I have to admit that I love it when people respond to my posts -- not only do I know that someone's reading me, but I get a chance to think more about whatever it is that's obsessing me, whatever problem has me by the metaphorical balls.
Speaking of metaphorical balls:
Last night, I told Dave (after posting the previous), that I was tired of having the vagina. I've had a vagina for 42 years, after all, and I think it's time for a change.
I've had every hair color in the aisle -- black, blonde, red, brown, green. I've had a series of hair dos -- short, long, in between, chopped, straight, permed. I've used a curling iron, a blow dryer, a waver, hot rollers, plastic curlers, braids (French and Unfrench), and sponge curlers. I've been plump and thin. I've worn make up and not worn make up. I've rearranged the furniture into every possible permutation. Now I want the penis for a while.
It's only fair. Why is he hogging it? Doesn't he want a nice, comfortable, worn in vagina for a few months? What else is marriage for, if not for sharing everything?
Why? he wondered. Why did I want the penis? Wasn't a small loan, now and then, lasting, say, 10-15 minutes, enough?
No. I want the testosterone. I want to hold myself in my hand. I want to cringe when people make jokes about smashing me in it. I want to get a hard on. I want to experience the divining rod effect -- stick looking for water to take a dip. I want to imagine that when I write I'm reeling off tiny children from my pen and my fingers, both substitutes for the center of gravity: my soft, changing, dangling, happy, vulnerable, out there penis.
Me and my penis. It will be a cheesy love story. Reality will go into soft focus, and violins will play in the background. I'll put my hands into my pockets and touch myself. I'll jingle coins and keys in my pockets, just to feel them bounce off my Beloved. I'll take my penis for daily walks, maybe twice daily walks. We'll tour the neighborhood. Hell, we'll walk all the way down to Lambeau Field and back. The cold won't bother us, or the snow. It'll just make us glow when we get home, where it's warm.
My penis will give me a new lease on life. Coursing with testosterone, pumped up through my skin and into my electric hair, I want to sit down at my desk with the idea that I'm going to print out my poetry manuscript, without revising it for the 11 millionth time, and then send it out -- to Ecco Press. To Vintage! To Knopf. Because, damnit, I'm worth it!
And then I want to do just that. I want to print it out, put it into an envelope addressed to Ecco, and put it in the mail. No quibbling. Just me and my penis on a mission for recognition.
I can hear some of you already. You're saying, Laurie, you idiot, the penis isn't going to help you do anything. You can send your manuscript to Ecco just as easily with the vagina.
Besides, the vagina is just as nice as the penis. Maybe even nicer. After all, it's a self contained unit. It's served you well.
Okay, okay, so sometimes (yes, lots of times) it had to be taken into the shop. And the mechanics could never figure out what was wrong with it. But that's just because lots of them had penises and didn't know what the hell to do with the vagina. Didn't you read Eve Ensler? What? Were you fucking sleeping during all those productions of the Vagina Monologues?
And didn't you learn anything in graduate school, anything at all? Are you just an essentialist loser after all, after all that deprogramming? Are you still on phallic overdrive, you silly twit?
Come to think of it, maybe you don't deserve your vagina. Maybe you SHOULD get to use the penis for a month or two. See how you feel. You'll be begging, begging, for your old coochie snorcher back.
Now you're just fueling all those fires, those boring, asinine Freudian fires -- penis envy this, penis envy that. Delete this shit before you do something stupid, like hit that "update journal" button.
Okay. It was a fine fantasy while it lasted. And I loved the look on Dave's face when I kept insisting it was my turn with the penis. He wanted to think it was a joke, he laughed, he smiled, he threw back the covers and offered to share, but about 5% of him, way back in his blue eyes, hunted for a place to hide it from me. Frantic. The cops banging at the door with the battering ram and the canisters of smoking tear gas.
Now. My vagina and I have some work to do. We have to find the address for Ecco Press. Then we're going for a walk around the block. We might even take in a matinee -- we're in the mood today for action adventure.