Mom warning–you may wish to click past this one.
Cindy Sherman is being celebrated in a retrospective at MOMA this spring. All of this post- modern discussion of the feminine self has me thinking.
Well, that and my upcoming fortieth birthday.
In my late teens/early 20s I did not know it, but I had a magic vagina. When the male member entered it, it came within minutes without that much effort on my part. Being naive, I thought this was how it would work my entire life.
To roughly quote Edgar Allen Poe, I was a child and (s)he was a child. He was at his sexual peak. I was at my physical peak. I keep hearing that I should be somewhere near my sexual peak now, but it must be nestled amidst some Old World worn-down ass mountains because it’s less than breathtaking as far as peaks go.
Back to the retrospective.
Twenty years later, I realize that vagina had magical properties that have diminished over time and with the passage of two children through their hallowed walls. It still has a good time, but it no longer induces the male member to heights of ecstasy with little extraneous effort.
Does this surprise me, I think in darker moments? I can’t jump on a trampoline without peeing a little. Or laugh really hard, for that matter.
Time is a nasty bitch to the female parts.
I also used to think that having no breasts meant they couldn’t sag. Another nasty surprise.
I’ve heard some women have their vaginas tucked, like tummies or faces or breasts. That might restore the magic to the vajayjay, but I think it might be dark magic that demands its due at some later date. I’d rather not chance it.
I just wish I’d thought to take pictures of it over the years so I could watch its gradual decline, as I can trace the lines on my face through the photo albums.
The natural years. The post-childbirth stitches. The year of the Brazilian. Etc.
Maybe that retrospective would even make it into MOMA.
It’s about time we had public discourse that focused on pubic hair again.
And then we can have a retrospective chronicling the magic wand.