womynaregreat

[womynaregreat]

Evening everyone! Kind of an announcement thing going here. So, through my university, I have the opportunity to go to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival to perform one of our shows! This is such a wonderful opportunity, both for my theatre career, and also to experience a whole other country!

But, of course, international travel is expensive. To make some money for this trip, I’ve been trying to make and sell various handmade bracelets! Most bracelets are $4, but can vary based on special styles and such. Here are some examples:

These, plus many more, are currently available in my shop! Here is the link. Currently, I am running a sale (until November 27th) where you will get 25% off if you buy two or more bracelets. Please consider checking out my shop. Even just reblogging this will help me out tremendously.

Additionally, if you still want to help me out but are not interested in bracelets, I also have a Ko-Fi account where you can donate to my trip. Thank you so much for following, and for taking the time to read this! I appreciate all of you so much.

Ko-Fi Link // Facebook Link // Website Link // Shop Link 

Links can also be found in my sidebar after clicking the arrows at the top of the page.

Finally, I will follow everyone who reblogs this post, and will promo and follow anyone who purchases anything to my 1,200+ followers. Message me if you purchase anything (include your etsy username, what you ordered, or email so I can verify.)

[womynaregreat]

It’s me again. I made the monologue blog. Link here.

[womynaregreat]

Tomorrow There’ll be More of Us (Reprise) - Eliza

From: Hamilton: An Americal Musical, by Lin-Manuel Miranda

Genre: Dramedy; Musical

Topic: Death; Letter

Character: Female; Kind; Non-White

Alexander? There’s a letter for you.

           “On Tuesday the 27th, my son was killed in a gunfight against British troops retreating from South Carolina. The war was already over. As you know, John dreamed of emancipating and recruiting 3,000 men for the first all-black military regiment. His dream of freedom for these men dies with him.”

           Alexander. Are you alright?

[womynaregreat]

Part 01, Act 02, Scene 15 - Draco - 02

From: Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, by JK Rowling, John Tiffany, Jack Thorne

Genre: Dramedy

Topic: Parenting; Friendship; Darkness

Character: Male; Adult

           My father thought he was protecting me. Most of the time. I think you have to make a choice – at a certain point – of the man you want to be. And I tell you that at that time you need a parent or friend. And if you’ve learnt to hate your parent by then and you have no friends… then you’re all alone. And being alone – that’s so hard. I was alone. And it sent me to a truly dark place. For a long time. Tom Riddle was also a lonely child. You may not understand that, Harry, but I do – and I think Ginny does too.

           Tom Riddle didn’t emerge from his dark place. And so Tom Riddle became Lord Voldemort. Maybe the black cloud Bane saw was Albus’s loneliness. His pain. His hatred. Don’t lose the boy. You’ll regret it. And so will he. Because he needs you, and Scorpius, whether or not he now knows it.

[womynaregreat]

Irena - 03

From: I Never Saw Another Butterfly, by Celeste Raspanti

Genre: Drama; One Act

Topic: Holocaust; Goodbye

Character: Female; Adult; Motherly

Raja, Raja Englanderova, you know by now that my number – 102866 – was called; when you come to school today you will see that I have gone. You will have questions, and I will answer them before you ask. Once I saw an old Bible picture. Satan was about to pierce a saint through with his lance. The saint was sitting comfortably there, as if it had nothing to do with him. I used to think that the medieval painters were incapable of presenting feelings like fear, astonishment, or pain – so it looked like the saints had shown no interest in their own martyrdom. Now I understand the saints better; what could they do? I have wrapped up the last of the pictures and poems in my shawl. See that these are buried with the rest – somewhere. And remember what they mean to all of us. I have nothing else to give you but this – what you and all the children have made of Terezin – the fields, the flowers – and all the butterflies… Goodbye…

[womynaregreat]

My Angry Vagina

From: The Vagina Monologues, by Even Ensler

Genre: Dramedy

Topic: Autobiography; Anger

Character: Female; Adult

My vagina’s angry. It is. It’s pissed off. My vagina’s furious and it needs to talk. It needs to talk about all this shit. It needs to talk to you. I mean what’s the deal — an army of people out there thinking up ways to torture my poor-ass, gentle, loving vagina. Spending their days constructing psycho products, and nasty ideas to undermine my pussy. Vagina Motherfuckers.

