Puffy Cunny
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Puffy Cunny
*First Published: Jul 24, 2015, 10:05 pm CDT
Posted on Jul 24, 2015 Updated on May 28, 2021, 7:13 am CDT
Following rigorous competition and more than 130,000 voters, the World’s Most Beautiful Vagina Contest anointed a champion this week. It was a strange, difficult-to-gauge event—but that’s why organizers turned to scientists to tell us what it all means.
U.K. resident Nell, 27, won first place and $5,000 in the pageant with a vulva beauty ranking of 7.7 out of 10. Jenny, 23, of Bavaria, Germany, took second place with a 7.3; and Anita, 20, from Hungary, came in third. They each earned $2,500 and $1,250, respectively.
The contest was sponsored by Brian Sloan, who is also the manufacturer of the Autoblow 2 . It’s known as “the first truly realistic alternative to traditional pleasure products for men,” according to the its website .
These winners will also be flown out to Los Angeles, where their vulvas will be 3D-scanned to later be reproduced for the Autoblow device.
Sloan contracted a group of data scientists to analyze the contest’s findings for their scientific implications. The data was then compiled in “ The Vulva Paper .”
If you’re a visual learner, you can view photo examples of each class here .
The Vulva Paper’s website says scientists “used the contest data to assess the diversity in vulval morphology and voters’ preference for different morphologies.” A total of 182 women participated in the contest; 110 entries were examined for the study (if measurements could not be taken from the photo, the entry was not considered).
The scientists viewed each entry on a 15-inch computer screen, zooming in “until the genitalia were easily measured using a screen ruler,” read the paper .
They measured labia majora length, labia minora length, and clitoral hood length.
Finally, the scientists rated the complexity of the labia minora; they used the three categories of rugosity (smooth, moderate, marked) to do so. To prevent vaginal bias, the same person also conducted all of these measurements. The scientists later used this research to classify the contest’s entries into six different categories of “vulval morphology.”
A chart detailing the six classes is included below:
As far as methodology is concerned, a random assortment of entries was sent to each voter, who was then asked to rate the vulva pictured on a scale from 1 to 10. These voters were only able to rank one photo at a time, but could also vote on an unlimited number of entries. The scientists compiled 2,766,671 ratings from 134,707 contest voters.
“To reduce individual biases, we centered each voter’s ratings using their mean and standard deviation. This allowed us to reflect the preferences of voters on the same scale,” read the study .
According to the paper , each voter rated 21 photos, on average. Each vulva also received 15,285 votes, on average.
The study also found that “roughly 51% of voters preferred the first two classes of non-protruding, simple labia. The other 49% favored the four more complex vulva classes.”
“As expected from the rankings that we saw at the country and local levels, Class 1 vulvas are preferred over the others more often. But the combined percentages of voters who preferred more complex classes of vulvas far outweighed those who preferred the simplest style.”
The winners’ photos, however, were not included in the study—having been among the participants whose photos were not able to be considered. Moreover, the “doggy style” posture featured in these entries made it difficult for the scientists to complete the necessary measurements.
“Indeed, pictures depicting contest entrants in a doggy style position obtained ratings 2 points higher on average (p <0.001) than others. Other features, like piercings in the clitoral hood, didn’t affect the ratings,” read the study .
So basically, the “doggy style” photos generated “influential excitement” among the contest’s voters—an important competitive advantage for all future entrants to consider.
Photo via mislav-marohnic /Flickr (CC BY-ND 2.0)
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It was dusk when my flight finally landed in Tampa, Florida. I stepped out of the bustling airport, and for the first time in months I felt heat. The warm air of the Sunshine State took me by surprise, sending ironic shivers down my spine. The weather here was nothing like the icy northern cold of Seattle, where I come from.
I felt a feeling of joy I have never experienced, and I felt I could do anything I wanted. My new life here was already beginning quite smoothly, and with my new job waiting for me, I was beginning to feel the dawn of a new era.
It amazed me that I finally had a safe job. Before now, most of my jobs included a frying pan and a silly little hat. And, of course, that’s only when I did work. Most of the time, I was lounging off my unemployment with a bowl of cereal and watching TV in my mother’s house. After 3 solid years of doing this, my mother suddenly fell ill.
I have always loved my mother. Even in my adolescence, where you aren’t supposed to even acknowledge your mom, I was always by her side. It just seemed like she understood me better than anyone else in the world. If I was going through a rough time, she was always there.
Sadly, my siblings never really felt the same way. My dad walked out when I was 5, so I never really knew him very well. My sister, Janet, was 15 when this happened. According to the stories, they had the same relationship that I had with my mother. Janet didn’t like our mother because she blames her for father’s departure.
It wasn’t really mom’s fault. Father met somebody else who he simply loved more. But Janet was always bitter about it, and her and mom got into really cutthroat arguments over it. I believe she’s living in Wisconsin now, happily married, but sure as hell she won’t try to support mother in anyway. I don’t really keep tabs on her or my brother, Gene, anymore.
Gene was always the smart one in the family. I was a decent student, B’s and C’s, but Gene would always get A’s, and it seemed to just come naturally to him. It looked like he had a promising future until the tenth grade. Gene got involved with real scum after failing to pay a debt he owed them. They made him his bitch. All of a sudden, Gene was into drugs, stealing, and I think he’s in jail for murdering a different scumbag over some drug thing. He is obviously in no shape to support our mother, being in jail and all.
