The Vagina Whisperer

A story of a simple man, a superhero, and those furry little critters we chase.

As I sat and wrote this, it had been the first thing I had written in months.  It hasn’t been so much of a writer’s block as it’s been a writer’s funk.  I haven’t been motivated to write.  It is a combination of things, really.  Penning one’s first memoir you’d think motivation levels would be high.  But I had hit a rut in which life events got in the way.  Not being an established writer I don’t have the luxury of writing all the time, so there’s the full time job that gets in the way.  But lately I pushed everything in my spare time in the way also; anything but writing.  Maybe that is writer’s block I don’t really know if it fits the working definition.  It wasn’t for a lack of topics that kept me away.  I currently have seven chapters written, rewritten and edited.  I have three hand written in first draft form, and six others in various conceptual stages.  This chapter had been in the conceptual stage of being mapped out in my head, but never outlined or first put into first draft form. 

 

My motivation to write appeared to be in the crapper, until last weekend.  It wasn't until the title of the chapter was told to me by my best friend, that I finally found the motivation.  We were having a family and friends party for my youngest daughter's birthday.  My best friend Fred came over and we talked about his new relationship with a woman he met on eharmony.  Just the fact that Fred found eharmony was miraculous to me.  Fred is an electrical engineer by trade, technophobe by night.  At the very least his technophobia was centered around computers.  When everyone was getting computers, Fred refused.  When we had computers and internet connections, Fred still refused to join the revolution.  He finally called me one day, from his rotary phone, and told me that he finally got a computer.  Skeptical, I came over his house to check it out.  I found what had to be one of the last pre-Pentium computers still operable.

 

“Fred, this technically isn't a computer, it's a really heavy typewriter.”

 

His answer was sublime, “Screw you!  I've finally entered the 21^st century like you've been yapping at me to do.”

 

“Technically speaking, you re-entered the 20^th century.”

 

He then walked away muttering, with only the words 'pretentious' and 'elitist' standing out in an otherwise incomprehensible statement.

 

The grand irony of this aspect of Fred lies in his career.  He works at Kulicke & Soffa Industries, which is a maker of hardware that creates Pentium chips.  Fred repairs the machines that make the Pentium chips.  So while Fred does his part to ensure that we have the latest computer technology created for us, he himself continues to fight in the great computer resistance movement.  He finally broke down earlier this year.

 

Fred called to tell me that he's 'on the internet.'  I pictured him standing on a cable in his house, as filling his definition of being on the internet, so I again was skeptical.  I found what I expected, a computer that was considered cutting edge roughly seven years ago.  Where most of us sit in front of our 17” plus flat screen monitors, Fred's 'new computer' had a 13” CRT monitor.  It was a sad little thing; apparently injured.  This injury consisted of leaving one thinking that they were wearing lime green sunglasses when looking at the monitor.  The tint, or contrast, or something was broken.  Being his best friend, I needed to handle this situation tactfully.

 

“Where the f**k do you get these things?!”  I was admittedly frustrated because for years I had been telling Fred I'd help him purchase a computer, practically begging him.  He told me he had the situation under control, but this is the end product.

 

“What?” he said, “You're never f*****g happy when it comes to this s**t are you?”

 

“No Fred that's not true.  I'm happy for you in a 'parent whose kid just placed in the Special Olympics' kind of way,” I sincerely told him.

 

“A*****e” he sincerely replied.

 

“O.K., o.k. let's forget about all that.  Show me the girl you just found on this new fangled intranet doohickey receptor you got there,” I said in my best Jethro Bodine impression.

 

“No, I refuse,” he said like a hurt lover as he then turned his back on me.

 

The trick to sarcasm and comedy is to know the target of your comedy and their limits with the sarcasm.  Once finding that fine line, that edge, pushing the envelope without going over the edge.  I'm not the best at staying on the correct side of that edge.  So it took a lot of praise, cajoling, forced accolades, a sincere mea culpa, and copious amounts of alcohol to finally get him to show me her picture.  I finally got him back in front of the computer, watched him expertly navigate his way to eharmony, and finally I got to see her picture.

 

“She looks cute,” I said honestly to him.  “But …”

 

“But what?”

 

“She looks a little jaundice, or is that sea sickness?  Does she have naturally lime green hair or did she dye it?”  We haven't talked about computers since then.