All this shit they’re constantly trying to shove up us, clean us up — stuff us up, make it go away. Well, my vagina’s not going away. It’s pissed off and it’s staying right here. Like tampons — what the hell is that? A wad of dry fucking cotton stuffed up there. Why can’t they find a way to subtly lubricate the tampon? As soon as my vagina sees it, it goes into shock. It says forget it. It closes up. You need to work with the vagina, introduce it to things, prepare the way. That’s what foreplay’s all about. You got to convince my vagina, seduce my vagina, engage my vagina’s trust. You can’t do that with a dry wad of fucking cotton.

Stop shoving things up me. Stop shoving and stop cleaning it up. My vagina doesn’t need to be cleaned up. It smells good already. Don’t try to decorate. Don’t believe them when he tells you it smells like rose petals when it’s supposed to smell like pussy. That’s what they’re doing, trying to clean it up, make it smell like bathroom spray or a garden. All those douche sprays, floral, berry, rain. I don’t want my pussy to smell like rain. All cleaned up like washing a fish after you cooked it. I want to taste the fish. That’s why I ordered it.

Then there’s those exams. Who thought them up? There’s got to be a better way to do those exams. Why the scary paper dress that scratches your tits and crunches when you lie down so you feel like a wad of paper someone threw away. Why the rubber gloves? Why the flashlight all up there like Nancy Drew working against gravity, why the Nazi steel stirrups, the mean cold duck lips they shove inside you? What’s that? My vagina’s angry about those visits. It gets defended weeks in advance. It won’t go out of the house. Then you get there. Don’t you hate that? “Scoot down. Relax your vagina.” Why? So you can shove mean cold duck lips inside it. I don’t think so.

Why can’t they find some nice delicious purple velvet and wrap it around me, lay me down on some feathery cotton spread, put on some nice friendly pink or blue gloves, and rest my feet in some fur covered stirrups? Warm up the duck lips. Work with my vagina.

But no, more tortures — dry wad of fucking cotton, cold duck lips, and thong underwear. That’s the worst. Thong underwear. Who thought that up? Moves around all the time, gets stuck in the back of your crusty butt.

Vagina’s supposed to be loose and wide, not held together. That’s why girdles are so bad. We need to move and spread and talk and talk. Vaginas need comfort. Make something like that. Something to give them pleasure. No, of course they won’t do that. Hate to see a woman having pleasure, particularly sexual pleasure. I mean make a nice pair of soft cotton underwear with a French tickler built in. Women would be coming all day long, coming in the supermarket, coming on the subway, coming happy vaginas. They wouldn’t be able to stand it. Seeing all those energized, not taking shit, hot happy vaginas.

If my vagina could talk it would talk about itself like me, it would talk about other vaginas, it would do vagina impressions.

It would wear Harry Winston diamonds, no clothing, just there all draped in diamonds.

My vagina helped release a giant baby. It thought it would be doing more of that. It’s not. Now, it wants to travel, doesn’t want a lot of company. It wants to read and know things and get out more. It wants sex. It loves sex. It wants to go deeper. It’s hungry for depth. It wants kindness. It wants change. It wants silence and freedom and gentle kisses and warm liquids and deep touch. It wants chocolate. It wants to scream. It wants to stop being angry. It wants to come. It wants to want. It wants. My vagina, my vagina. Well…It wants everything.

