Note: This is the current draft of a piece I performed at Patrick’s Cabaret in Minneapolis this past weekend.
The toilet paper lobby is in cahoots with Big Vagina.
I don’t mean “big vagina” as in “vaginas that are large.” I mean Big Vagina, as in capital B-Big, capital V-Vagina. As in Big Tobacco, Big Coal, Big Pharmaceutical. As in Conglomerates. Cartels. Cabals. Other… intimidating words that start with a hard-C sound. Shady backroom dealings, where mustachioed billionaires smoke cigars and discuss the course of international events. And lemme tell you, the toilet paper lobby has Big Vagina all sewn up!
That’s an unpleasant visual… I apologize.
But I know about their secret dealings because I am a recent initiate into the world of having a vagina. I possess something of an outsider’s perspective. See, I used to have a penis. For most of my life I had one, actually. But then, on December 10, 2013, a day foretold in prophecy, I stood naked atop the highest peaks and called upon otherworldly powers to make right a cosmic injustice.
Or maybe I simply went to a surgeon in Philadelphia and had some awesome fantasies while high on morphine.
But either way, my outie became an innie and I gained secret knowledge that Big Vagina doesn’t want you to have. Like Big Vagina’s relationship with the toilet paper lobby.
Let me tell you how peeing works when you have a penis: You stand in front of a toilet or urinal, you unzip, you aim, you shake, and you zip. You might wash your hands, but you probably won’t. Because – if done correctly – peeing from a penis does not get urine all over the fucking place.
Let me tell you how peeing works when you have a vagina: First, enter the stall. Gather up all your stuff. If you’re wearing a coat, you have to take it off and hang it on the back of the stall, if the stall has a hook. Which it probably doesn’t. Hang up your purse, or try to balance it on the top of the toilet paper dispenser, or heaven forbid try to hold it in your lap.
Unzip your pants, and drop trou. You want to pull your pants and underwear down low enough that they won’t get wet from what you’re about to do, but not so low that anything will touch the bathroom floor. Good.
Start to sit. Realize you forgot to check if the toilet seat is wet. Stop, check, and wipe off the seat with some toilet paper. (You did check to make sure the stall has toilet paper, right?) At long last, sit and pee.
Take some toilet paper to dab. I say “dab” and not “wipe,” because if you try to actually wipe a vagina with the cheap toilet paper in public restrooms the paper will tear and you’ll be left with little bits stuck to yourself. Take a new piece and dab again. And again. And again. And – are you fucking kidding me how is there still any moisture down there? – again. And once more for good measure. Hope haven’t missed any, but oh well! Pull your pants up. Get all your stuff together and leave the stall. Wash your fucking hands because you got urine all over the fucking place. Leave, only to find someone with a penis waiting for you in the lobby, wondering why it took them 30 seconds to pee and took you 45 minutes.
All of which brings us back to the toilet paper lobby. Somehow, by having a vagina, I have quintupled the amount of toilet paper I use. Just like Big Vagina wanted me to do. To send money straight to the toilet paper lobby. Have I really been so ignorant of how messy peeing from a vagina is?
Here’s another thing Big Vagina controls with an iron labia: menstrual pads. See, I need to dilate my fancy new vagina multiple times a day. This involves using “surgical dilators” (fancy dildos) to hold open this new orifice, so my body doesn’t do what bodies do when they’re healing, and try to close up an unexpected hole. Dilating involves lube, most of which I mop up with baby wipes. But what’s left behind (or in front, eww) slowly drips out of my vag over the next few hours. So I’ve been going through pad after pad, making up for a lifetime of not menstruating.
I’ve been doing some comparison shopping – pads with wings? without wings? thin? thin? incredibly thin? extremely thin? what is the difference between a super-thin pad and an ultra-thin pad? – and I’ve noticed a few consistencies across brands and types.
First, all the pads have blue patterns. Whether or not they have wings, whether the box is green, or blue, or pink, or neon pink, or light pink, or dark pink – the white cotton pad itself has light blue patterns. Apparently my vagina demands blue. Apparently all vaginas demand blue.
Second, all pads have fake decorative stitching. This may correspond with the blue designs, or it may be in the shape of flowers, or lines, or geometric patterns. Every time I change my pad, it’s like a quilt fair all up in my crotch. Now one might claim that the stitching helps with absorbency, but I call bullshit. Think about what is happening when a pad is mushed up against a vag. Take a moment.
Another less than pleasant visual, eh? And I stand here to tell you that the laws fluid dynamics will not give a shit about decorative floral stitching as used lubed drips from my still-healing cunt.
One might say that this is all part of being a woman. That – by gaining a vagina – I’ve also gained entry to a lineage of female experience stretching back tens of thousands of years. That, with time and as I get used to my new anatomy, I’ll be able to go to the bathroom without it taking quite so long. That I should embrace my piss-stained hands, my fancy blue quilted vagina.
To this I say a resounding NO! For too long, we have allowed Big Vagina to dick-tate our relationships with our bodies. Their control must end! To be lazy is to do a great dis-cervix to myself and to women everywhere; I don’t think I’m ovary-acting. After all, I am not one to call it clits! I demand that we snatch our freedom away from those who would put us in the dark hole of bondage! Rest assured, we will finger this out.
Together. I cunt do it without you.