 

Fred is a well built, good looking man of 41.  He continues to work out regularly, and it shows.  When you give him a hello hug, you can feel the results of his workouts.  I always say to myself 'damn he's got some muscles under there.'  On the other hand, I don't work out and can only imagine that after the same greeting he thinks to himself 'damn, he's got to have some muscles under there somewhere.' 

 

Fred went bald prematurely and now just shaves his head clean.  To compensate for this lack of hair, he maintains a goatee.  I on the other hand was genetically blessed with a full head of hair and not even a receding hair line at 42.  However, the price I pay is I can't grow a mustache or beard.  Part of me is glad I was born when I was as opposed to 100 years ago when having facial hair was socially significant.  I often find myself absent mindedly running my hands through my hair whenever something about Fred causes me to be envious of him, such as his physique.  I often wonder if he notices this passive-aggressive behavior.

 

One of Fred's most envious physical attributes lies with his penis.  I have known Fred for 25 years now and his story has never wavered.  He is, according to his shameless self promotion, able to stay hard for hours on end, if needed, and make his sexual partner orgasm multiple times within one single sexual encounter.

 

“Oh I can make my girlfriend orgasm six times too!” I told Fred after the first time learning about his sexual 'God Mode' skills. 

 

“You can?” he replied sincerely, as if he finally encountered another demigod like himself.

 

“Yeah, sure … takes about a week of concentrated work on my part, but I can get it done.”

 

That is Fred.  I've kept his real name in here, why wouldn't a superhero with such powers want his real name in print.  But much like his uncanny ability to fix computers combined with his inability to pick a computer, he can surely make sweet, passionate, longstanding, multi-orgasmic love to women, but damn it if he can't pick them.  He has literally left a 25 year dating wake of the psychiatrically impaired, hormonally imbalanced, insanely jealous, or just plain white trash.  He's had women who have tried to run he and his mother over, when the relationship was over, stalkers, a woman who drank a case of beer at my wedding and has become the wedding video highlight, another woman he left who then went on to marry her second cousin; you name it, he's picked it.

 

So where does a man, who can seemingly only attract the most unstable of the opposite sex, go to find new love?  The internet of course!  Why that's the first place that comes to my mind when I think of the words 'emotionally stable soul mate.'  Ironically, this will likely be the most stable woman he's ever dated.

 

So there we sat, at the party of my youngest daughter's birthday, deeply engaged in relationship talk about his new found eharmony romance.  Our typical male relationship talk goes like this:

 

“So … you f**k her yet?”

 

“Well her grandmother passed away, right when I thought it was going to happen.”

 

“Wow, sorry to hear that,” I said.  (pause) “What a c**k block old grandma turned out to be eh?  Damn women, even in death they can f**k you over.”

 

“I never said we didn't do it.”

 

“Awesome! … Before or after the funeral?”

 

Without missing a beat Fred said “Before.”

 

“Wow that was rather fast.  How did you manage that?  From what you've told me she's financially independent and seemingly stable.  How did you manage to get in her pants after the ---“

 

“Third date.”

 

“Yes, third date, nice!” as we toasted beer bottles to each other.

 

“Well we were talking via email ---“

 

“I'm impressed,” I sarcastically interrupted.

 

“Shut up!  Anyway, she asked me something and I think my answer intrigued her very much.”

 

“What did she ask you?”

 

“She asked me to tell her something that only my best friend knows about me.”

 

I was actually stumped as to what he said, so I asked the fatal question.  “What did you tell her?”

 

“I told her I was the vagina whisperer.”

 

That was too funny, what a great line … in a cocky, over-the-top kind of way.  This is the type of line that will either intrigue a woman, or send her running for the hills.  It took balls to say it.  This name comes from the book, which was subsequently made into a movie, called 'The Horse Whisperer.'  The book was about a man who could tame horses because he studied them and their behaviors.  His control over the horses was so complete that people said he understood their language, that what he was actually doing was whispering to them.  His girlfriend didn't run for the hills with his answer, because they had sex within days of that email.

 

“So how was she?”  This question pretty much summarizes the essence of male relationship talk.

 

“Awesome,” as he then went on in nauseating detail of their two hour tryst which culminated in her 'getting off six times' and then her affirming to Fred he appropriately named himself the 'king of all p***y.'

 

“Wow that's great Fred,” I said as I conjured up my most sincere best friend smile, while running my fingers through my thick, full head of hair.