[womynaregreat]

Missy - 01

From: Bush Dreams, by Walter Wykes (Ten - Minute Play)

Genre: Comedy

Topic: Cat

Character: Female

Oh! A kitty! Come here, Kitty. Come here. It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. [She picks the animal up, strokes its back. It begins to purr contentedly.] There you go. Do you like that? You just needed some attention, huh? Was everybody ignoring you? If you were a giraffe I bet you’d be getting lots of attention! What a good kitty you are. Yes, you are. What’s your name? Do you have a name? You sure are a cute little thing. You want to come back to the village with me? Huh? We could watch out for each other, you know, I could scratch behind your ears, you could show me where all the good watering holes are. You look like you know your way around. I don’t suppose you know where I could find a nice, hot bath, do you? No? Well, it was worth a shot. At the moment, I’d be willing to do just about anything for a bath. I guess I’m talking to the wrong animal though. You don’t have to bathe. You just lick yourself clean. I may have to try that. Yes, I may have to– [MISSY suddenly realizes that the dancing has stopped. She freezes.] Why is everyone staring at us?

[womynaregreat]

Part 02, Act 04, Scene 04 - 01 - Harry

From: Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, by JK Rowling, Jack Thorne, John Tiffany

Genre: Dramedy

Topic: Betrayal; Anger

Character: Male

Go. Leave. I don’t want you here, I don’t need you. You were absent every time it really counted. I fought him three times without you. I’ll face him again, if needs be – alone.

“Love blinds us”? Do you even know what that means? Do you even know how bad that advice was? My son is – my son is fighting battles for us just as I had to for you. And I have proved as bad a father to him as you were to me. Leaving him in places he felt unloved – growing in him resentments he’ll take years to understand –

Years – years I spent there alone, without knowing what I was, or why I was there, without knowing that anybody cared!

[womynaregreat]

Cell Block  Tango - Liz

From: Chicago, by John Kander, Fred Ebb,  Bob Fosse

Genre: Comedy; Musical

Topic: Murder

Character: Female; Young Adult

You know how guys have these little habits that get you down? Like Bernie. Bernie liked to chew gum. No, not chew. POP. So I came home this one day and I am really irritated, and I’m looking for a bit of sympathy. And there’s Bernie layin’ on the couch, drinkin’ a beer and chewin’. No, not chewin’. POPPIN’. So I said to him, I said, “you pop that gum one more time..” and he did. So I took the shotgun off the wall and I fired two warning shots… into his head.

[womynaregreat]

If Your Vagina Could Talk, What Would It Say?

From: The Vagina Monologues, by Even Ensler

Genre: Dramedy

Topic: Autobiography; Vaginas

Character: Female; Adult; Multiple Characters as One

Slow down.

Is that you?

Feed me.

I want.

Yum, yum.

Oh, yeah.

Start again.

No, over there.

Lick me.

Stay home.

Brave choice.

Think again.

More, please.

Embrace me.

Let’s play.

Don’t stop.

More, more.

Remember me?

Come inside.

Not yet.

Woah, Mama.

Yes yes.

Rock me.

Enter at your own risk.

Oh, God.

Thank God.

I’m here.

Let’s go.

Let’s go.

Find me.

Thank you.

Bonjour.

Too hard.

Don’t give up.

Where’s Brian?

That’s better.

Yes, there. There.

[womynaregreat]

The Vagina Workshop

From: The Vagina Monologues, by Even Ensler

Genre: Dramedy

Topic: Autobiography; Vagina; Acceptence

Character: Female; Adult; English Accent

My vagina is a shell, a round pink tender shell opening and closing, closing and opening. My vagina is a flower, an eccentric tulip, the center acute and deep, the scent delicate, the petals gentle but sturdy.

I did not always know this. I learned this in the vagina workshop. I learned this from a woman who runs the vagina workshop, a woman who believes in vaginas, who really sees vaginas, who helps other women see their own vaginas by seeing other women’s vaginas.

In the first session the woman who runs the vagina workshop asked us to draw a picture of our own “unique, beautiful, fabulous vagina.” That’s what she called it. She wanted to know what our own unique beautiful fabulous vagina looked like to us. One woman who was pregnant drew a big red mouth screaming with coins spilling out. Another very skinny woman drew a big serving plate with a kind of Devonshire pattern on it. I drew a huge black dot with little squiggly lines around it. The black dot was equal to a black hole in space and the squiggly lines were meant to be people or things or just your basic atoms that got lost there. I had always thought of my vagina as an anatomical vacuum randomly sucking up particles and objects from the surrounding environment.

