When I was 20, I dated this guy who invited me over to his friend's house to hang out one fine day. He had one of those clear boxes with a suspended panel of nails that you push up in various heights to create a pattern.
I gave up puzzling over what it was after coming back to it a few times and they wouldn't tell me. I swore it was a paisley, but they just grinned. Suddenly, an impressive few years later: It's a vulva! A detailed realistic sized one cast in hundreds of pricks. It was quite well done, so I didn't forget the image.
I hadn't seen a vulva then -not mine nor ones in On Our Backs, as that lesbian mag 'didn't have any split beaver' as my dad marveled when I dragged him into a feminist book store once. Which was coincidentally after passing a huge pile of Playboys left on a park bench he looked tortured to leave behind.
I even owned a speculum purchased from my doctor to see the inner business, but hadn't actually seen the storefront of my operation.
After the book was completed in its shiny, hefty greatness; those of us who had been photographed for I'll Show You Mine met at a cafe to look through it and sign our self portrait. Thankfully and tragically, I was told that I'm not the only one who thinks "...it's that one or maybe one of those three there."
So kudos to the boys for paying close attention to someone's pussy even if she herself can't pick it out from a hole in the wall.