In college I majored in psychology, which is how I ended up becoming a school psychologist. Can you believe I had to extend my search all the way to Tampa? That’s ridiculous. They interviewed me on the telephone, a business practice I never heard of and a flawed one at that. And they accepted me. It wasn’t an extravagant school, however, and due to the surplus of crime, I‘m guessing they were desperate for anyone to come in and work. It was an elementary school/middle school building with a population of only about 200, with kids all through eighth grade. I actually already found a place, a nice little apartment not 2 miles from the school.
Granted, I would have to bike to the school until my first few paychecks, which I’ll save for a little junky car. I arrived at my apartment a few hours after getting into town. I got my key from the landlord, nice guy but perhaps a bit unstable, and entered the room. It was sad that I was in my mid thirties and this was the first place I owned on my own. The only reason I could afford it for a few months was the money my sister lent me. Just because she won’t help mother doesn’t mean she won’t help me. It was a bit dark and a bit empty.
Luckily, the last people who lived there were kind enough to leave their couch, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to sleep on it until I disinfected the thing. And, perhaps even more lucky, there was a little kitchen with a working fridge, stove, and oven. The kitchen will only be used to cook the noodles I’ll be living on for the next few weeks. Despite the otherwise emptiness, I liked this place. It felt like… me. Like I was meant to live here. This place was specifically designed for me to live in.
I met the neighbor’s girl as soon as I stepped out of my apartment (saying “my apartment“ gives me joy even to this day). She was just sitting there playing with a few dolls, which were frankly a bit disturbing. The girl seemed normal to me, and I should know. I‘m a psychologist. At first glance I would’ve guessed she was about 7 or 8, and I later learned that she was indeed 7.
She had medium length blonde hair, falling straight down on her back, just slightly past the shoulders. She looked about 4 foot and 2 inches from where I was standing, and she was wearing pink overalls (which were adorable, to say the least) over a blue shirt. She had a pale little face spotted with freckles, and on her ears were two little earrings that I believed were clip-ons. She spoke to me first.
“Are you our new neighbor?” She asked, her voice laced with curiosity.
“I would suppose so,” I answered, trying to sound as polite as possible.
“What’s your name?” She asked, after a brief pause.
“Um, Robin. Robin Baker. What’s your name?”
“Ummm…” She sounded generally confused.
“Can’t remember your own name? That’s interesting.” I said this trying to convey a feeling of humor and good heartedness.
“Yes, I can! I’m Cynthia! Cynthia Tyler!” She said this with sheer frustration.
“That’s a pretty name. Nice to meet you Cynthia.”
“Those are some nice dolls there. Do they have names?:
“Um, this one is named Gretchen, her name is Jacqueline,” she paused for a moment, “and her name is Carol, I call her Donna, and his name is… um … Jack. I hadn’t named this one yet, but I think I am gonna call it Robin. Like you.”
I laughed. “Wow, those are all good names! My mother’s actually named Donna.”
“Hmm,” she thought for a minute. “Do you like your mother?” She asked, the whole tone of her voice taking a swift turn from a perky to a macabre undertone.
“Of course, I do! I love my mother!” I was a bit taken aback by the question.
“Don’t say that. Of course you don’t.”
“I do! I really do!” She stood up. “I hate her!”
“She’s such a… such a… She’s a bitch!”
I was shocked at the language. “Where did you learn to speak like that?”
I felt like there was a serious problem here. I naturally switched to psychologist mode. “Now why would you say that about her?”
“Ever since my dad died, she’s been so mad. All she does is yell at me. I wish she would’ve died instead.”
Her dad died. This was definitely in my job description. Me to the rescue. “Now don’t say that. Your mother loves you just as much as your dad, I’m sure.”
“You don’t know my mom.” She said, with a tone so upset and a single tear rolling down her face. “I have to go inside now.”
Neither said goodbye to one another.
Fast forward to my first day at my new job as a psychologist. I hadn’t seen much of Cynthia since our meeting, but I knew she would be going to this school, and with the events of the conversation in mind, I knew I would be seeing her in my office (I got an office!). Let me be the first to say that this school was no Harvard. The walls were a peeling turquoise green, and the coffee stained tile floors were missing about a tile a row.
There was various debris all over the ground, and the walls had distinct stains of mustard, horse radish, marker, and blood. I feel bad for the principal. I met him first thing, before I did anything else in that school. He is a big fellow, who I learned wore the same flannel shirt and pants combo every day. He was not a man to wear a tie. I feel bad though because he obviously cares about the school and the students. “We are the forgotten school,” he has said time and time again.
While meant as a joke, there was a reality in this. This school gets granted almost no money, ever. All the other schools in the district do, but the government either really did forget us or they just didn’t care. I would honestly have to lean towards the latter. I do really admire Mr. Miley (the principal) though.
Although he works at a school turned to shit by vandals and unruly students, he’s always positive and he always gives a friendly “good morning” to everyone he passes, even the known troublemakers who he has problems with time and time again. On the first day, he showed me around the school, I met the different teachers, and then he showed me to my office.
It really took no time at all after I settled in my office for a student to come in for examination. It was a neat little place. The walls were painted with blue, and on the floor was a nice, big rug with various patterns and designs on it. On one side of the room was my desk, and on the other side was a comforter, which is where the kids sit during our interviews. Anyways, this first person to come in was a little 8 year old girl in the first grade, just like Cynthia.
I already felt
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