I did not think of my vagina in practical or biological terms. I did not, for example, see it as something attached to me.

In the workshop we were asked to look at our vaginas with hand mirrors. Then, after careful examination, we were to verbally report to the group what we saw. I must tell you that up until this point everything I knew about my vagina was based on hearsay or invention. I had never really seen the thing. It had never occurred to me to look at it. My vagina existed for me on some abstract plane. It seemed so reductive and awkward looking at it like we were in the workshop on our shiny blue mats, with our hand mirrors. It reminded me of how the early astronomers must have felt with their primitive telescopes.

I found it quite unsettling at first, my vagina. Like the first time you see a fish cut open and you discover this other bloody complex world inside, right under the skin. It was so raw, so red, so fresh. And the thing that surprised me most was all the layers. Layers inside layers, opening into more layers.

My vagina amazed me. I couldn’t speak when it came my turn in the workshop. I was speechless. I had awakened to what the woman who ran the workshop called “vaginal wonder.” I just wanted to lay there on my mat, my legs spread, examining my vagina forever.

It was better than the Grand Canyon, ancient and full of grace. It had the innocence and freshness of a proper English garden. It was funny, very funny. It made me laugh. It could hide and seek, open and close.

Then, the woman who ran the workshop asked how many women in the workshop had had orgasms. Two women tentatively raised their hands. I didn’t raise my hand, but I had had orgasms. I didn’t raise my hand because they were accidental orgasms. They happened to me. They happened in my dreams, and I would wake in splendor. They happened a lot in water, mostly in the bath. Once in Cape Cod.

They happened on horses, on bicycles, sometimes on the treadmill at the gym. I did not raise my hand because although I had had orgasms, I did not know how to make one happen. I thought it was a mystical, magical thing. I didn’t want to interfere. It felt wrong getting involved — contrived, manipulative. It felt Hollywood. The surprise would be gone, and the mystery. The problem, of course, was that the surprise had been gone for two years. I hadn’t had a magical accidental orgasm in a long time, and I was frantic. That’s why I was in the vagina workshop.

And then the moment had arrived that I both dreaded and longed for. The woman who ran the workshop asked us to take out our hand mirrors again and to see if we could locate our clitoris. We were there, the group of us women, on our backs, on our mats, searching for our spots, our locus, our reason, and I don’t know why but I started crying. Maybe it was sheer embarrassment. Maybe it was knowing that I had to give up the fantasy, the enormous life-consuming fantasy, that someone or something was going to do this for me — the fantasy that someone was coming to lead my life, to choose direction, to give me orgasms. I could feel the panic coming. The simultaneous terror and realization that I had avoided finding my clitoris, had rationalized it as mainstream and consumerist because I was, in fact, terrified that I did not have a clitoris, terrified that I was one of those constitutionally incapables, one of those frigid, dead, shut down, dry, apricot-tasting, bitter — oh my God. I lay there with my mirror looking for my spot, reaching with my fingers and all I could think about was the time when I was ten and lost my gold ring with the emeralds in a lake. How I kept diving over and over to the bottom of the lake, running my hands over stones and fish and bottle caps and slimy stuff, but never my ring. The panic I felt. I knew I’d be punished.

The woman who ran the workshop saw my insane scrambling, sweating and heavy breathing. She came over. I told her “It’s gone. It’s gone. I’ve lost my clitoris. I shouldn’t have worn it swimming.” The woman who ran the workshop laughed. She calmly stroked my forehead. She told me my clitoris was not something I could lose. It was me, she said, the essence of me. It was both the doorbell to my house and the house itself. I didn’t have to find it. I had to be it.

Be it. Be my clitoris. Be my clitoris. I lay back and closed my eyes. I put the mirror down. I watched myself floating above myself. I watched as I slowly began to approach myself and re-enter. I felt like an astronaut re-entering the surface of the earth. It was very quiet this re-entry, quiet and gentle. I bounced and landed, landed and bounced. I came into my own muscles and blood and cells and then I slid into my vagina. It was suddenly easy and I fit. I was all warm and pulsing and ready and young and alive. And then, without looking, with my eyes still closed, I put my finger on what had suddenly become me. There was a little quivering at first, which urged me to stay. Then the quivering became a quake, an eruption, the layers dividing and subdividing. The quaking broke open into an ancient horizon of light and silence, which opened onto a plane of music and colors and innocence and longing, and I felt connection, calling connection as I lay there thrashing about on my little blue mat.