 

So my claim to fame is that I am best friends with a man who has a bonafide superpower; the vagina whisperer.  It's not easy befriending a man with such intimidating powers.  I do not possess such powers, though my wife does her best to convince me that my powers are just fine.  I don't believe her.  Performing anything less than 'the whisperer' does can only lead to self esteem issues.  However, coping with being superdick's best friend, is nothing really given some of my own past experiences with the vagina. 

 

I started writing this story in one of my favorite cafés.  This café has a bar type setup, but no booze, just more like a curved bench area for people eating by themselves to sit and eat.  I sat and started writing, when a 60ish year old woman sat next to me.  An amazing word vagina; I felt so self conscious that I refused to write the title on top of each page until she left.  She just left, so vagina, vagina, VAGINA!  It is amazing the power of that word.  Either that or it speaks to the sexually shaming tapes that still run in my head.  Tapes that started from an early age, and aren't there just because of one experience.  As a matter of fact, given everything I've gone through, I'm quite surprised I'm not gay.  Whenever I get into conversations with people about whether being gay is learned or genetic, I tell people I'm convinced it is genetic.  If it were learned, I'm positive I'd be known as the penis whisperer.

 

My first encounter with human sexuality inadvertently came from my grandmother.  I was eight years old and my grandmother was staying over for a visit.  She was in her mid 70's and was about two years away from being placed in a nursing home by her children.  She was in that in between stage of consciousness; her family never really knowing whether or not she was running on all cylinders.  However, that fateful morning I found the definitive answer to that question.  I was at the breakfast table; sitting by myself, when my grandmother came out in her nightgown, and came out of her nightgown.  Everything was tucked away where it should be except her right breast, which was hanging in all its glory outside of her nightgown.  By the looks of things, she was a well endowed woman, and I'm sure those breasts were some sight back in the 1920's.  Currently though, something had gone horribly wrong.  It had the appearance of a breast in which somebody let the air out.  It was a flat, wrinkly, baloney tit.  It came down and rested on her oversized belly.  Even at eight, I understood that this was a misshapen breast, most likely flattened by a car of some sort by the looks of it.

 

I immediately looked away focused on my frosted sugar pops.  But the breast wouldn't go away, as she sat at the table and insisted on talking to me.  I was a naive child, but I recognized a rogue breast when I saw one.  Every time she talked to me I had to look at her and secretly wished her breast away before looking at her, but it wouldn't leave.  She never noticed it was hanging large.  It was a battle-worn breast, deformed by time, man hands and the mouths of both man and child.  It pierced my memory so much that it became one of my earliest childhood memories that I can recall with photographic accuracy.  This was the first breast I ever witnessed in person, as I was a bottle fed baby.  I finally finished my frosted sugar pops and made a bee-line out of that room.  But it was too late, the damage had already been done, I had been unintentionally sexually assaulted at the impressionable age of eight.

 

As I stated, I was a naive young man, which lasted until early adulthood.  My next sexual trauma came inadvertently at the hands of my mother and father.  You might as well keep these inadvertent traumas in the family.  Four years had passed since 'The Great T***y Tragedy of '73.'  I was older, but no wiser about the ways of the female.  My mother was forced to raise two sons due to my father being an alcoholic who couldn't do the basic fatherly things necessary when raising two sons.  This of course included his inability to teach his sons the basics about sex. 

 

The first, smaller incident occurred when my mother, older brother and I were watching a show about newborns and I asked her a question.

 

“How can you tell the difference between girl and boy babies?”

 

I honestly didn't have a clue.  I guess 6^th grade health class didn't cover that topic yet.  The dirty look I received in return from my mother, for that little gem of a question could only be described as intense anger.  You would have thought I asked her:

 

“So ma, what's the origin of the word c**t and why does it piss women off so much?”

 

Her answer to my innocent question about how to differentiate the sexes immediately shamed me into submission.

 

“Don't play stupid; you know damn well the answer to that.”

 

I don't think my mother was comfortable explaining any part of human sexuality, let alone how to identify the differences between men and women.  This was further reinforced with how she handled sex talk with me.  Two years later, as I sat on my bed, she opened the door, threw a book at me, and closed the door immediately.  The book was “Ann Landers Talks to Teens about Sex.”  We never discussed the book or even the fact that she threw it at me, ever again.  This small incident about asking how to differentiate the sexes made me feel guilty about asking my mother any sex related questions.  However, my next stunt, which occurred about six months later, probably left her feeling physically ill about me.

