Lucy and Ethel's Vagina Monologue

Wanting a vagina isn't the same as wanting to be a woman.
I tie a string around our German Shepherd's testicles when I am only about three. It doesn't seem to bother him but when I accidentally step on the string, yanking his balls, he gets a little upset. I don't know why I do it. They are just so interesting looking, lying there like that, and he can lick them himself, which fascinates me. I am not as interested in looking at what I call his "lipstick," a sight that always grosses me out. I get in trouble for the string incident. My father has seen me do it and punishes me accordingly. I think he sends me to my room where I sit eating animal crackers and planning my wardrobe for the day I become a fairy princess.

I am staying one summer with my mother. She has a cat who is supposed to go into heat once before getting spayed. When it happens it is horrifying. She moans, ovulates, and bleeds all over everything, and every time she starts to stop, it all starts up again. Later the vet says she is having some weird heat cycle, where it doesn't seem to want to stop on its own. So she gets her tubes tied without ever going out of heat. But while she is still in the grips of the madness no one knows what to do. Someone tells my mother to get a pencil. I don't immediately understand the intent, which is to penetrate the cat's vagina with a lubed pencil. But the cat keeps biting and running away, horribly affronted at every whisper of a touch of that pencil against her little flower.

As much as I like sex as a boy, even after the pedophile, (especially after the pedophile?) I kind of want a vagina. Not at the expense of having a penis. I just like the idea of being penetrated "properly," with the mechanics getting easier, more "natural." I don't want breasts or anything. Actually, the sexual appeal of breasts to straight guys always eludes me a bit, not the aesthetic appeal mind you; they look lovely in a strapless gown. And the sensitivity of my own nipples makes their sensual importance to their owners perfectly clear, but what's in it for the man, or in the case of lesbians, the other girl, the one touching them and squeezing them and putting them in his or her mouth? Actually I think I can answer my own question since I just realized something I do with my own mouth that isn't necessarily connected to my own... oh, just never mind...

Dicks are so different from vaginas. At school in junior high gym class jocks wander around naked, some of them aggressively so, like one guy at my West Hollywood gym now who plops his genitals on the counter while he shaves at the sink. Talk about a need for antibacterial soap.

Jocks are muscled and fit. Impenetrable. Except for their penises, where one kick can bring the hardest guy to his knees. Vaginas are so much more self-contained and economical. You don't have to put them anywhere, worry about their size, or think about what they look like in a bathing suit. A recent spate of magazine articles about the surgical "rejuvenation" of middle-aged vaginas, though, may mean that vaginal self-consciousness will one day equal penis paranoia, but we'll have to wait and see. See, I'm still fascinated by vaginas. I think Neiman Marcus should offer them in their Christmas catalogue along with all that David Orgell jewelry.

I like to imagine television stars from the '50s in commercials for modern feminine hygiene products. "I'm Lucille Ball, and when my vagina itches I use Monostat 7. It's the greatest!"

Or I look at sitcom plots. "Hey Ethel, remember that time we pretended to be having a lesbian affair to make Fred and Ricky jealous? We thought it would make them so mad, but then the boys just asked if they could watch!"

Then Ricky gets his soundless 8 millimeter home movie camera out from under his twin bed and finally lets Lucy be in the show.