My vagina is a shell, a tulip, and a destiny. I am arriving as I am beginning to leave. My vagina, my vagina, me.

[womynaregreat]

The Woman Who Loved To Make Vaginas Happy

From: The Vagina Monologues, by Even Ensler

Genre: Dramedy

Topic: Autobiography; Sex Work; Orgasms

Character: Female; Adult; Lesbian

I love vaginas. I love women. I do not see them as separate things. Women pay me to dominate them, to excite them, to make them come. I did not start out like this. No, to the contrary: I started out as a lawyer, but in my late thirties, I became obsessed with making women happy. It began as a mission of sorts, but then I got involved in it. I got very good at it, kind of brilliant. It was my art. I started getting paid for it. It was as if I had found my calling.

I wore outrageous outfits when I dominated women — lace and silk and leather — and I used props: whips, handcuffs, rope, dildos. There was nothing like this in tax law. There were no props, no excitement, and I hated those blue corporate suits; although I wear them now from time to time in my new line of work and they serve quite nicely. There were no props in corporate law. No wetness. No dark mysterious foreplay. No erect nipples. No delicious mouths, but mainly there was no moaning. Not the kind I’m talking about anyway. This was the key, I see now; moaning was the thing that ultimately seduced me and got me addicted to making women happy. When I was a little girl and I would see women in the movies making love, making strange orgasmic moaning noises, I used to laugh. I got strangely hysterical. I couldn’t believe that big outrageous, ungoverned sounds like that came out of women.

I longed to moan. I practiced in front of my mirror, on a tape recorder, moaning in various keys, various tones. But always when I played it back, it sounded fake. It was fake. It wasn’t rooted in anything sexual really, only in my desire to be sexual.

But then when I was ten I had to pee really badly once. On a car trip. It went on for almost an hour and when I finally got to pee in this dirty little gas station, it was so exciting, I moaned. I moaned as I peed. I couldn’t believe it, me moaning in a Texaco station in the middle of Louisiana. I realized right then that moans are connected with not getting what you want right away, with putting things off. I realized moans were best when they caught you by surprise, they came out of this hidden mysterious part of you that was speaking its own language. I realized that moans were, in fact, that language.

I became a moaner. It made most men anxious. Frankly, it terrified them. I was loud and they couldn’t concentrate on what they were doing. They’d lose focus. Then they’d lose everything. We couldn’t make love in people’s homes. The walls were too thin. I got a reputation in my building and people stared at me with contempt in the elevator. Men thought I was too intense, some called me insane.

I began to feel bad about moaning. I got quiet and polite. I made noise into a pillow. I learned to choke my moan, hold it back like a sneeze. I began to get headaches and stress-related disorders. I was becoming hopeless when I discovered women. I discovered that most women loved my moaning, but more importantly I discovered how deeply excited I got when other women moaned, when I was responsible for other women moaning.

I made love to quiet women and I found this place inside them and they shocked themselves in their moaning. I made love to moaners and they found a deeper, more penetrating moan.

It was a kind of surgery, a kind of delicate science, finding the tempo, the exact location or home of the moan. That’s what I called it.

Sometimes I found it over a woman’s jeans. Sometimes I snuck up on it, off the record, quietly disarming the surrounding alarms and moving in. Sometimes I used force, but not violent, oppressing force, more like dominating, “I’m going to take you someplace, don’t worry, lay back and enjoy the ride” kind of force. Sometimes it was simply mundane. I found the moan before things even started, while we were eating salad or chicken just casual just right there, with my fingers. “Here it is like that,” real simple, in the kitchen, all mixed in with the balsamic vinegar. Sometimes I used props — I loved props — sometimes I made the woman find her own moan in front of me. I waited, stuck it out until she opened herself. I wasn’t fooled by the minor, more obvious moans. No, I pushed her further all the way into her power moan.

