The Word Itself Makes Some Men Uncomfortable. Vagina.

The vagina is a tulip, opening and closing and closing and opening, pink and fluffy, screaming obscenities or something like that, for some women, I learned from the Vagina Monologues. College women dressed in pink and black; they stood to read and then retired to arm chairs and bean bags – young goddesses. They read about old women and virgins, rape sanctioned by the Japanese government and sexual slavery, anatomic discovery and exploration, and a lesbian experience, and moaning, and one good experience with a man. Chuckles.

I have no desire to push further up and into the vagina metaphors or personification, but I would like to add a monologue – only tangentially related to vaginas.

Proceeds from a Bad Experience:

We talked about it later. It was the night that lead to a two-year-long breakdown, to counseling, to nightmares, to moving, to antidepressants, to a more liberal use of the word shit, to dropped classes, to meetings with lawyers, to a cruel letter from our landlord, to break-ups with Mitch, to a bad handle of rum, to going to Tonicx at 3 p.m. at 11 a.m….

And still she remembered it too: one of the cops that came to our house that night was cute. Young, blond, fit, clean-shaven, gun ready. Trust me. Nothing goes better with trauma like hot law enforcement.

And later, when we went to court (the second time), he came to testify. He was wearing the best suit in the house, the ladies were fanning themselves. He recognized me, asked me, concerned, how I was doing. I could have told him, “Fine now that you’re here.” And if my vagina was ever going to talk it would have been then.

Then after the verdict (and Mitch’s speeding ticket to get us there on time), my roommate’s dad held me and said, “It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.”

And I have to remember Mitch, who stuck with the shit show even though we’d only been dating a month. And Jerry, who let me move in (even if he did make me plunge a toilet that I didn’t clog).

And Ron Pyle for being concerned that Carrie and I had failed his test. We were used to it by then, bless his heart.

And John for sleeping on our couch for a month. And the Hills for letting us live for free until we got out of our old lease. And Jonathan for saying the perfect thing. And Kyle and Tyson and Nate and Lee just for being there. And Scott for drinking with us.

And, you know, I like men.