A new book succeeds at uncovering the mysteries of the vagina, writes Oliver Roberts

It's a complex thing, the vagina. At least that's what I've heard. It's delicate and unpredictable and requires all kinds of maintenance and check-ups and you have to be mindful of it before you enjoy something as simple as a bubble bath.

Imagine, then, how intricate an object the vagina is for someone who doesn't own one. It can be intimidating at times. All those folds and layers. There are hidden spots inside, too, that are so embellished by mythology and magazine columns written by gynaecologists named Electra that you're half excited/half afraid about what will happen to the woman in front of you should you actually find one of them.

The male sex organ - mostly because it's completely exposed - has little or no mystery whatsoever. Take it from me. It's just a spongy cylinder that kind of hangs about and is easily amused. Its only attempts at ambiguity occur first thing in the morning. The rest of the time it's fairly methodical in its approach. You can do pretty much whatever you want with it and it won't get damaged or go against what's expected of it.

Without a second thought for our sex organs, we men can ride horses and bikes and expose it to all manner of bubble bath-type hazards. It's only bona fide aquatic threat is that diabolical parasite which skulks about in the Amazon river waiting to climb into Mike Horn's urethra.

So simple is the penis I get the feeling it doesn't know what's going on most of the time. And it has, like, three moods at most: withdrawn/at ease/thrilled. That's it.

The vagina, though, is far more sentient. It seems to understand what it is and even has its own self-regulated cycles; it comprehends its power and wields it in a very nuanced way. It is, after all, the gateway through which new life slips. The vagina is benefactor to us all. Unless you were delivered by C-section.

Recognising the importance and profundity of the vagina is Maritza Breitenbach with her manual called The Cookie Book. When it first arrived on my desk, I believed it to be a recipe book punctuated with stylised pictures of flowers and strangely shaped vegetables. Do not be fooled as I was. Philosophical, humorous and sometimes grimacingly clinical (I grieved over the chapter entitled Vaginal Infections), it's a tome that admirably attempts to unravel and ponder the history, impact and beauty of the vagina.

But, wait - here in the first chapter Breitenbach tells us that vagina is actually an incorrect term. She writes that "vagina" is a phrase specific to its external structure. So multi-storeyed and largely Latinised is the thing - labia majora, labia minora, mons pubis, clitoris, greater and lesser vestibular glands and vaginal orifice - that there is technically no right term for its entirety. Hence we have terms like "cookie" and an array of others in several different languages and varying levels of vulgarity, some of which are shown in a handy cut-out-and-keep sidebar on page 17.

It was a relief to read that Breitenbach doesn't consider the vagina wholly pleasing aesthetically because I know very few - men and women - who do. She writes that it looks "somewhat like an injury, or at least an untidy, unlovely design", and says the lips extending from the Mound of Venus - labia majora - are "Not nearly as neat and tidy as one would have hoped".

At times, in the right (or wrong) kind of light, a vagina can look like strange, flesh-eating flora from another planet. As objects of desire, there are other parts of a woman's body, her breasts, her hips, her bum, that are far more suggestive. The vagina seems very practical. But its scent, its tactile nature, and what it represents, is what sets it apart and gives it its acute allure.

When I first speak to Breitenbach over the phone (I try not to say the word "vagina" too soon into the conversation, but fail almost immediately), I hear laughter and chaos in the background. She's in a car full of kids, she says, and can't concentrate. Can I phone her back later to discuss the minutiae of why she wrote the book?

"It puzzled me that I, a mother, deep into her 40s, who openly discusses a number of issues with her children, lacked the information and confidence to talk about issues around this perfectly natural and essential part of our being," says the Cape Town-based author later on.

Breitenbach has a Master of Philosophy degree in biomedical ethics and, in the book's inner sleeve, describes herself as the "rightful owner of her own private Eden".

When I ask her if writing The Cookie Book affected the way she looked at the vagina, Breitenbach gets animated. "Oh yes, indeed. Once I started to discover the hidden secrets, it swept me away on a wondrous journey filled with magic, laughter and excitement. I couldn't wait to share the information.

"Initially, I feared open discussion would harm the mystery and sacredness surrounding the subject. I realised this lack of openness creates insecurity and to fully embrace our femininity, we need to be confident enough to take ownership and control of our sexual wellbeing. The book also gives men a greater understanding and appreciation of women and, perhaps, who knows, provides them with the tools to find that ever elusive spot."

Pages 26 and 27, guys.