Vaginas. We either have them, or we don’t. They may not be the most suitable conversational topic – you don’t usually greet someone –
“Hey! How’s your vagina doing?”
“Oh, mine’s just great! How’s yours?”
“Wonderful! Thanks for asking!”
Maybe we should. That’s A LOT more interesting than the ‘ol “How are you?” and the mandatory, “Fine, and you?” that comes afterward. Here’s a test. Women only, though, because if you’re a man, you just might be arrested. The next time you see a female friend of yours, go ahead and ask how her vagina’s doing. She’ll either really appreciate it because it really took a pounding and she needs to talk about it, or, she’ll be horrified and never speak to you again. Either way you win. You can either connect on a vaginal level (we’ve all had trials and tribulations with our lady bits) or, you can weed out the easily offended (and those in denial), leaving room for more true and honest friendships. Now, if you are a guy reading this… congratulations for still hanging in there; Mad props. I am genuinely surprised you’re still here. Say the word “vagina” around a guy and he immediately recoils even though (if he’s straight) it’s his life’s mission to get in there. There’s just something about that word. Vaaaaa-gyne-aaaa. I think it’s the “gyne” sounding part of the word. It’s unsettling. It’s kind of like the word “moist”. It’s just a really uncomfortable sound and you can test that by saying “moist” as many times as you can at a dinner, and see how many people put down their forks. The “gyne” in “vagina” is where all the nasty shit happens. The word is like a roller coaster: it starts off all nice and and slow with the ‘Va”, then as the ride hits that first peak and you dangle over the edge of a colossal fall, crazy twists and tuns, upside down dangling, only your harness to keep you from plummeting to the hard earth… that’s the “GYNE” part. After you navigate through all of that with your life still intact, the ride slows down, pulls back into the station where safety awaits, and “aaaaa”.
OK, now, if you’re a guy and still reading this… pat on the back for you! What I’m about to share with you might just be some invaluable information and possibly destroy your sex drive forever. Girls, most of you will know what I’m talking about, but since I’m a person of extremes, this will make you feel at peace with your vagina. Any troubles with her in the past will be forgiven, and you and your vagina can feel secure once again after reading this. This is like couples’ therapy for you and her. Sometimes listening to the woes of others can bring you two that much closer.
My vagina is a gossipy bitch. Whatever happens to her, she just can’t wait to tell me about and bore it into my brain. Anything vagina related gets immediately transferred, analyzed, and interpreted negatively by my brain. It seems as if my brain and lady business are always at war, and it’s been so since the first time I tried to have sex. Yeah… you read that right. TRIED to have sex. It seriously didn’t work. My hooha sealed up tighter than an oyster shell and there was no way we were breaking out the shucking utensils, so I literally couldn’t hand over my V-CARD without heavy artillery getting involved. At 17, it was embarrassing, and I ended up apologizing to my boyfriend of 10 months profusely (yes, 10 months! I was giving him my virginity, not a Swatch) – and I had heard it was usually the other way around. I was ready for it to be quick and awkward, but I just got the awkward part, and it was her fault. The very first time I tired to use her, she turned her back on me. Even when I told her this was like one of THE most important moments of my life, she didn’t care. She was having none of it. Since there’s a direct line from my vagina to my brain, I quickly learned that this was only just the beginning of an epic war; a war she was determined I lose.
Another instance where my vagina betrayed me – my first few visits to the gynecologist. See? There’s that sound again! GYNE… it’s what gives her power. The first trip to the gyno was a real treat for my vagina and me. I laid on the table and cried during the entire examination, and when the doctor asked me how school was going, I sobbed, “How can you ask me that at at time like this?” She asked me if I had been molested.
I had to find a new lady doctor. Thanks, vagina! Good gynecologists are hard to find and she sent me trekking for a new one. It’s really hard to nail down a decent doctor who won’t look into your psyche when you cry during every exam. My vagina just told my brain, “Cry, bitch! Cry!” and so, I did. It screamed, “We’re being violated! Get this thing outta me!” Too bad when she finally let me have sex, she didn’t use that kind of discretion… It would have come in pretty handy at times. But noooo. When it came to sex she was like the devil in my ear, “Dooooo it….This is a really good idea…” It rarely ever was.
A few years went by and it seemed as if my brain and vagina signed a treaty of some kind. Things were going smoothly in that department, I stopped crying at doctor appointments but still couldn’t do the “casual talk” when I had a metal crank inside of me, and if someone would have asked, “Hey! How’s your vagina?” I would have been able to say, “She’s doing okay! We’ve made some real progress!”
That is until back at the docs… I was told that my she-devil was on the verge of cervical cancer (she would fucking do that to me…) and I needed tests and biopsies and what-have-you. My vagina KNOWS I don’t do well at the gyno’s; that it takes every fiber of my being to just bear down until it’s over, and she does this to me? Fuck the cancer, I was more freaked out by the multitude of appointments and crotch bearing I’d have to do. My first biopsy, I fainted on the table. Yep. Passed right the fuck out. The doctors and nurses said they had never seen anything like that before. I was a first! Yay! I had never fainted in my life before or since, so why wouldn’t it be fitting for me to do it bottoms off and feet in goddamn stirrups? Yee haw.
Of course it had to be cervical… any other cancer would have been less sexually invasive and less mentally damaging. See? I told you my vagina was a bitch. And she kept telling my brain that I’m disgusting now; that I’m even too gross for me, let alone anyone else. My vagina was not doing fine. My brain was not doing fine. We took a real backslide there and I wished I could just leave that bitch at home. But no, she just had to go with me everywhere…so codependent. Because of my “vapors” (stone cold pass out) in the doctor’s office, they scheduled the procedure to rid my cervix of the potentially cancerous cells at the hospital where I got to be completely put under and wake up when it was all over. Small blessings…
It’s been many years now, and many hours in argument back and forth, and I guess we’re doing better. She’s not trying to give me cancer anymore, so that’s a start. She’s still fussy like a damn baby when it’s period time and she sends giant migraines to my brain, but at least that’s only occasionally. She still tells me sometimes that I’m gross, but I try not to listen. She still tries to get me in trouble with boys, “Doooo it…This is a good idea!” but I try not to to listen (most of the time at any rate), but no one can stop her when she’s on a mission. She’s like having a really sweet roommate who secretly wants to murder me. She’ll coax me into making bad decisions, then when my brain succumbs, she tells me I’m going to end up right back in that doctor’s chair and I get to obsess about her until my next visit – where I still shake like I’m having the DTs.
When she can’t stir up that kind of trouble, she’ll send me excruciating period headaches (but I got it down to only four times a year, bitch! Who’s winning now?) She’s The Bad Seed in vagina form and sometimes I wonder if she’ll have to be struck by lightening as well to stop her from destroying the town.
I just want her to be fun. A vagina without an agenda. We could be like total besties if we could only just get on the same page. I like a lot of the same stuff she does…she’d be surprised to see how much we have in common. We have the same taste in boys, we both know where “the spot” is and enjoy it immensely, we both have great taste in underwear and grooming. When we’re in sync, the world is a beautiful, magical place… If only she didn’t have a knife behind her back the whole time.