Vaginitas...

If I had a vagina, I would never leave my room.

I meant it. The possibilities of pleasure and discoveries seem endless. In fact, I now think I understand why women take so long to get ready for even the simplest of occasions. They are in their rooms with their vaginas!

Judging by the reaction I have received from other people when sharing this thought – which by the way, if you do not like my form of small talk, just cut my fucking hair and don’t ask me what’s on my mind– I feel like now might be a good time to distinguish between a desire and a theory.

I love my penis. I use it every day in fact. Think it’s fabulous. It’s been there with me through good times and through bad. Anything that can survive the combination of my adolescence and the onset of the Internet deserves a medal of valor. So please, understand, I am not suggesting I would actually like a vagina. That would be weird. I do not stand in front of my bedroom mirror at night, the general tucked between its sergeants, hot pink lipstick smeared all over my face, moaning to myself Bonnie Tyler’s ”Total Eclipse of the Heart”. Gross. Instead, after pleasuring myself in every imaginable position and watching enough pornography to write a dissertation, I am just thinking out loud. Much like Kafka saw a cockroach and said “what if”, I see a vagina and say “hmm….”

You see, this whole train of thought began when at graduate school a mixed sex group of friends began talking about masturbation. Attending graduate school at a small Southern liberal arts college on top of a mountain, your only options for escape from the demands of academia are to indulge in the natural beauty of the surrounding landscape or to obliterate your mind with cheap beer and overpriced pot. Being scholars, we chose the latter.

Through the haze of stale cigarette smoke and empty Miller Lite Pitchers, between our rants about Shakespeare and the flaws of structuralism, some unassuming male soul made a comment about a female counterpart’s dildo. Well gentleman, let me clarify this for you know, so yet ye soon don’t forget: not all women use a dildo. In fact, many don’t.

What the fuck? I know.

Let me pause for a moment so any potential female readers can understand this male mindset. As young boys, males live their lives with a sense of dissatisfaction, a feeling that something just isn’t right. Is it a yearning for life’s greater truths, a desire to understand the world’s secrets? No. It is the yet unknown realization that we can rub our penises against things and it feels good. No other moment in life is as sweet or as memorable.

Once realized, we cannot help ourselves. Remember when your little brother, around the age of eleven or twelve, locked himself in the bathroom for hours a day because “his stomach hurt”? That wasn’t Lime Disease my female friends, that was masturbation. I do not think I am exaggerating when I say it completely takes over our lives. Suddenly, anything and everything is seen through completely perverse eyes. Shopping at the grocery store, the uncontrollable urge finds itself inside you, and without warning things like cantaloupes and sourdough bread bowls take on a whole new perspective. Hell, I clearly remember at twelve years old finally retiring my beloved teddy bear and Mr. Pillows to the attic, and it had nothing to do with maturity. I knew they were no longer safe. If they were not banished now, I could not help but fuck them.

I understand and appreciate that this might be surprising to some of you ladies out there, possibly even disturbing, but it’s the truth. If your boyfriend or husband denies it, they are being about as honest when they say things like “I would love to hear about your day” or “Of course I remember your middle name”. When at age thirteen you find yourself with your underpants pulled to your ankles, your mothers “best pillow” squeezed between your knees as you thrust and fumble, your learn to base your life on lies.

I digress, however. Back to the issue at hand. I am sitting at a table, cheap beer coursing through my veins, and a female friend announces that not all women own a dildo. I am dumbfounded. Society has bestowed upon women not only the acceptance but a kind of sexy allure for female simulated sex. If a woman owns a dildo it is considered an emblem of independence, a sign of a healthy sexual liberation. It says to men “I don’t need you” yet at the same time suggests a sense of eroticism and sexual openness. Now if the roles are reversed, however, and a man makes mention of the “Pink Lips Pussy Strocker” or “Silicone Flexi – Power Rod Anal Vibrator” hiding under his bed, he’s a fucking freak. My, oh, my how the tables of sexism have turned.

Women are given the means and the power, and yet, like a pair of perfectly good breasts ruined by minor back pain, they waste it away.

In the days and weeks following this revelation, I spent hours questioning this divine irony. Why would God give this gift to those who would not appreciate it? I searched my soul in wonder, and finally, like a Rotating G-Spot Rabbit Vibrator throbbing in the night, it hit me: Adam and Eve.

When God’s first creations disregarded his command and ate of the forbidden fruit, he spared their lives but cursed our race with a punishment worse than death. Think about it. In the Book of Genesis there are two separate creation stories. An unexplainable divine mystery? Proof that the bible was falsified? I think not! The first time round God gave Adam a vagina, and he quickly saw where that was going. He couldn’t keep his hands off himself. Cucumbers, carrots, fuck, even pineapples; nothing was safe. Realizing the errors of his ways, God took his Holy White – Out, dabbed that shit out, and bam!, modern biology as we know it.

In the end, I guess it is all for the best. I mean, if men had that kind of self – pleasure at their disposal nothing would get done. Echoing through the hallways of a typical suburban home, one could hear the frustrated voice of a wife, reminding her husband that if he did not hurry they would be late once again. Something crashes to the floor, the frantic sound of clothes being readjusted is heard, and then the flustered reply of the husband, locked in the bathroom, pleading “Just give me five more minutes. Please!”