The VJ And Me (Women Power)
What’s with the VJ? VJ THIS. VJ THAT. My over sixty friends are obsessed with their VJ’s. Not only are they getting Botox in their vaginas, but Moo Moo Milstein had a hideous vaginal rejuvenation. “Isn’t it enough that we have the Covid to worry about?
“Negative. You’re so negative,” says Molly Kline, a sixty-six year old beautiful hat designer. She rants that her vagina is bald and when the Covid is over, she’s having a vaginal hair transplant. “Benny doesn’t like bald.”
“Too bad!” I say. “Women have to stop giving penis power. They need to reclaim themselves, honor themselves, and their bald VJ’s.”
“Baby girl, the VJ has power.”
“No. Women have power.”
The pandemic rages on. While cases rise, President Trump refuses to wear a mask. My women friends continue to worry about their age, lines, and aging VJ’s.
The vagina has given me nothing but problems. When I was young, I had enough hair on my vagina to fill two heads. When I wore bikinis, the hair would stick out of the sides so then came the bikini wax, the most painful thing I ever went through. Then there were the periods, the pads like mattresses, the subsequent itching, and the fucking. My poor vagina was puffed, grabbed, licked, dis-respected. Do men go through that? No, they say blow, and promise a rose garden. Hey! No rose garden. Once I looked at my VJ in the mirror and screamed. It looked like a monster with hair. Still, I have nightmares about boils on my VJ, the doctor lancing them, the years at the gynecologist, my legs spread, and the bright lights on my vagina. In this anti-age culture where age is equated with appearance, women want designer vaginas.
“Tighten up,” says Moo Moo. Three of us are on zoom. Moo Moo’s red lips are so big they look like a vagina. Her hair extensions are gold and long waves float around her rather small head.
“Do men tighten their penises?” I argue. “Their balls hang like cow utters, most have teeny tiny penises, and women gush over them.”
“Men love the VJ,” Janet says. Her red hair is piled high in loops along her head. “Put your VJ in their face and your name is on their property. I know. I own a timeshare in Mexico and a six unit building in the city.”
“I’ve had it with vagina obsession,” I say. “Why are you lovely women catering to men? Have you ever seen an old penis? It shrivels up. But when the men are down with the VJ they act like they’re slumming. They stick their balls in your mouth, like it’s gum.”
Women use their VJ’s for power. I’m sad about women who feel that they have to look younger, who buy into the myth that if they don’t have jowls, sags, lines, and have a puffy vagina, that like the Sleeping Beauty awoke a hundred years later looking the same, Prince Charming will arrive and they’ll be young and happy forever.
As the pandemic rises. Markets and pharmacies close, delivery services deliver outdated old food, the poor homeless people wander the night, talking to God, I wonder if maybe we all died? If we were transported into an alternate universe?
If I don’t die from the Covid, before I kick the bucket, I want romantic love. I crave it. I want to know it, feel it, give and receive it. I want the kind of love that Rhett Butler felt for Scarlett O’Hara, Gatsby for Daisy Buchanan
Why can’t women be full -fledged people with interior lives, intellect, and at any age, can fulfill their old and new dreams? Why can’t they do this without a tightened vagina, and a face that looks like a wax mask?Look at Ruth Bader Ginsberg, Gloria Steinem, so many women who maintain beauty forever, without Botox.
Fuck all the ageists who tell me the party is over. To those who suggest that I stop working. Stop my dreams. Take an elder singles cruise to Alaska. Do I want to see melting icebergs? I think about living, learning and doing as long as I live. We need to legislate away labels like senior, gay, straight, cougar, age -appropriate, and other labels.
It’s Friday night. A low moon slings along the muggy dark sky. I love this time of night when the day is done and night begins. At night, I visit the moon, re-play the day, watch movies and sometimes cook. Night exacerbates memories. Memories that often are hard to face, memories that force me to see how shut down I was, how frozen and why my romantic relationships failed. Facing your truths can be painful…kind of like someone in prison insists she’s innocent until something happens and she confesses her crimes. Is there redemption? Only in knowing the truth. Is there forgiveness?
I need a vodka shot. By now you’re probably thinking I’m vulgar, or you hate me but as I repeat, before I kick the bucket I want to write my truths.
