|NOTES TO THE UNDERNEATH: LADIES' LETTERS TO THIER LABIA.|
|Katie Seitz, Michelle Goodman, Jen Hubley, Kate Andrews Erin McFadden||
Here we are again, another hot month, another spicy topic where we've shamelessly exploited our Black Table ladies. We are not above exploitation if it is done for the greater good, which, in this case, is you fine, handsome readers. And, thankfully, our ladies rarely shy away from these assignments, even if it may prevent them from ever becoming gainfully employed or winning themselves a husband. In fact, sometimes they go above and beyond our expectations. This month is no different. We've asked our fearless vixens to once again up their TMI quotient by writing more letters. Instead of calling out old boyfriends with little dicks and poor hygiene, we've gone a little lower below the belt and asked them to write a letter to their, um vaginas.
We're terminally 12 years old. What can we say?
I masturbate, fuck (quite a bit), and I have the kind of sexual history that people write books about. Shit, you know this. But I've been feeling inadequate. I know this isn't your fault. You can't open a dialogue about this problem. I mean, when you turn red and itchy, I know you're telling me something, but you can't actually talk.
I think that's the problem. We don't really ... commune. Now, I have no inborn desire to do this. I never named you or referred to you in the third person until now. But it seems like there's a whole passel of women out there, among them the rotating cast of The Vagina Monologues, who demand that I have a more meaningful relationship with you than trimming your hair and taking you to the doctor every year.
I will try. I will buy stupid little cutesy bags made by indie girls to carry tampons in. I will look at you in the mirror more and pretend I think you're beautiful. I will talk about you in the third person. I will even ... ew ... name you.
Don't get me wrong. I never thought you were gross, except when dripping bloody spooge or something. I just thought of you more as a limb, subordinate to the whole body. I guess those days are over.
Goodbye, vagina. Hello, Rita.
Katie Seitz is a freelance writer. She just bought Rita a cute charm necklace with her name on it this past Christmas.
To my cha cha's luxuriant pelt:
I've always let you be yourself, haven't I? I mean, save for a couple of misguided shaving experiments in my twenties (how many times do I have to apologize for that bald eagle incident anyway?), I never tried decorate you, disguise you or otherwise demean you. I haven't highlighted you blond, died you blue, given you a mohawk, braided you or reshaped you like some stuffy suburban hedge. Nor have I incensed your delicate follicles by stripping you bare with industrial-strength hot wax, radioactive goo masquerading as depilatory or some "As Seen on TV" labial lawnmower. Instead, I've lovingly shampooed, conditioned, trimmed and quaffed you until you're run-your-hands-through-me soft and sleek.
But lately I'm starting to think you're taking this au naturel kick a bit too far. I get that it's the job of the pubic pelt to retain the pheromones we lasses emit to further enthrall our mates. Likewise, I get that it's your duty -- however biologically outmoded -- to protect me from cold snaps, dirt, crabs, lice, and the occasional blunt object headed straight for my groin at warp speed, courtesy of some friend or other's wayward spawn. Still, none of this explains your pathological compulsion to cover all visible flesh between my pubic bone and my kneecaps. Believe me, we aren't going to lose any points with the boyfriend if you ease up on the pheromone fishing net. Though he is a sci fi fanatic, I don't think Planet of the Apes mating rituals are really his bag.
What I'm getting at, dear pelt of my nether regions, is that it's summer, dammit, and I'd like to be able to throw on my skimpiest Daisy Dukes without first having to spend 57 minutes weed wacking my inner thighs and sandblasting my bikini line. I've gone through my third disposable razor this week, and I'm starting to get a Wookie complex. So please, please, perhaps you could show me a little mercy and, say, shrivel up and die until November? Don't make this any harder than it has to be for either of us. Don't make me turn this bottle of Raspberry Raz Ma Tazz Nair on you.
Thanks for your consideration.
Dear Mrs. Fufferson,
I am writing to you today to request that you cease your apparently endless quest to get stuffed. Your general recklessness and, frankly, questionable taste have become a liability for this organization, and we would like you to desist immediately.
In support of this request, I offer the following purely dumbass things you've made us do in pursuit of some dick:
If you agree to our terms, we will arrange to have you made into a planter, or perhaps an umbrella stand. Something that stores vaguely cylindrical objects, since you seem to like that sort of thing.
Thanks, and best regards,
Jen Hubley, President and CEO, Hubley Enterprises
Dear Aunt Vi,
Of all the stunts you've pulled over the years, this is absolutely the worst. You know how I feel about The Billionaire, you know that he lives out of town and that I only see him once in a blue moon, and you knew that he was coming to visit me last Friday. So why, Aunt Vi, did you choose Thursday to have one of your fits?
You knew that I prepared for this visit for weeks. I got an expensive haircut, waxed my legs, took three yoga classes, bought a new dress and made sure you were perfectly groomed. So when I woke up on Thursday morning, why did I find you red and painful, foaming at the mouth and swollen up like a cabbage? For God's sake, Auntie, another allergic reaction? What now? You've already put the kibosh on spermicide, sun screen, plastic tampon applicators, lubricants, underwear laundered in anything but Woolite, bath salts and cognac (okay, that one I should have known). Your latex allergy has brought me untold misery and your aversion to hot wax has cost me hundreds at the laser salon.
So when I drag you all the way down to the gynecologist's office in rush hour only to hear that you've developed a freakish allergy to the fragrance-free, hypoallergenic soap that I use, what am I supposed to think? Are you trying to sabotage my love life? Why can't you be like other aunts? I'm not asking you to shoot ping pong balls or pick up an orange with your lips, or even smoke a cigarette, but it's not like I was stuffing the soap down your throat or anything. Can we just work together on this one? I promise, there's something in it for you.
I'm sorry I called you ugly. I'm sorry for 1995-1997. Oh, and 2000-2002. I was lonely and had terrible self-esteem. I never did thank you for refusing the venereal diseases that should have rightfully been mine. In fact, I am in awe of your strength and resilience towards adversity. No matter what rancid, Salvation Army vagrant I threw your way, you took it in, gave it your grace and sent it on its way with a vertical smile. And you never, ever lectured me the next day.
I have been thinking a lot about that time it was just you and me. It was the highlight of our relationship. That night we drank wine and looked at ourselves in the mirror for an hour, laughing and finally succumbing to our attraction for each other. The time we bought Mr. Virtual Skin and wore it out in less than a week. Remember how funny it was when the spring actually came boinging out of the back of it? You laughed so hard, stuff came out your nose. Ah! Those were the best times.
And then I don't know what happened. Maybe it was the fact that we had someone who loved us unconditionally and so we no longer had to try. I sort of let you do your own thing. You grew a beard, lost some weight. The last time I saw you, I actually cried afterwards. Because you just looked so sad.
Listen, what are you doing this weekend? I was thinking maybe we could get a buff n' fluff, have some lunch. Maybe we can go back to my place for a drink and maybe -- just maybe -- have a look in the mirror for old times' sake. I know that whatever we once had is still there, lurking beneath your beatific folds. If you'll give me another chance, I promise not to take you for granted again.
You should know I am going to honor your wish to not bear children. You're right: we never should have watched that goddamned home movie.
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