This is our fifth installment of stories and photographs from I'll Show You Mine, a book by Wrenna Robertson and photographer Katie Huisman, and by all of the women featured in the book, collectively. To find out more about the book, Wrenna, and why we think this is such an important project, check out our interview with her here. Or, you can visit the website for the book to find out and more and get a copy for yourself.

If you'd like to ask the person whose body and words are featured in each entry any questions or have a conversation with her, most of the subjects have agreed to make themselves available here in the comments for discussions with our readers. As mentioned in Wrenna's interview, so many people never get the opportunity to talk about genitals in an honest, open and safe way with others, so we encourage you to avail yourselves of the opportunity, and are so grateful to the women involved for making this kind of conversation available to Scarleteen readers.

We're also happy to talk with you as Scarleteen staff or volunteers if you like. Depending on your feelings about your own genitals or those of others, and your experience (or lack of it) in seeing vulvas so realistically before, reading narratives or seeing images like these may stir up feelings for you which are uncomfortable. We're glad to talk you through any discomfort if you like should that happen for you. We're also happy to answer any questions this series may bring up for you about sexual or reproductive anatomy, either here in comments, on our message boards, or through our text service.

Reminder: This post includes a set of unaltered, unretouched and detailed photographs of the vulva for the purposes of awareness and education, not for sexual or other entertainment. If you do not wish to view photos like this, or are in a location where you do not feel comfortable viewing them, you may not want to read or scroll to the bottom of this page. We have left substantial space in between the words and the images so you may read all of the author's narrative without also viewing the images if you prefer.

This post also includes a first-person narrative reflective of the author and their own thoughts, feelings and language, which may or may not reflect the opinions or values of Scarleteen as an organization.

My name is Odyne.

I knew at an early age that I had increased sensitivity all over my vulva, later discovering through an OB/GYN that my condition was called vulvar vestibulitis.

The exact cause is unknown but that pain lasts moments to weeks. The options presented to me to relieve the discomfort were hormonal creams and laser surgery to remove a layer of skin from the most sensitive area. When a variety of special hormonal creams failed to alleviate any pain, I chose to follow a strict diet, switched to all organic soaps and detergents, meditated with Quantum Healing Touch and abstained from intercourse. But the pain always came back.

Taking care of my physical body was only a part of the healing process because after many years of suffering, I discovered that both my heart and mind-body must be involved in order to live a pleasurable life.

Pain of all kinds have persisted throughout my life, but the experiences wouldn't have come to me if I was not strong enough to handle them.

A few months after turning 16, I had a boyfriend who didn't respect my request to remain a virgin and raped me while I was unconscious after drinking alcohol with him.

It was not the last time I was sexually assaulted.

Thriving rather than just surviving after abuse meant I had to radically alter my perspective. We always have the choice of what to focus on and I realized that the ones who assaulted me continue to suffer most because they don't know how to engage in a loving relationship and their sexual desires have become a dis-ease.

I changed drastically; I engaged in an adventurous, long-distance romance that was initiated via the internet, and I moved to another city to begin a career as an exotic dancer, which unexpectedly became therapy for me. My passion for dance and enjoyment of being naked allowed me to receive praise and appreciation from the gender I once greatly feared. In a setting where many people perceive women to be exploited, I was introduced to a nurturing soul mate who shares unconditional love with me.

Loving myself and being loved has taken the pain away and it has yet to resurface!

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Previous posts in this series:

• I'll Show You Mine: Emily
• I'll Show You Mine: Jayla
• I'll Show You Mine: Erin
• I'll Show You Mine: Diana
• Wrenna Shows You Hers (and mine, and yours, and hers, and hers, and...)

Want some information on vulvas and other sexual anatomy, gender and body image? Check these links out to get started:

• With Pleasure: A View of Whole Sexual Anatomy for Every Body
• Innies & Outies: The Vagina, Clitoris, Uterus and More
• Give'em Some Lip: Labia That Clearly Ain't Minor
• Genderpalooza! A Sex & Gender Primer
• My Corona: The Anatomy Formerly Known as the Hymen & the Myths That Surround It
• From Us to You: Some Volunteer Aunties Talk Body Image

When it comes to sex and sexuality, I was a very, very, very late bloomer.

Raised in a Pentecostal Christian home where sex and sexuality were rarely discussed beyond, "No sex until you are married," as a teen I assumed I would not have sex until my early- to mid-twenties, after I had finished undergrad.

I assumed any boys/men I met would share my religious beliefs about sex. I assumed my values would never change. And I assumed my husband and I would know how to sexually please one another, in spite of having no sexual experience before our wedding night (which, of course, would be a night of unbridled passion and ecstasy).

Sacrificing a little sexual pleasure in my teens and early twenties would be a small price to pay to have a church-sanctioned outlet for my sex drive before I was past 25, 30 at the latest. Besides, I had heard so many stories about the pain and bleeding of first intercourse, and the mere thought of being an unwed mother (does anyone even use that term anymore?) filled me with so much shame that I was afraid to have sex. (Because, you know, good girls don’t need contraceptives; getting contraceptives was planning to sin, after all. But that’s a commentary for another essay.)

I was in no way prepared for reality: unhappily single in my mid-thirties, haunted by memories of mild sexual activity (mutual masturbation shrouded in guilt and shame) with my two or three past boyfriends, and agnostic. To add insult to injury, at that time in my life I didn't have any viable possibilities for sexual partners anywhere on my radar, unless I was willing to have one-night stands or be some married man's "other woman." (I wasn't willing.)

But I still had a sex drive, and I was thoroughly tired of being ashamed of it, trying to ignore it, or being in agony over it.

Now that I was free of the stigma against sex and sexuality that had been indoctrinated in me from my religious past, I was determined to learn about, accept, and take good care of my sexuality.

I made up my mind that if I ever had another committed relationship, I would not hold my sexuality hostage to a wedding ring (which, to be frank, would make me more likely to rush into an incompatible union, because I would have been blinded by the thought of all of the sex I could FINALLY have). I would have sex for love, marriage or no marriage. But before that could happen, I had to be comfortable with vaginal entry. Previous exploration with my fingers had proven uncomfortable, to say the least. I thought perhaps surgical intervention would be necessary and mustered up the courage to mention the possibility of a hymenectomy to an OB/GYN I went to for the first time after relocating to NYC. He waved off my concerns and swiftly opened me wide with a speculum to prove a hymenectomy would not be necessary.

Ouch, and no. I never went back to his office.

It became clear to me it was time to consult a REAL expert on sex and sexuality, if I was going to get anywhere. On the recommendation of some friends, I gathered up my courage and visited Babeland in SoHo, where I sought out a friendly, female staff member. I explained my hymen was intact, I wanted to get comfortable with entry, I hadn't had any pleasure out of inserting my fingers, and I worried using a dildo was out of the question.

To my relief, she listened without laughing and then asked me a very simple question, "What kind of lube are you using?"

"Lube?" I said, giving her a blank stare of utter incomprehension.

She took my arm and gently steered me to the lube display, where she explained the difference between such products as Astroglide and Sylk, and how they would provide a cleaner, more pleasurable experience than something like K-Y. I had heard of lube, but had never thought about using it, because my body naturally provided enough lubrication, right? Well, not necessarily, and even if my body did, what would be the harm in using the slickness of lube to add to the pleasurable sensations?

She opened a whole new world to me with that conversation.