Big Floppy Tits and Lady Bits

Let’s face it, if you believe in the story of Adam and Eve, then God clearly was having a laugh when he assigned body parts. I won’t get all biblical with cause and effect, apple picked and a lifetime of monthly menstrual pain for the ladies of child bearing years, but you get my drift.  Men have a penis and testicles, the old frank and beans/Rand Paul and the Teabaggers,/Larry, Moe and Curly, pretty low maintenance, but always up for looking for a good time and a warm orifice. It starts with nocturnal emissions, progresses to pop up boners in algebra class, and then at some point their dick does some weird alien thing and pops up to their head and sucks their brains out. From that point on, all decisions are based on the penis advisory board, chaired by the penis and staffed by the penis.

Women? We have to deal with so much more. Vaginas, clitorises and labia, oh my! Instead of having a nice dream and stiff sheets to trumpet our arrival into puberty, we get our periods and then all hell breaks loose. Those in my generation might have had a similar experience to mine, when the Kotex lady came to us in 4th grade, grabbed all the girls and stuck us in the media center while the boys got to go to recess. This geriatric pant-suited spokes model for the glories of womanhood spent 45 minutes talking about how we were about to flower, the uniqueness of being a woman, and some other assorted crap. When she was done, I was more confused than before and if an actual daffodil had popped out of my vagina to announce the “arrival of spring to my womanhood”, I would have been a lot less surprised than what happened in reality. If the 13 year old version of me was ashamed to buy a bra and have the handsy fitter in the Hecht’s waiting room touch my boobs, I had no idea how mortified I would be to have to hide a huge box of maxi pads, each pad so large that you could land a jet on them, behind a pickle barrel at the WAWA. My mom made me go in and buy them and of course, there were four boys I knew in the store buying things they wanted vs. needed since they were not bleeding from an orifice. Those lucky non-uterus owning bastards.

When I had my starter breasts, I came out of the gate strong. I went from concave to a C cup overnight. I was horrified to go to sleep at night, afraid the titty fairy would come add another cup size. I adjusted my posture to resemble a giant comma, dressed like an eighty year old Greek widow and prayed no one would notice my new hooters. The girls noticed, they wanted to touch them at sleepovers and called me a whore loudly behind my back in the gym showers, though I was a pure Snow Freaking White. Boys my age mistook my nipples for my eyeballs so I guess in their hormone addled minds they were making eye contact, and spent an inordinate amount of time yelling at my boobs like the clowns head at the Jack in the Box drive though, except they wanted hand jobs vs. cheeseburgers.

I have had a tumultuous relationship with my boobs. They both got me into a lot of trouble, and got me out of a lot of trouble. We had some great years together when were young and perky and there were times they were the breast version of the UN, sharing goodwill internationally.  But as the decades went by, they became down and out. I wanted to make my little buddies happy again, so I proposed a road trip. I would have a very wonderful plastic surgeon swing down to Tijuana where they were currently holed up keeping my knee caps warm and drive them back up to Toronto where they started. I would go from a double J cup to a C cup. All my female friends thought this was a great idea! I’d be so much more comfortable, clothes would fit better, bra straps would no long create crevices in my shoulders, and I could do jumping jacks without residual black eyes. The male friends acted as though I was committing murder. They are so beautiful, you are being selfish, I can take refuge under them in a heavy storm, and you don’t need to see your huge feet, c’mon, don’t be ridiculous! So, in I went to get reduced! I loved my new set, so streamlined and firm. It was all I could do to not dare passersby on the street to bounce quarters off them. A week after my surgery, my surgeon called to tell me that two tumors had been found in the tissues they removed, and I had breast cancer. What? This was at a time when my mother was battling both lung cancer and lymphoma, and I had recently lost my dear old dad to pancreatic cancer. So, now my beautiful shiny new boobs were ticking time bombs hell bent on killing me. What a kick in the tits. Thankfully, after more biopsies and tests it was determined that there were no residual tumors and after some radiation and ongoing nasty meds I appear to be none the worse for wear. My worst boob related problem these days is one nipple that is always up for a good time while the other rests, making my cleavage resemble the winking Natty Boh dude on some days, but hey, that’s alright with me.