 

Life had gone on during those six months, and my working knowledge of all things sexual was a little bit better thanks to 6^th grade health.  Though I could now identify a penis and a vagina if I met one in a detailed drawing, I had no knowledge of the inner workings of them, most likely because I laughed and giggled through anything that was explained to me in health class.

 

The full scope of my ignorance was realized one day when I was playing in a bathroom sink in my house.  I had filled the sink with water in order to float my small battleships.  The only thing missing in my armada was a submarine.  So I went looking for a sub.  That search landed me in my parent's room where, to my delight, I found not one, but about 20 subs!  Playtex subs to be exact.  When I opened the wrapper, they were perfect!  They were plastic on the outside and the perfect shape of a submarine.  I grabbed a handful.  I didn't want to take the whole supply as I knew they must have served some other purpose for one or both of my parents.  I then unwrapped them and proceeded to have a grand old time.  I soon found out there was a secret, absorbable compartment inside, and a rather useless string at one end.  I didn't have scissors, so I had to deal with the string.

 

I finished playing, emptied the water in the sink, and put my armada in my room for later play.  Later on that night my mother called me upstairs in that 'you better get your a*s up here now' voice, that I have since perfected on my own children.  When I got in my room, there she stood, with my father, and boy was she pissed.  I had one of my subs shoved in my face, quickly followed by:

 

“WHAT … IS THIS?!”

 

If she didn't know what that this was, how was I supposed to know?  (Shrug) “I dunno.”

 

“WHAT WERE YOU DOING WITH THIS?!”

 

Now that was the easiest answer of the night, “Playing with it.”

 

“WHERE DID YOU GET THIS?!”

 

I immediately understood that this was the most critical question of the night.  I knew she was mad because I opened up a handful of her new whatchamahiggies.  I didn't want to get more of this 'mommy dearest' wrath, that I was sure I was going to receive if she found out that I broke into her stash, and took five of her new whateverthehellthesethingswere.  Her intensity had not diminished and I knew I must lie. 

 

“I found them in the garbage.”

 

WRONG ANSWER!  I thought if I said they were trash I would get into less trouble than I would by saying 'I opened 5 brand new ones.'  Oh ho ho … how wrong I was.  Her expression immediately sank, her face turned red, my father turned away, and her utter abhorrent disbelief made her ask the question again.

 

“WHERE?!”

 

Denial is a wonderful thing isn't it?  She understood what I had just said, but just couldn't believe I had said it.  I knew the answer I had given her about finding them in the garbage was wrong, but I didn't understand why, or just how wrong this answer was.  So I stuck with the lie that I already painted for myself.

 

“In the garbage, in your bathroom.”

 

I think I blew out some of her brain circuitry with that last answer, because she just stood and stared at me, blinking occasionally.  What seemed to be minutes, but was surely just seconds, passed before she finally responded.  However, she was done with me; I had finally disgusted her to the point of being unable to deal with me.  She turned to my father and yelled at him.

 

“I CAN'T DEAL WITH THIS!  HAROLD, YOU BETTER TALK WITH THIS BOY!” She then stormed out of the room, taking all my subs with her.

 

In my mind I agreed with her wholeheartedly, because I have a few questions of my own.  Questions like 'what's all this frigging ruckus about?'; and 'just what the f**k are these things anyway?'  Because if you're freaking out about the ones you threw away, the new ones must be worth a fortune. 

 

Unfortunately, my mother left me in the hands of the one person who would not be able to give me the answers, or the guidance I needed.  He was a nice guy, my father, but alcohol addiction had already taken over and left him unable to deal effectively with heavy issues.  He told me not to 'do that again' and then left the room; thank you captain obvious.  I really blame them, in particular my father for this whole debacle.  They should have clued me in, taught me the things I needed to know.  My father failed at all things a father should impart to his son.  It's a sure bet my son will not suffer the same fate as I did.  He'll learn about the function of a tampon.

 

I'm also sure there's some small compartment in my mother's mind that still has me labeled as a used tampon playing freak of nature.  I never found the strength to tell her the truth; that I was actually a new tampon playing freak of nature.  Maybe the truth will finally come out if and when she reads this.

