A close of mine friend recently gave birth to her second child. For those of your unfamiliar with childbirth, it’s a beastly endeavor that leaves all involved physically or emotionally scarred for a very long time. Why anyone would go through it more than once will forever evade my understanding. The entire process is a bitter miracle, from broken condom until dying from high blood pressure caused by the 400th time the kid asks where his shoes are. They’re right in front of you! I have one of these disgusting creatures myself, and while I love him with every atom in my being, another might just send me over the edge. My own excuse for drinking aside, my friend, we’ll call her Ethel to protect her identity, popped out a second one, and on purpose no less! Unlike the deep psychological damage done to me by witnessing this ghastly blessing when my son was born, Ethel ended up with a split labia.
I have, always have had, an ineffable air about me that makes women feel comfortable telling me everything about themselves, no matter how personal, no matter how embarrassing, no matter how much I don’t really want to know(it should be noted that split labia is something that I absolutely want to know about). One woman even took me shopping for sex toys with her. It got awkward when my friend who worked at the sex toy shop decided to “help” her. She later said to me, “I think he was hitting on me, but really I was more disturbed by how much he knew about the sex toys.” Know your product I guess. The only explanation for my “gift” that I can come up with is that I’m such a depraved individual that I couldn’t possibly judge anyone else for anything.
So, Ethel called me up one night, the sole reason for this call – and she never calls, only texts – to tell me that her labia was split in half while giving birth to her daughter. I thought it was pretty cool, like a battle scar, and told her so. I had never heard of this happening, but as it turns out, it’s quite common. When my son was born, he ripped his mother open and she had to be stitched up. A bifurcated labia was a new concept to me. Anyway, she called me up to ask my opinion as to whether she should have it repaired. And she suggested, after her decision was made, that I write about it on the blog, though, she refused to provide me with a photo for reference, despite how much I insisted that it would be a tasteful close-up picture of her crotch. I even offered to use an Instagram filter to class it up, something old timey. Some people just don’t understand the artistic process involved in writing a blog.
Vaginal modification has become extremely popular in recent years in an ever growing campaign to get women to torture themselves in order to live up to the expectations created by others getting the surgery. While many cosmetic surgeries have important applications, that women are convinced they need to be pretty everywhere speaks to the tragic depths to which we have descended in our vanity and sense of entitlement. We don’t just expect hot women, no, they must be perfect. We demand large tits, but they can’t sag, big butt, but it must be firm. Shaved, waxed, tweezed, bleached. They need to wear sexy underwear, tight dresses, high heels. But if they get sexually assaulted, well, they should have dressed more modestly, flirted less. There are products to bleach labia, lest they not be that perfect shade of pink; assholes, lest they take on an unsightly brown color. This might all make sense since women’s fashion is just a few short years away from being complete nudity save for a large neon arrow pointing at their genitalia. Apart from all the aesthetic products, there’s the age old odor control issue. A vast array of feminine hygiene products are available in order to keep lady parts from smelling like lady parts, potentially throwing off the delicate balance of essential bacteria ensuring that women feel the need to use these products forever.
After considering all of this, naturally I advised Ethel to keep her battle scar. And she, having already come to a decision, agreed. She felt it was a reminder of how strong she can be. This put in my head the image of her squatting over a mirror before an important job interview saying, “You can do this.” But I got her point. Of all the women I’ve been with in my short time on this planet, which is no slouchy number by an stretch, I have never encountered a vagina that wasn’t pretty enough. Sure, just like everything else, there’s a certain aesthetic difference from person to person, but none so severe that I would end up telling stories about it around the fire to terrify my fellow campers. Ladies, your pussy is fantastic, scars and all. No man worth his salt would want you to change a thing. Strange as it may sound, a few of us actually like women.