After I saw them for the first time in college, I vowed not to bother with their slapstick, jacked-up feminism again.
Then last Sunday, after tanning topless all day at a gay country club, I thought it only fair to my girlfriend to give The Vagina Monologues another shot.
The audience was older. I didn't so much expect someone to ask me to join the campus Vaginas Against Violence club as ask for a three-way.
The monologues were fairly well done, and promoted a hodge-podge of things like, stopping rape in Africa, letting another woman help you find your neglected clit, not wearing tampons, not shaving, masturbation, and, of course, examining your vagina in a mirror.
I laughed at a few parts, scoffed quietly at others, and got pissed when one chick suggested shaving your pussy is a repressive thing to do.
Me and my gal danced to a (mostly female) brass band after, made awkward small talk with her ex, and left.
The next time I had sex, I opened my legs a little wider -- you know, so she could get a good look -- and smirked fiendishly as my hair-free vag enjoy every lick and caress.
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