 

My tampon playing days were over as quickly as they began.  However, I was left with the shame and humiliation of it all.  It took two years and copious amounts of alcohol and marijuana in order to share this story with my best friend.  After a good amount of ball busting, mock barfing, and uncontrollable laughing, he finally clued me in.  Clueing me in did nothing to help my self esteem.  There were still other vaginal misadventures that occurred during my formidable years.

 

All my life I have suffered from hearing loss.  My wife refers to it as selective hearing loss and she's not far off the mark.  I've used this minor disability to my advantage when I don't want to respond to somebody yelling for me, or yelling at me, or any number of other things that I can charge to my hearing loss.  However, the hearing loss is real and has lead me to misunderstand the pronunciation of many words, most notably vagina.

 

When I first heard this great word, I first thought I heard the word furgina.  It made sense to me as the little critters were pretty darned furry in all the pictures I had ever seen of them.  Vagina was also a very uncommon word in my circle of friends, who preferred much cruder versions to describe female genitalia.

 

Furgina later morphed into regina after hearing the name said again and misunderstanding … but I was getting closer.  This led me to believe the girl who sat in front of me in English, Homeroom and History classes was named after her own private parts.  The torture I put her through was pretty bad I must admit.  I mutated the 'geena' part of Regina into the 'gina' found in vagina, regularly calling her a regina.  It wasn't until a black guy named Langdon heard me mispronounce the word, that I finally was taught the actual name.  I took a beating though publicly as Langdon told all his friends, who told all my friends and then they all had fun with the poor little white boy furgina/regina freak.

 

There wasn't much further down the scale that my sexual self esteem could go.  It showed too as I didn't have any girlfriends till my later adolescence.  It wasn't long before the 'Alex is gay' propaganda spread.

 

Even with all this going against me, I was determined to meet an actual vagina.  My interest level was quite high.  Unfortunately my first close encounter with one, at the age of 16, didn't yield desirable results; for this vagina had gone bad.  It was girl with a reputation of screwing anybody, and if you can't tell by reading in this far, I was just that anybody in need of such services.  Circumstances finally came together where I met her at her house.   There I sat in her kitchen, let in by her and told to stay there while she finished doing something.  She was unremarkable in looks, and actually had a look of a woman who had been around.  She had kind of a rough, haggard look on her face, as if her face had been smacked around by many a penis.  She was a plain Jane with an early 1980's 'Sabrina from Charley's Angels' haircut.  She was very thin and wore a very tight shirt and jeans.  She strolled up to me in the kitchen where I sat.  She immediately put my hand on her furgina, when it hit me.  It was an odor I had never smelled before, but instinctively I knew its origin.  I laid witness to a regina gone bad.  It was a conglomerate of smells; as if something in each of the major food groups had soured.  Not just milk, but milk, fish, broccoli and moldy bread.  I immediately knew I had to get out of there before I passed out.  My brain was running a mile a minute; I scrambled for a way out and came up with possibly the world's worst excuse.

 

“I have a girlfriend.”  'Great one, then why are you here stupid,' I thought to myself as soon as I said it.  But I had started this, and I couldn't turn back now.  I've actually developed a pretty decent ability to be quick on my feet, remaining witty and funny.  What is about to transpire is not such an example.

 

“You do?” she said as she continued to force my hand against her wound.  “What's her name?”

 

“Terry.”

 

“Terry who, maybe I know her?”

 

“Terry … Cloth.”

 

“Does she go to our high school, I've never heard of her before.”

 

“No, no, she attends a private Catholic School.  I normally would love nothing more than to do this with you, but I'd feel like a real schmuck if I did this too her as we've just started getting serious.  I have to go, sorry.”

 

Terry Cloth … she obviously had some intelligence issues that coincided with her hygiene issues.  At the time I was proud of that excuse, and Terry Cloth became the running the joke with my friends, and Terry became my 'permanent girlfriend'.  This also served its purpose in squashing all the gay rumors. 

 

However, my trail of sexual tears had been set, and it had been a bloody, stinky, shriveled up trail.  Amazingly, after all this, I started to have normal relationships with women and have only been traumatized three additional times in my life.  These last three traumas also coincided with three of the best things that have happened to me in my life; the birth of my children.

 

I'm sure any woman now reading this would like to reach out and punch me given what they have to go through during the birth process, and me contending my children's births were traumatic for me.  However, all I ask is that you hear me out.  The births of my children were three of my largest life changing events that I have ever witnessed.  They were blessed events, and I think I even cried at one or two of them. They were also a bloodbath reminiscent of the first Alien movie.

