Twat Talk

I'm not sure if this is an isolated occurrence--or if it happens to myriads of women across the globe. If so, I think an online support group is in order--women who need vaginal strength unite! Crotch confidence if you will. We can have wrist cuffs and special cyber handshakes...maybe throw in some spandex suits. Eh, EH? Or if no one else visualizes a score of Wonder Women converging, I'll scrap the cuffs; they'd just clunk on my keyboard while typing anyway. I may or may not be wearing a full body spandex leotard whilst at my compture though. No promises.

Perhaps it's just me, but I feel...strange...giving myself a pussy pep talk. Social networking is all up in our digital grills, why not *ahem* elsewhere? Just think, how awesome would it be if I could find a space where others shared triumphant stories (and tips) of getting back in the game after a long sexless stretch. I termed mine a "sabbatical", which lent more ostensible legitimacy if not complete contextual irrelevancy. Because really, who would ask probing questions pertaining to a person's abstinence sabbatical?

But I stood corrected. I forgot the office whore. And by "whore" I mean the "better-and-more-fucked-than-thou" married gal who delights in the band of metal and compressed carbon circling her spindly little finger. She flashes it around like her husband personally stripped the platinum from the earth and forged it with a diamond he single-handedly wrenched from the hand of an African just for her. Seriously? You're going to ask me WHY? Oh I don't know, Stacie, maybe it's because the way to eternal bliss and spiritual awakening isn't found through the vaginal tract, you shallow sex fiend. Or perhaps I was too busy solving world hunger one small nameless village at a time in the southern hemisphere and I was overwhelmed with larger issues outside of my own carnal contentment. Note I said perhaps. Incidentally, that ring your sporting could put food in those bellies for a year. Just sayin'.

So here was the scene in which I found myself: Bathroom, pre-date Friday night. Underwear on, make-up not. I exhaled deeply, looking down with my arms extended and hands holding firmly to the wash basin to prove I meant business.

ME: "Alright pussy. It's time for a serious chat -- woman to, er...well you get the point."

VAGINA: Silence

ME: "I know it's been a while for you -- us. And I want you to do your damnedest to work with me on this. None of that dry spell nonsense. We're not Oakies during the Dust Bowl! And it wouldn't hurt to act like you're enjoying it, ya know? Maybe a few strong clenches or a quiver. Do we see eye-to-eye?" (Yes, I realize at this point I was making odd metaphor choices.)

VAGINA: *belabored sigh* "Fiiiiine"

NOOOO, come on now. We all know vaginas can't talk. But I knew what it was thinking. And here is where a support system would have saved me from this unsettling chat with my nether parts. Because if I enjoyed one-sided conversations with the communication-disabled, I would have stayed with my ex-boyfriend.