Hi, my name is Vagina

It recently came to my attention that there is an epidemic taking place among the majority of my female friends. No, I’m not referring to highlights, Spanx or adultery. I’m referring to Masturbating.

Yes, hold onto your cocktails but at this very moment someone next door to your office, your home or the bath room stall could possibly be using the iPhone vibrate setting as their new douche device.

About six months ago I was out to dinner with friends; let’s refer to them as “Zack” & “Mia”…. Now a little back story about this dynamic duo is they have been together for like three decades, they live inside of Restoration Hardware and on the cool scale they rank about like Zack & Kelly at Bayside High, and I mean the Zack and Kelly before they went off to college and the color resolution improved. What is with classic shows improving their picture quality? Like when Roseanne was at the height of her weight gain in the 80s, then she takes a sharp right turn into her third season in 1991, the picture quality improved, her eyes went from being like little 8 year old vagina slits to bright glowing Lane Bryant Model Quality eyes and the show went completely downhill. Can I get a wha wha?

Anywho, back to Zack and Kelly, so we’re at dinner and the topic of (shall we say) “basting” comes up. My first reaction was that this is only something that rich cool Dallas people do which I would’ve taken with a grain of coke rather than continuing on my year long survey. HOWEVER, my go-to life coach was there at dinner as well who convinced me that this was normal activity amongst men, women, and couples. Hearing that my lady mentor was supporting this ridiculous act of vaginal exploitation was alarming.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing……

I was scared, intimidated and curious about this underground world of pleasure seekers. As I’ve gone through the scenario of seducing myself the fear layered below brings me back to freshman year at college.

I went along with some friends to Condom Sense and out of a desperate need to be “one of the girls” I purchased a flesh colored, full (and a half) sized replica of a penis afforded through my weekly allowance of course. The item cost about $80 which left me with about $60 for the rest of the week. I remember thinking that was an unreasonable amount to spend on a statue like penis figure when I could spend about half that and have a really enjoyable night out on the town and find my own real life penis figure to fill up my under aged burrito. The other girls on the shopping spree were acting like it was the new “hot” item for vaginas and persuaded me to believe that it was sure to wind up on Oprah’s favorite things that year, so I convinced myself that the pricing would probably double in December so I was really getting a bargain.

Once I got back to my dormitory I couldn’t wait to try it out. I went pot luck on a roommate and somehow needed up with a non-drinking, seminary dating, A student named Becky. Needless to say, I knew I couldn’t take my new Rabbi for a ride in the room so I figured it was time to grab my toiletries and head to the shower. As I made my way to the communal bathroom I was filled with excitement and anticipation. As a girl of colored hair (I mean that in every way possible – colored and of colored people), I rarely showered daily back in my later teen years for fear that my hair would retaliate against me and create a flakey revolt upon my scalp and shoulders. You should know though that three yeast and two Urinary tract infections later, I am a daily bather.

So after my star gazing trip from my corner room of the dormitory I had finally made it to the showers. Despite the fact that my education cost more annually than I currently make, the bathrooms were less than chic. There were about 5 to 6 showers lined up next to one another and concealed only by a tan vinyl curtain that could easily be whisped away by a passer-byer.  Once I made my way into the shower stall, I neatly hung up my towel and went for my shower carousel that my mother and I had picked out a bed bath and beyond. This is where I stowed away my Shaquille O’Neil sized Rabbi. I was ready to go.

I didn’t exactly know how to start so I decided that a melody may help get me and my vagina in the mood. Jack Johsnon’s first hit CD had just come out and I was digging his mellow creamy like voice so I switched my mind soundtrack over to Jack. Once I set the music mood, I needed something else (like a man), the Rabbi was staring at me in the face and I was scared. I tried to take my mind to an erotic scene, of a world where men walk around in ties and snap on suits. Now was the time, I took my rabbi and entered it into my vaginal crest in a soft but firm like motion, trying to trigger a sexual light switch. The sensation was less than pleasing and I was perplexed, truly. I thought back to the events of the day and all those little Bitches that led me to believe this would provide me with the same satisfaction that my 18 year old male counter parts had led me to experience.  Was I not doing it right? I tried once more to merge the 9 inch replica inside of my body but it was no use. I was defeated. Not the Jack Johnson lullaby in my head nor the lukewarm water of the communal dormitory showers could provide me with the secretion I needed to continue this ridiculous display of Master-Retardation.

I grabbed my towel, placed the Rabbi back inside my shower carousel and headed back to the end of the hall, giving a defeated “what up” to Becky once I got back into the room. We didn’t talk the rest of the day, not that we ever spoke before that, but it felt like there was more tension inside our 10’ x 10’ room than ever before. I felt like my vagina had let me down, like it was saying, “you’re not enough” or “I want a threesome”, like it was sexist or something. Can vaginas be sexist?? I think so.

After this experience, I tucked away the Rabbi in the “you let me down drawer”, along with other items like pictures of my parents and expired fast food coupons.  So you can imagine my dismay ten years later when I realize through a carb saturated meal with friends that not only had I missed the mark by attempting a shove a candle stick down my vaginas throat but I had also missed out on years of silo-ed pleasure.

Throughout the last 12 months, I ‘ve come to learn that not only do Zack and Kelly actively incorporate Buzz light years into their bedroom but dozens of quasi-happily married women just like myself have embraced their independence by putting their vagina where their laundry detergent is.

Obviously mastering my own vagina has never been a priority which leads me to believe that I am literally the laziest former slut that has ever existed. Do I have guilt about it? Yes, am I embarrassed about it? Absolutely, but rather than sulk about all the fun and excitement that my baggage claim has been missing out on, I think I’ll just make this my new schtick. After all, this blog was formed through a personal epiphany that my goals are lacking and my interests are limiting.

I think I’ll take myself out for a cocktail tonight, throw on a little Jason Mraz and reintroduce myself to the matrix that lays below. I hope she remembers me. 




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