we were outside again. It had grown dusky. The sky was sprinkled with small stars; the big lamps glowed. While we waited for the car to come up she stood on the step, just as before, twiddling her foot, looking down.

Hennie bounded forward to open the door and she got in and sank back with - oh - such a sigh! Hennie grinned at his friend the chauffeur. Then he composed himself and sat on the small seat facing us.

The gold powder-box came out again. Again the poor little puff was shaken; again there was that swift, deadly-secret glance between her and the mirror.

We tore through the black-and-gold town like a pair of scissors tearing through brocade. Hennie had great difficulty not to look as though he were hanging on to something.

And when we reached the Casino, of course Mrs. Raddick wasn't there. There wasn't a sign of her on the steps - not a sign.

But no - she wouldn't do that. Good heavens, no! Hennie could stay. She couldn't bear sitting in a car. She'd wait on the steps. At that she threw back her coat; she turned and faced me; her lips parted.

I - I don't mind it a bit. I - I like waiting. I love waiting! Really - really I do! I'm always waiting - in all kinds of places Katherine Mansfield.

I saw her bag was open again. Why not?

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