So ya, apparently my vagina possesses some sort of magnetism this week. I swear to God, I didn’t really do anything differently—no particularly extra-special adornment going on down there. Personally I’ve never understood the bedazzling, kitty feathers, or any of that cutsie stuff that some girls do. I mean, as temporary as all the Victoria’s Secret purchases seem to be—they’re on for three minutes, and then they hit the floor in a silky lace pile. A jeweled cooter just seems like overkill. Amiright?
But even with the lack of glitterfication of my lovemound, it seems to be the most compelling thing I’ve got going on the last few days. And it’s starting to make me wonder what the fuck. I can tell you, it’s not like you’re thinking, and this is not heading in the direction you may assume. I swear. And now I owe you an explanation. Because if I let you walk away now, you’ll just imagine I had a really whorey week. And I totally didn’t. I’m just not that exciting, y’all.
So I deliver meals on wheels. It’s normally uneventful. But every so often you might catch one of the memory-challenged ol’ folks on a day that they forget that the rest of the world wears clothes. Those days are extra special. And consequently why I gave Meals on Wheels, (MOW), it’s tag line… “MOW chica MOW MOW.”
But there haven’t been any bare naughty bits on any of my runs for quite a while. Meals on Wheels has been welcomingly ho-hum these days. Ho-hum… until Bijou, that is.
Bijou is the whippet that bolted out the door on my last delivery on Tuesday. He was very quick, and very cute. At least I think he was cute. It’s hard to say, since his face was very busy being in my crotch. Ya, it was like that. Before I knew it, he was out the door, and he had his nose straight up my skirt, and all up in my business before I could say, howdy fella. I usually require a nice dinner and a movie or something before you go there. But not Bijou, he’s a take-control kind of guy.
Bijou’s owner was mortified. He couldn’t stop apologizing. And long about the twelfth “I’m sorry,” I told the guy it was seriously ok. “It’s not like it was you who stuck your nose up there.”
*blink blink*
That didn’t seem to help matters. My humorous efforts to help nose-rapey dog’s human feel less pimpish were lost on him. And realizing that there were no words to help things out, I turned, tossed Bijou my panties and left.
Ok, I didn’t give the dog my panties. But in my mind I did. And it was fucking hilarious. Trust me. It totally was. But rather than making pimpdaddy feel worse by saying another word, I just did the humane thing and fled the scene, in my own version of a walk of shame.
Since my vagina’s date with Bijou, things were pretty quiet. It was business as usual for a couple of days. And when I say business as usual, I mean pretty much no one has an interest in my vagina except my hubster and possibly my lady gardener. And that’s the way I prefer it. Otherwise I start questioning the universe’s unwelcome interest in my goods. But I’m really wondering now.
I mean, no one expects that people (maybe an occasional dog) will just walk up and touch your stuff. Right? So ya. I guess that’s why I got a little yelly yesterday when the little boy in line at Nordstrom whacked me in the lady business. A little wake-me-up cunt punch. Jeez dude. The second time this week, a public pubic assault.
I said I got yelly, but I didn’t make a squealy scene or anything. I was a little startled… he went where folks don’t usually venture… in public anyway. So I may have been a little pitchy in my delivery…
“Whoa hey there lil guy, what was that all about?”
When he looked up at me it was obvious that he thought he’d just whacked his mom, who was standing in line in front of me. I wondered… does he usually smack his mom in the clam bed like that? Is this his typical attention grabber? Cuz y’all, it grabbed the fuck out of my attention.
When his mom realized what had gone down, she apologized profusely and scolded him. But now that the little guy and I shared a bond, I mean, he did touch my fancy bit, I felt bad for the little beaver-whacker. He was wrapping himself around his moms legs in an effort to disappear. If I’d smacked someone’s Private Idaho, I’d probably do the same thing. But I felt bad for my little pal. It was an accident, right?
So I told my new friend about the time I was in the store with my dad. And for a second I got a little turned around, and ended up grabbing some guy’s hand, thinking he was my dad. Of course it was only the dude’s hand. Unlike my little friend, I didn’t grab a stranger’s junk. But as a kid, I remember sharing my friend’s wanting-to-die embarrassment. So my wee groper and I bonded over our shared experience, and realizing I wasn’t mad at him, by the time we made it to the front of the line, we parted company as pals.
And hopefully that’ll be the last time my vagina is anyone’s business but my own for a while. Because all this interest this week in my nethers is creeping me out a little.
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