My Vagina is Secretly a Sassy Black Woman

A moment ago I thought to myself, “If my ovaries had nuts, I’d kick them in them.” And then I realized that was too many thems. Also, that my ovaries kind of ARE my nuts.



And that I say also too much.

They’re not being terribly evil at the moment, but that “special time” isn’t so special. It’s irritating and it pisses me off. Like that saying goes, you shouldn’t trust anything that bleeds for seven days and doesn’t die. Therefore, I no longer trust my vagina.

I thought I would share a few of my thoughts on menstruation with you.

1.) I think it’s a horrible joke on me that my gynecologist is attractive.


Don’t get me wrong, he’s a wonderful doctor, but I don’t think his hotness is a bonus for me. Initially, this had me wanting to clamp my legs shut and waddle out the door. Gynecologist visits are in direct violation of my “Never naked with the lights on” rule and having an attractive man see me naked under fluorescents was almost more than I could take. He makes delightfully dirty jokes while his hand is up my hoo hoo, so I won’t be replacing him any time soon. Perverse conversation while being fondled by strangers makes things easier. It’s rare for a man to make you laugh when you’re naked, so it must be treasured while it lasts. I’ve grown used to him being down there and he doesn’t make me nearly as uncomfortable as the corpsman in boot camp did. Sorry, but my vagina and I will never fully appreciate the art of the donkey punch. My experience with strange men between my legs is limited, but I’m assuming that if I can feel your watch ticking, something isn’t right here.


2.) Tampons are ridiculous.

I’m not even sure why they make regular ones and I am convinced that the “Teen” size would be better marketed as a quick fix for a nose bleed. Miss Vagine will roll her eyes at a regular tampon. I can hear her snapping her fingers and saying “Girlfriend, that might get you as far as the tampon aisle and back, but I wouldn’t push it.” I think she might secretly be a sassy black woman.


The one time I briefly considered using a Teen-pon as a stopgap, I heard the bitch laughing at me. Not just an amused chuckle mind you, but a full out belly laugh with snorting that says “Go ahead and try it. One sneeze and you’ll have to reupholster the furniture.”


I’m also confused about why OB exists. There is no applicator. There is no smooth glide action to assist you. There is a cotton ball and a string… and your hand. I’m not going to do that on a good day. That shit is an ear plug at best.

I also hate how unmistakable the sound of opening a tampon is. I just feel that everyone in the bathroom is thinking “I know you’re touching yourself inappropriately right now.”

3.) The more expensive the lingerie, the stealthier the attack.



You know how awesome those matching bra and panty sets look? Well, no one else ever will. That one pair of panties that actually make your ass AND your legs look good? They will be the first casualty of war. It could be the middle of those twenty-eight beautiful days when you assume that it’s totally safe to wear that expensive and sexy pair and out of nowhere, not a cramp, a twinge, a bloat, or a random thigh pain in sight, it happens, just the once. The next day when you’re huddled on the floor of your closet, clutching your largest and ugliest pair of granny panties to your chest in fear, it doesn’t even bother to show up. Its work is done.


4.) It doesn’t show up.

I don’t care if you haven’t gotten laid in five years, when your period doesn’t show up on time your first thought is always “OHMYGODIMPREGNANT!” How did this happen? I haven’t even looked at a penis! Maybe I picked something up from a toilet seat. This is an immaculate conception. I knew I should have pulled out of church sooner.

I’m always amazed by the fact that the first thought you have during a pregnancy scare is “I need to drink as much alcohol as humanly possible right this very second or I’m going to die.”


A missed period will turn even the staunchest atheist into a woman of Christ until her uterus stops holding her egg hostage. Our thoughts often take the same turn that Jenna Malone’s did in the movie “Saved”. “Let it be cancer. Let it be cancer. Let it be cancer.” When we’ve moved on from that, we start to curse every male that has ever had any kind of physical contact with us. “How DARE he do this to me? He did this on purpose. He has ruined my entire life.” These thoughts then go to the only place our minds were too afraid to go before, our mothers. “How am I going to tell my mama? She’s going to be so mad at me.”


We then rush out to waste our money on the revered and much feared plastic sticks of doom, also known as pregnancy tests, and settle in for the longest three minutes of our lives. When it comes up negative, we shout with jubilation. “THANK YOU, JESUS! My mama would have killed me.”