You may think you know a lot about me. But very few people know another side of me: The Lone Vagina. Surrounded by testosterone and penises, I observe the habits of the male sex, much as an anthropologist might study another culture.
Perhaps in other posts I will delve into the male’s inability to pick up the pants lying on the floor and put them in the hamper a mere three feet away, or the inordinate amount of laundry generated by the sex that is not usually thought of as “fashion conscious.” But for today I have a different topic.
One conclusion I have drawn from my studies is that males are incapable of going more than a few moments without reminding themselves that they have fascinating exterior genitalia. As an example, allow me to give you a peek at family dinner featuring the Lone Vagina and the four Peckers.
Tonight the boys were all pent up energy at the dinner table. Milks were spilled, napkins fell out of laps, rice was splattered off the rims of plates. No one enjoyed my French Provencal Chicken Stew, which featured chicken legs and thighs simmered with fennel, tomatoes, onions, thyme and potatoes. I also gave them cantaloupe.
“Mom, I don’t exactly like dark meat,” Finn said.
“I know,” I said. “Eat it anyway. And eat your cantaloupe.”
“I’ll eat it,” Porter said. “I love dark meat and cantaloupe. And sushi.”
“This chicken is hideous,” Drew said, picking up a piece and holding it up to the light as if it were a laboratory specimen. Finn turned to him.
“Don’t you ever talk like that about Mommy’s food,” he said sharply. “She is the best cook in the whole world.”
“But you hate her food, too,” Drew protested.
Finn slugged him, and Drew whacked Finn in the groin.
“OW!” Finn howled. “Drew nutcrackered me!”
He looked at me. “Get it, Mom? Nutcracker? Get it?”
I sighed. “I am well aware of what you have down there, Finn. I get it,” I said.
“Yeah, he’s got a willie johnson and some BALLS!” Porter yelled, hitting his plate with his elbow. Cantaloupe bounced across the floor.
“You have got to be quiet or milk is going to come out my nose!” Finn shouted.
Porter started chanting, “willie johnson, balls, willie johnson, balls, penis and nutcracker, penis and willie…”
“And that’s where your crotch is,” Drew contributed, adding to the family’s anatomic vocabulary.
I looked at Bill. His face was red and he was trying hard not to laugh. I nudged him under the table with my foot.
“Boys, let’s not say “nutcracker” at the table or at school. Porter, clean up the cantaloupe and sit down. Drew and Finn, eat your chicken. And no more talk about willies,” Bill decreed.
“But he nutcrackered me!” Finn said. “I have to say it if that’s what he did.”
“Just say he racked you,” Bill advised him. I cringed. Is “racked” a word you can say at school? Should I email the principal to see? I like to be really clear with the boys on what words they can and cannot say at school.
“Mom, everyone at the table has a penis except you. Don’t you want one?” Drew asked.
Several possible answers went through my head:
— No, I am quite happy with my own genitalia, thanks.
— No, then the whole house would be a mess and no one would eat decent food or have clean underwear.
— No, I enjoy my vagina.
— You bet! I would like to have one for a day just to see why men are so obsessed with them. I would like to know how it feels to have something dangling between your legs 24/7. Why does it hurt so bad when you get kicked in the crotch? And why does seeing a beautiful girl make it react in such an obvious way?
But the Lone Vagina kept these feelings to herself, called an end to dinner, and retreated to her computer to write up her latest report.