It seems to me that in the last decade or so, vaginas have needed much more attention than they used to. Case in point, the latest trend, vaginal steaming, another wacky offering from the goop filled mind of Gwyneth Paltrow who suggested it after she tried it. Basically, a vagina-possessing person sits in a special chair butt naked, there is a steaming cauldron of happy potion of herbs beneath them to improve the circulation and curb appeal of their vagina. You make yourself a virtual vaginal hot pocket.  What? Apparently when Marilyn Monroe posed over the subway grate and her skirt blew skyward, she wasn’t going for a publicity shot, she was freshening her yoni with some good old city subway steam.  And when I used the expression, “That really steams my vagina” to express anger over something sexual, I wasn’t so far off the mark. I read about this as I was headed to NYC with some friends and thought I’d try it out there. The manager of the dim sum restaurant in Chinatown was not amused and insisted I put some pants on and stop squatting over the chicken feet in the chafing dish. Also along the Korean dry cleaner services for your no no zone, you can ask Mr. Kim to bleach your asshole these days. Not sure why this is necessary. In my day when you went venturing down a dark alley, you didn’t expect to be greeted at the door by a perky blonde hostess. If you are bleaching your asshole or steaming your vagina, you might just had too much time and money and not enough smarts.

If vaginal steaming removed the wrinkles in your labia, it would make a lot more sense. Everyone wants to adopt a Shar-pei but no one wants to have their nethers resemble one. Labia are like mud flaps on a chamber of horrors ride. Never look directly at your labia, it cannot be unseen. Don’t make eye contact with your labia, look at in through a pinhole in a shoebox like the sun during an eclipse. You don’t want to go blind, do you???  The universe has made it difficult to examine yourself for a reason, ladies.  If something takes contortionist skills and a tiny mirror to see, perhaps it should remain a mystery.  I trust my gynecologist to let me know if anything is off kilter and has shifted like a polar icecap.  He’s the vagina expert, I just have one and try to keep it under control without having to enact martial law.

Now we have to worry if our vagina is tight enough? Sure, we had a 10 lb. kid shoot out of it, and some visitors over the years and maybe it needs some attention. Kegels? I try to do some every day, especially at traffic lights, but Jesus, it seems so silly and the faces I make scare my fellow motorists.  God forbid I squeeze so hard that I step off the gas and rear end the dump truck in front of me.  I don’t want to have a floppy cooch be cited as the cause of the accident.   I heard you can get a nice surgeon to tighten you up, I need someone to torque me like a pro shop restringing Venus Williams’ tennis racket. Then, I could do jumping jacks again, laugh, cough, and stop bullets with my magic cooch.

Don’t even get me started on pubic hair designs. Back in my day growing up, all the naked ladies in the “Joy of Sex” book at the house where I babysat had bushes like 1970’s Black Panthers’ afros.  There was no such thing as a pubic hair topiary. These days, apparently you need a landing strip or your boyfriend’s initials or the symbol for Pi. I am in favor of perhaps an arrow pointing to your clitoris for those that might need guidance, or the symbol for the Artist Formerly Known as Prince as a conversation starter for those new to the neighborhood. Waxing your business is painful and humiliating, but I have had some great getting to know you conversations with aestheticians as they are repeatedly smearing hot wax on my cooch until I break and give them the nuclear codes.

Meanwhile, as men age, they manscape as they see fit and the worst possibility for them, outside of testicular or prostate cancer – not laughing matters, is losing the ability to get and or maintain an erection. Oh, boo hoo. Take your little blue pill, pop a hardie, and if it doesn’t go down in four hours, take it to the ER for some TLC. I’d come with you but I’m too busy waxing, steaming, bleaching and Kegeling…..

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