The Vagina Monologues is my favorite book about feminine sexuality. Nothing beats a woman bitching about a vagina being frustrated with pap smears. Living a sexual life is like a getting a never ending pap smear for women. It’s uncomfortable. It’s awkward the first time. There are always more people involved than you would like. And as most of the world is figuring out, it never really accomplishes what it is meant to do.
I could tell you about the first time I had sex, but I’m not. I will tell you about the first time I got a pap smear. Actually, I didn’t start visiting the gynecologist until this year. I started going because the pediatrician’s first question to me was always, “Oh, is you’re daughter in the restroom?” And second; you can only be in college for so long, still convincing your parents you’re a virgin. So junior year I stained the proverbial white wedding dress and scheduled an appointment for the gynecologist. Basically, I only had it once in my entire life. The pap smear— not sex.
The doctor is an Indian man, who makes punny jokes about my significant weight gain. He’s tall. He’s cute, and has the faintest accent. He tells me to take off my clothes and throws me a backless robe. He’ll be right back. Soon enough, I’m on my back with my legs resting on cold metal stirrups. He keeps telling me to relax, and stop clinching.
“I can tell you’re clinching because they’re little dimples on your butt,” he said and then grinned. In the Vagina Monologues, an older woman talks about dreaming of beautiful flowers during sex. I try thinking about flowers, but I can’t hear my thoughts over the loud crunch of the parchment paper sliding under me. I admire the women who can drift away during this. Not during the pap smear— during sex.
This pap smear is the most I’ll think about my vagina until the university does a performance of the Monologues in the spring. The Monologues aren’t a fun conversation about the vagina. It’s just a reminder 1 in 4 girls are raped, and most women are sexually assaulted by a family member. It ends with a guilt trip about feeling safe in the US, while millions of women across the world are slaves to sex trafficking and war.
In Superbad, chubby Jonah Hill doodles various costumed dicks in class. It’s freaking hilarious! Women don’t assert their sexuality in the way men do. How many tastefully drawn vaginas did your eighth grade art teacher have to erase from the whiteboard? In fact, most drawings just look like dried prunes. In Scare the Teens into Abstinence 101— ergh, health education class— the teacher shows you gruesome pictures of vaginas.
We have a word for women who talk happily and frequently about sex: whores. God bless the day we start having happy conversations about female sexuality.