Would I have to start planning outfits around the tattoo like I plan for weather?
Ever wonder what might make a person try intarvenous drug use, or lust-murder or feminine hygeine products? I have a totally hypothetical narrative theory I'd like to float to you, at least about the last one. (I've never considered intravenous drug use.)Let's say, hypothetically, that you work at a women's web site. No, not this one. Another one, one where you're sent products to try, everything from flavored vodkas to vibrators to hairspray to, oh, I don't know, vaginal "refreshing cloths."In this completely fictive situation, you probably just set these "intimacy wipes" aside with the other swag you hide in your coworker's desk for fun. You know, like the wooden demo dong that came in a box of free condoms, or the four pound bag of Splenda that you like to dress in baby clothes. Hypothetically.Then let's say there comes a day when you're supposed go to the house of the new guy whom you have, unbelievably, not slept with yet. (Pat yourself on your imaginary back.) Let's say you went to the gym that morning and are desperately trying to figure out how to shoehorn in a shower between work and when you're supposed to be at his place for dinner, after which you are 99 percent sure you are going to do "the grown-up."
Realize, abandoning all hope, that you will not have time, and can't be late or cancel because he has already calls you Flakey O'Latebutter because of your tendency to show up late and cancel plans. Ponder the logistics of a taking a "hooker bath" in a communal office bathroom and feel really bad for making fun of Cosmo, who probably addressed this at some point.Let's say that about now -- even though you were raised by a feminist to think of your vagina as a temple of Artemis, and not a dirty futon -- you remember the freshness wipes. This would be about the time you'd take them out to discover that they have trendy scents like basil and lavender.
Think, "Oh, why the hell not?" Feminism is about choice, and today I choose to have my vagina smell like an expensive salad. Stick the freshness cloth in your purse and leave work as though you instead have a shaving cream can full of stolen dinosaur embryos.For the purpose of this story, suppose you go to his house. And that you put out, even though he makes pasta, which is kind of a cop-out, as far as cooking for somebody you're trying to sleep with goes. I mean, what is that about, theoretically?
Anyhow, feel briefly like you've gotten away with something until he actually comments on the ambiance of your vagina. And not just like, in a "Hey, what enjoyable foreplay and intercourse. I knew I was right to spring for Barilla" kind of way. Say he actually makes a joke about how he wishes there were a Yelp for vaginas. If such a site existed, you would get five stars! Fall asleep at his place and dream of Kathleen Hanna frowning at you. Yikes, Kathleen Hanna is scary!
If you'd continue to sleep with him anyway, eventually, you would run out of the freebies. Instead, decide you will now have to procure your poon wipes at a weird Duane Reade blocks away from your actual, local Duane Reade, because you don't want the people at Your Duane Reade to know that you are a bad feminist who treats your woman parts like a Yankee Candle outlet.
Realize you have spun a web of deceit out of which there is no escape.
On your way to the pharmacy, mentally count his abs in your head to psych yourself up. How many of those things are there? 8? 12? I'm trying to tell you it is a lot of abs, in this scenario.In the femine care aisle, panic and forget what ruse of a scent your sham vagina is supposed to smell like. Violet? Shallots? Try to ignore an impressionable teenage girl strolling by.
Consider breaking up with this guy just to be free of your own horrible crotch lie. Start looking for flaws in him because, whatever this is, it isn't living. Basically, live a Poe story until finally, magically, he wants to be exclusive. Feel the relief of indifference as you immediately grow annoyed with him like you do with men who are nice to you, because in addition to being a bad feminist and chronically tardy, you are also a heartless monster person.
This is the liberating time in your relationships that you stop being so vigilant about parts of your beauty regimen, like keeping your legs moisturized and returning phone calls. When he gets testy with you for being distant, revoke his rights to your magic Whole Foods pudenda and leave him in his new life of anguish and regular-scented women. Dedicate the time you once spent obsessing about your genitals to tending the sick, or reading the Great Books series. Have a statue erected to your vagina someday, probably, in an English park. Sleep the sleep of the just.