(Move quickly through the moans.) There’s the clit moan (a soft in-the-mouth sound), the vaginal moan (a deep in-the-throat sound), the combo, clit-vaginal moan. There’s the almost moan (a circling sound), the right on it moan (a deeper definite sound), the elegant moan (a sophisticated laughing sound), the Grace Slick moan (a rock singing sound), the WASP moan (no sound), the Jewish moan (“No. No.”), the African-American moan (“Oh shit!”), the Irish Catholic moan (“Forgive me.”), the mountaintop moan (yodeling sound), the baby moan (googie googie googie goo sound), the doggy moan (a panting sound), the uninhibited militant bisexual moan (a deep, aggressive, pounding sound), the machine-gun moan, the tortured Zen moan (a twisted hungry sound), the Diva moan (a high operatic note), the college moan (“I should be studying. I should be studying.”), and finally, the surprise triple orgasm moan (intense, multifaceted, climactic moan).

[womynaregreat]

Part 01, Act 02, Scene 06 - Amos - 01

From: Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, by JK Rowling, John Tiffany, Jack Thorne

Genre: Dramedy

Topic: Avoidence

Character: Male; Elderly

           I’ve tried to make appointments at the Ministry. They say, “Ah, Mr. Diggory, we have an appointment for you, let’s see, in two months.” I wait. Very patiently.

           Two months pass, I receive an owl, “Mr. Diggory, I’m awfully sorry, but Mr. Potter has been called away on urgent business, we’re going to have to shift things around a little, are you available for an appointment in, let’s see, in two months’ time.” And then it repeats again, and again… You’re shutting me out.

[womynaregreat]

Part 01, Act 01, Scene 05, - Hermione - 01

From: Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, by JK Rowling, John Tiffany, Jack Thorne

Genre: Dramedy

Topic: Paperwork; Boredom 

Character: Female; Adult

           I was anxious to hear about Theodore Nott and – thought I’d check whether you’d kept your promise and were on top of your paperwork.

           No. you’re not. Harry, how can you get any work done in this mess?

           But still ignored. You know, there’s some interesting stuff in here… There are mountain trolls riding Graphorns through Hungary, there are giants with winged tattoos on their back walking through the Greek Seas, and the werewolves have gone entirely underground –

           Harry, I get it. Paperwork’s boring…

           I’m busy enough with my own. These are people and beasts that fought alongside Voldemort in the great wizarding wars. These are allies of darkness. This – combined with what we have just unearthed at Theodore Nott’s – could mean something. But if the Head of Magical Law Enforcement isn’t reading his files –

[womynaregreat]

It’s me again. I made the monologue blog. Link here.

[womynaregreat]

Because He Liked to Look at It

From: The Vagina Monologues, by Even Ensler

Genre: Dramedy

Topic: Autobiography

Character: Female; Adult

This is how I came to love my vagina. It’s embarrassing because it’s not politically correct. I mean I know it should have happened in a bath with salt grains from the Dead Sea, Enya playing, me loving my woman self. I know the story. Vaginas are beautiful. Our self-hatred is only the internalized repression and hatred of the patriarchal culture. It isn’t real. Pussies Unite. I know all of it. Like if we’d grown up in a culture where we were taught fat thighs were beautiful, we’d all be pounding down milkshakes and Krispy Kremes, lying on our backs, spending our days thigh-expanding. But, we didn’t grow up in that culture. I hated my thighs and I hated my vagina even more. I thought it was incredibly ugly. I was one of those women who had looked at it and from that moment on I wished I hadn’t. It made me sick. I pitied anyone who had to go down there.

In order to survive, I began to pretend there was something else between my legs. I imagined furniture — cozy futons with light cotton comforters, little velvet settees, leopard rugs, or pretty things — silk handkerchiefs, quilted pot holders, or place settings. I got so accustomed to this that I lost all memory of having a vagina. Whenever a man was inside me, I pictured him inside a mink-lined muffler, or a Chinese bowl.

