Dear men,
Someday, if you’re lucky, you might have a wife or girlfriend.* And there’s a lot you don’t know. Hell, you’ve barely found the clitoris.
Ignorance is a huge turn-off. How can a lady ever trust you to kill her spiders if you’re still terrified and confused by the dry cottonwads that inhabit women’s vaginas when your dick isn’t in there?
Dalton, looking dubiously for the clit he needs.
EVANSTON, Ill. — Sophomore Gender Studies major Lane Dalton announced this morning that he had just turned in his first ever clit review to a faculty member in the Gender Studies department.
The six-page review discussed, compared and criticized a wide variety of clit pertaining to Dalton’s research topic.
Dalton admitted that his experience writing a clit review brought mixed feelings of Continue reading
Get at me ladies!
In between our in-depth conversations about “if New Jersey is the armpit of America, where is the clitoris?” and giggle fits about Mary Kay Letourneau, I cannot help but wonder whether my roommate harbors a secret repulsion towards the disgusting standards by which I live my life.
It’s not what you think. I’m not the roommate that comes home drunk and turns on the lights at four AM or uses up all the ink to print out pictures of my imaginary someday-cat during midterms week right before her big paper is due. I might be the roommate that forgets to fill up the water pitcher.
I am the smelly roommate.
Look, I want you all to know that I’m not that bad, it’s just that every Foul Bachelor Frog joke ever is based on my daily decisions. For example: Instead of showering I tell myself I’m going to the gym and there’s simply no point. Instead of rolling out of bed and trying to make myself look more like a member of this species, my weak-willed sleep haze hits snooze until the choice becomes should I wear a douchebag hat today or walk in late again? Instead of doing laundry literally right now I’m writing this article. You are reading the confessions of someone who has attended formal chapter in black sweatpants and a “white” t-shirt and who has shamelessly told her boyfriend while cuddling to please don’t smell my hair.[1]
Why haven’t I chugged bleach yet?[2] Because PWild has ruined my hygiene forever and ever. Every semi-legitimate validation of my sanitary practices refers to the fact that once upon a time three years ago I was way grosser and came out of that experience with friends, probably.[3] Haven’t showered since Saturday? Well, I did that for a whole week on PWild! Wearing the same holey socks from yesterday’s run? Again, the eleven other insecure stankiepanties didn’t have a problem with it. Dishes piled on the side of my desk need a powerwasher? After ingesting meals that consisted of whatever we made just then plus hours-old breakfast oatmeal and some of last night’s rice clotted to the sides of a mess kit, I look like fackin Martha Stewart. But I don’t actually look like Martha Stewart, I look like Who The Hell Let The Homeless Chick In The Sorority House. And I’m not sure which is worse.
Here’s the thing: if you tell people you’re aware of your shortcomings, they are often more forgiving. The kid in high school who ate his earwax probably wasn’t aware that it was socially unacceptable. You know how when you touch someone’s butt by accident and you’re not tight enough to have it not matter, but you don’t want the awkwardness of, “Did she just…?” to hang in the air, so you politely say, “Oh, I’m sorry. I just touched your butt.” It’s like that. If I tell you I am both aware and ashamed that I’m wearing Eau de I Forgot Deodorant, it’s all better, right?
Honestly, I know I shouldn’t accept this. I shouldn’t sacrifice that morning shower for sleep two days in a row and then have to maintain a two-to-ten-foot Danger Zone and apologize to anyone who steps within it. I shouldn’t get back from running a half marathon and NOT SHOWER IMMEDIATELY. I shouldn’t casually inform people who tell me they like my creative outfit that I’m not trying to look fashionable, I just have no clean jeans. I should pluck my eyebrows more often and not do my makeup in the dark and remember to shave before I look like if Frieda Kahlo was a radical feminist in the 60’s.
But you know what? Today’s downpour counts for a shower. And I’m going to the gym now, so there’s simply no point.
Sorry, Roomie. You’re the best.
Dear Female Body,
First of all, I’d like to start things off by saying that I think you’re great. I know it’s been an awful long time since you last encountered me fumbling about you, but just so you know, I’m plumb crazy about you.
Thirteen-year-old me would totally hit that.
Now, ever since the 5th grade I’ve thought that a woman’s body was a marvelous thing to behold. A veritable chalice of perfection, the female form captured my imagination with its gentle slopes and lush form. Also: boobies.
Needless to say, I have been enraptured by your feminine mystique and sexual reproductive system for quite some time now. Yet I never understood until recently how fucking awesome you really are.
You see, a bunch of experts unearthed some real sciencey facts about the uterus that just totally blew my fucking mind. No, I’m not talking about menstruation, although I’m still a bit iffy about how you line that shit up with the lunar phases.
Apparently, after much scientific inquiry and consultation with the world’s leading medical experts, Rep. Todd Akin discovered something amazing about you:
“First of all, from what I understand from doctors [pregnancy from rape] is really rare. If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down.”
Holy shit! And this guy’s on the House Committee on Science, Space, and Technology, so this nerd must know his science facts. I mean, I kind of figured that House Republicans were the world’s foremost experts on the cooch, considering how frequently they enter ones that don’t belong to their wives. Why else would the GOP try to legislate the female body so heavily if they didn’t already know what was best for you?
But please be square with me, female body. When were you going to tell me about this awesome power of yours? And anyways, if you’ve had this ability to pick and choose with your cervix or whatever the hell is down there what counts as, like, legitski’s rape and what’s just a fuzzy jungle-juice induced night, why in God’s name would you lie about those roughly 32,000 annual pregnancies that you just claimed were the result of rape? Did you really think we were that stupid?
Like, how does this power of yours even work? Rep. Akin was a little unclear on the details. Is it like Teeth, were you can suddenly spring a pair of pearly whites on any unwanted penis that comes within a yard of your lady parts? Because a skill like that would certainly shut any motherfucker down.
Forcible rape? No no no bro, this was just a panty raid gone horribly awry.
Or maybe it’s like Star Wars, where fallopian tubes are really like Admiral Ackbar in Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi, sending out X-Wing Fighters to target the rape-induced pregnancy’s one weakness and blow the whole thing to hell.
What’s this, female body? You’ve never seen Star Wars? You’ve got to be kidding me.
Alright then, since when did you even become so judicious, female body? What about that one dude in college who’s still dating his high school-aged girlfriend, regardless of things like “geographical distance” and “statutory rape laws?” How do you know whether he’s, like, rape-raping her, or just, you know legal-age-of-consent-raping her. Since when were you able to act with precise biochemical certainty on legal vagaries like Romeo and Juliet laws?
And what if you’ve been roofied by some dude during Spring Break, like one in four of the unlucky college women who are victims of rape or attempted rape? Are your labia able to identify, and then shut down, the impending rape as “legitimate” even while skeletal muscle relaxant courses through your blood?
Just wondering.
Okay, I’ll stop pestering you about this. Like a magician, you don’t have to detail exactly how your wonderful feminine form defends its turf from legit rape as if the cervix is the DMZ or the Baltimore Ravens’ secondary or something.
Until we meet again, female body. Which, let’s be honest, probably won’t be anytime soon now that any prurient inclination of mine has been scared shitless of your awe-inspiring security system.
Sincerely,
Evander Jones
p.s. Sorry, just one last question for you, oh beautiful female form. Where, exactly, is this clitoris you speak so highly of?
Sherman Ave 