The Vagina Monologues The V-Day Edition | Page 6

twat. There's “powderbox,”
 “derrière,” a “poochi,” a “poopi,” a “peepe,” a “poopelu,” a “poonani,” a “pal” and a “piche,”
 “toadie,”
 “dee dee,”
 “nishi,”
 “dignity,”
 “monkey box,”
 “coochi snorcher,”
 “cooter,”
 “labbe,”
 “Gladys Siegelman,”
 “VA,”
 “wee wee,”
 “horsespot,”
 “nappy dugout,”
 “mongo,” a “pajama,”
 “fannyboo,”
 “mushmellow,” a “ghoulie,”
 “possible,”
 “tamale,”
 “tottita,”
 “Connie,” a “Mimi” inMiami, “split knish” inPhiladelphia, and “schmende” in theBronx. I am worried
about vaginas.
 Some of the monologues are close to verbatim interviews, some are composite interviews, and with
some I just began with the seed of an interview and had a good time. This monologue is pretty much the
way I heard it. Its subject, however, came up in every interview, and often it was fraught. The subject
being
 
HAIR
You cannot love a vagina unless you love hair. Many people do not love hair. My first and only

husband hated hair. He said it was cluttered and dirty. He made me shave my vagina. It looked puffy and
exposed and like a little girl. This excited him. When he made love to me, my vagina felt the way a beard
must feel. It felt good to rub it, and painful. Like scratching a mosquito bite. It felt like it was on fire.
There were screaming red bumps. I refused to shave it again. Then my husband had an affair. When we
went to marital therapy, he said he screwed around because I wouldn't please him sexually. I wouldn't
shave my vagina. The therapist had a thick German accent and gasped between sentences to show her
empathy. She asked me why I didn't want to please my husband. I told her I thought it was weird. I felt
little when my hair was gone down there, and I couldn't help talking in a baby voice, and the skin got
irritated and even calamine lotion wouldn't help it. She told me marriage was a compromise. I asked her
if shaving my vagina would stop him from screwing around. I asked her if she'd had many cases like this
before. She said that questions diluted the process. I needed to jump in. She was sure it was a good
beginning. This time, when we got home, he got to shave my vagina. It was like a therapy bonus prize.
He clipped it a few times, and there was a little blood in the bathtub. He didn't even notice it, 'cause he
was so happy shaving me. Then, later, when my husband was pressing against me, I could feel his spiky
sharpness sticking into me, my naked puffy vagina. There was no protection. There was no fluff. I
realized then that hair is there for a reason—it's the leaf around the flower, the lawn around the house.
You have to love hair in order to love the vagina. You can't pick the parts you want. And besides, my
husband never stopped screwing around.
 
 I asked all the women I interviewed the same questions and then I picked my favorite answers.
Although I must tell you, I've never heard an answer I didn't love. I asked women:
 
 “If your vagina got dressed, what would it wear?”
 A beret.
A leather jacket.
Silk stockings.
Mink.
A pink boa.
A male tuxedo.
Jeans.
Something formfitting.
Emeralds.
An evening gown.
Sequins.
Armani only.
A tutu.
See-through black underwear.
A taffeta ball gown.
Something machine washable.
Costume eye mask.
Purple velvet pajamas.
Angora. A red bow.
Ermine and pearls.
A large hat full of flowers.
A leopard hat.
A silk kimono.
Glasses.
Sweatpants.
A tattoo.
An electrical shock device to keep unwanted strangers away.
High heels.

Lace and combat boots.
Purple feathers and twigs and shells.
Cotton.
A pinafore.
A bikini.
A slicker.
 
“If your vagina could talk, what would it say, in two words?”
 Slow down.
Is that you?
Feed me.
I want.
Yum, yum.
Oh, yeah.
Start again.
No, over there.
Lick me.
Stay home.
Brave choice.
Think again.
More, please.
Embrace me.
Let's play.
Don't stop.
More, more.
Remember me?
Come inside.
Not yet.
Whoah, Mama.
Yes yes.
Rock me.
Enter at your own risk.
Oh, God.
Thank God.
I'm here.
Let's go.
Let's go.
Find me.
Thank you.
Bonjour.
Too hard.
Don't give up.
Where's Brian?
That's better.
Yes, there.
There.
 
 I interviewed a group of women between the ages of sixty-five and seventy-five. These interviews
were the most poignant of all, possibly because many of the women had never had a vagina interview
before. Unfortunately, most of the women in this age group had very little conscious relationship to their
vaginas. I felt terribly lucky to have grown up in the feminist era. One woman who was seventy-two had

never even seen her vagina. She had only touched herself when she was washing in the shower, but never
with conscious intention. She had never had an orgasm. At seventy-two she went into therapy, and with
the encouragement of her therapist, she went home one afternoon by herself, lit some candles, took a
bath, played some comforting music, and discovered her vagina. She said it took her over an hour,
because she was arthritic by then, but when she finally found her clitoris, she said, she cried. This
monologue is for her.
 
THE FLOOD
[Jewish,Queensaccent]
 
Down there? I haven't been down there since 1953. No, it had nothing to do with Eisenhower. No,
no, it's a cellar down there. It's very damp, clammy. You don't want to go down there. Trust me. You'd
get sick. Suffocating. Very nauseating. The smell of the clamminess and the mildew and everything.
Whew! Smells unbearable. Gets in your clothes. No, there was no accident down