Then I met Bob. Bob was the most ordinary man I ever met. He was thin and tall and nondescript and wore khaki tan clothes. Bob did not like spicy foods or listen to Prince. He had no interest in sexy lingerie. In the summer he spent time in the shade. He did not share his inner feelings. He did not have any problems or issues and was not even an alcoholic. He wasn’t very funny or articulate or mysterious. He wasn’t mean or unavailable. He wasn’t self-involved or charismatic. He didn’t drive fast. I didn’t particularly like Bob. I would have missed him altogether if he hadn’t picked up my change that I dropped on the deli floor. When he handed me back my quarters and pennies and his hand accidentally touched mine, something happened. I went to bed with him. That’s when the miracle occurred.

Turned out that Bob loved vaginas. He was a connoisseur. He loved the way they felt, the way they tasted, the way they smelled, but most importantly he loved the way they looked. He had to look at them. The first time we had sex, he told me he had to see me.

“I’m right here,” I said.

“No, you,” he said.

“I have to see you.”

“Turn on the light,” I said, thinking he was a weirdo and freaking out in the dark.

He turned on the light.

Then he said, “OK, I’m ready, ready to see you.”

“Right here,” I waved, “I’m right here.”

Then he began to undress me.

“What are you doing Bob?” I said.

“I need to see you,” he replied.

“No need,” I said. “Just do it.”

“I need to see what you look like,” he said.

“But you’ve seen a red leather couch before,” I said.

Bob continued. He would not stop. I wanted to throw up and die.

“This is awfully intimate,” I said. “Can’t you just do it.”

“No,” he said. “It’s who you are. I need to look.”

I held my breath. He looked and looked. He got breathy and his face changed. He didn’t look ordinary anymore. He looked like a hungry beast.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said. “You’re elegant and deep and innocent and wild.”

“You saw that there?” I said.

It was like he read my palm.

“I saw that,” he said, “and more, much much more.”

He stayed looking for almost an hour as if he were studying a map, observing the moon, staring into my eyes, but it was my vagina. In the light I watched him looking at me and he was so genuinely excited, so peaceful and euphoric, I began to get wet and turned on. I began to see myself the way he saw me. I began to feel beautiful and delicious — like a great painting, or a waterfall. Bob wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t grossed out. I began to swell, began to feel proud. Began to love my vagina. And Bob, lost himself there, and I was there with him, in my vagina, and we were gone.

[womynaregreat]

Hair

From: The Vagina Monologues, by Even Ensler

Genre: Dramedy

Topic: Autobiography; Hair

Character: Female; Adult

You cannot love a vagina unless you love hair. Many people do not love hair. My first and only husband hated hair. He said it was cluttered and dirty. He made me shave my vagina. It looked puffy and exposed and like a little girl. This excited him. When he made love to me, my vagina felt the way a beard must feel. It felt good to rub it, and painful. Like scratching a mosquito bite. It felt like it was on fire. There were screaming red bumps. I refused to shave it again. Then my husband had an affair. When we went to marital therapy, he said he screwed around because I wouldn’t please him sexually. I wouldn’t shave my vagina. The therapist had a thick German accent and gasped between sentences to show her empathy. She asked me why I didn’t want to please my husband. I told her I thought it was weird. I felt little when my hair was gone down there, and I couldn’t help talking in a baby voice, and the skin got irritated and even calamine lotion wouldn’t help it. She told me marriage is a compromise. I asked her if shaving my vagina would stop him from screwing around. I asked her if she’d had many cases like this before. She said that questions diluted the process. I needed to jump in. she was sure it was a good beginning.

This time, when we got home, he got to shave my vagina. It was like a therapy bonus prize. He clipped it a few times, and there was a little blood in the bathtub. He didn’t even notice it, ‘cause he was so happy shaving me. Then, later when my husband was pressing against me, I could feel his spiky sharpness sticking into me, my naked puffy vagina. There was no protection. There was no fluff.

I realized then that hair is there for a reason – it’s the leaf around the flower, the lawn around the house. You have to love hair in order to love the vagina. You can’t pick the parts you want. And besides, my husband never stopped screwing around.