The Vagina Monologues The V-Day Edition | Page 7

there. It didn't blow up
or catch on fire or anything. It wasn't so dramatic. I mean . . . well, never mind. No. Never mind. I can't
talk to you about this. What's a smart girl like you going around talking to old ladies about their
down-theres for? We didn't do this kind of a thing when I was a girl. What? Jesus, okay. There was this
boy, Andy Leftkov. He was cute—well, I thought so. And tall, like me, and I really liked him. He asked
me out for a date in his car. . . . I can't tell you this. I can't do this, talk about down there. You just know
it's there. Like the cellar. There's rumbles down there sometimes. You can hear the pipes, and things get
caught there, little animals and things, and it gets wet, and sometimes people have to come and plug up
the leaks. Otherwise, the door stays closed. You forget about it. I mean, it's part of the house, but you
don't see it or think about it. It has to be there, though, 'cause every house needs a cellar. Otherwise the
bedroom would be in the basement. Oh, Andy, Andy Leftkov. Right. Andy was very good-looking. He
was a catch. That's what we called it in my day. We were in his car, a new white Chevy BelAir. I
remember thinking that my legs were too long for the seat. I have long legs. They were bumping up
against the dashboard. I was looking at my big kneecaps when he just kissed me in this surprisingly
“Take me by control like they do in the movies” kind of way. And I got excited, so excited, and, well,
there was a flood down there. I couldn't control it. It was like this force of passion, this river of life just
flooded out of me, right through my panties, right onto the car seat of his new white Chevy BelAir. It
wasn't pee and it was smelly—well, frankly, I didn't really smell anything at all, but he said, Andy said,
that it smelled like sour milk and it was staining his car seat. I was “a stinky weird girl,” he said. I wanted
to explain that his kiss had caught me off guard, that I wasn't normally like this. I tried to wipe the flood
up with my dress. It was a new yellow primrose dress and it looked so ugly with the flood on it. Andy
drove me home and he never, never said another word and when I got out and closed his car door, I
closed the whole store. Locked it. Never opened for business again. I dated some after that, but the idea
of flooding made me too nervous. I never even got close again. I used to have dreams, crazy dreams.
Oh, they're dopey. Why? Burt Reynolds. I don't know why. He never did much for me in life, but in my
dreams . . . it was always Burt and I. Burt and I. Burt and I. We'd be out. Burt and I. It was some
restaurant like the kind you see inAtlantic City, all big with chandeliers and stuff and thousands of waiters
with vests on. Burt would give me this orchid corsage. I'd pin it on my blazer. We'd laugh. We were
always laughing, Burt and I. Eat shrimp cocktail. Huge shrimp, fabulous shrimp. We'd laugh more. We
were very happy together. Then he'd look into my eyes and pull me to him in the middle of the restaurant
—and, just as he was about to kiss me, the room would start to shake, pigeons would fly out from under
the table—I don't know what those pigeons were doing there—and the flood would come straight from
down there. It would pour out of me. It would pour and pour. There would be fish inside it, and little
boats, and the whole restaurant would fill with water, and Burt would be standing knee-deep in my flood,
looking horribly disappointed in me that I'd done it again, horrified as he watched his friends, Dean
Martin and the like, swim past us in their tuxedos and evening gowns. I don't have those dreams
anymore. Not since they took away just about everything connected with down there. Moved out the
uterus, the tubes, the whole works. The doctor thought he was being funny. He told me if you don't use

it, you lose it. But really I found out it was cancer. Everything around it had to go. Who needs it,
anyway? Right? Highly overrated. I've done other things. I love the dog shows. I sell antiques. What
would it wear? What kind of question is that? What would it wear? It would wear a big sign:
“Closed Due to Flooding.”
 What would it say? I told you. It's not like that. It's not like a person who speaks. It stopped being a
thing that talked a long time ago. It's a place. A place you don't go. It's