 

First off, during the pregnancy, my playground was hijacked by the medical community and converted into a religious shrine without my consent.  There's nothing that lowers my sex drive faster than knowing your child is hanging out within a few inches of your penis, or knowing that a team of medical professionals regularly inspect the playground.

 

If that wasn't bad enough, then there's the birth process itself.  OH … MY … GOD!  What a bloody, disgusting mess that turns out to be.  I was traumatized.  I am a squeamish person, very much so when it comes to real life injuries.  Vampire movies, I'm there, but the real stuff makes me faint.  I gave blood only once in my life due to this very squeamish nature.  At the end of this process the nurse in charge told me never to come back unless there was national emergency.  I got pale, needed to stay there an extra hour and they had to pound orange juice and donuts into me in order for me to be able to stand up without falling down.

 

As I stated earlier, part of me is glad that I was not born in the past, because of my inability to grow facial hair properly.  However, another part of me is upset that I wasn't an expectant father back in the 1950's.  If I was the father back then, I'd be in the waiting room, pacing nervously.  Later I'd be handing out cigars at the bar while getting trashed celebrating the birth of my child.  Today?  No, today men have been relegated to stirrup duty.  I'm a frigging stirrup!  Personally I blame women's lib.

 

“You want me to be where and do what?” was my reaction to this situation during the birth of my first child. 

 

“Put her foot on your shoulder hon,” said the nurse as she gave me a disapproving 'men are such babies' look.

 

Also, I got bolder, or more stupid depending on how you look at it, with the birth of each child.  I looked at more and more of the birth process as each child was born.  By the time my third child was born, I was so emboldened that I tried watching her come out, and within two minutes the nurse had me in a seat with my head between my knees.  Looks like we had a major stirrup malfunction doesn't it.  It was horrible what I witnessed.  Things were huge … deformed … blood and baby hair was everywhere.  There were things … body parts I remembered differently.  I used to know them so well, now I could hardly recognize them at all.  Then as I sat there trying to regain the blood flow to the upper part of my body, came the four most disgusting words I have heard.

 

“Here comes the placenta,” says the doctor, like he's some f*****g gory play by play announcer.  There was no need for announcing that s**t.  He saw that I was sitting there barely conscious. 

 

The placenta didn't get the same treatment the baby did.  The baby was caught and gently cleaned and put under a warmer.  For the placenta, they decided to put some sort of medical bucket, or maybe it was a specialized placenta catcher, on the floor under my wife.  I had the luxury of getting to hear the lovely noises of the placenta splashing into the bucket.  I nearly threw up.

 

All I could think of in the birthing room as I lay there with my head near my feet was 'who are these sick f***s who video this s**t?'  Do they watch that over and over, and bring their friends over to watch?  I could only imagine the conversation that would take place at such a viewing, at the home of these sick, twisted people and their equally disturbed friends.

 

“There's Missy!  Can you see little Hunter's head coming out?”

 

“Oooh Ooh, look, Look everyone!  Here comes the placenta!  Isn't it grand?  (as he claps excitedly in a mildly retarded fashion) Oh we had it wrapped and ate it afterwards.  The doctors all say it helps the developing child by increasing the nutrients in Missy's milk.”

 

Sick f***s … I couldn't imagine taping that, I had a hard enough time erasing the mental tapes.  The images were bad, but at least they're gone thanks to years of cognitive therapy in combination with EMDR.  I would like to meet and fully throttle the sick, twisted a*****e that started this whole trend of the father's needing to lay witness to this.  Thank God women are the ones who have children, because if men did we'd likely be extinct as a species.  I told my wife that if I were the child bearer, we'd have adopted three third world children; no compromise.

 

It took my wife approximately 6-8 weeks to recover from the birth to the point where she could, if she so desired, have sex again.  It took me substantially longer than that.  I had more than just the physical trauma to recover from; I had the mental images that continued to wash ashore every time sex was mentioned.  I suffered from post traumatic birth watching disorder.

 

So by my accounting, if human sexuality was indeed learned, I should be a penis nuzzling, show tune listening … lets see what other generalizations can I fit in here … I should be gay.  The vagina and many of its functions and tools, along with its sidekick the shriveled breast have done their best to try and get me to switch sides.  However, the pull is too great; the desire too instinctual.  I still hear and heed to its power.  I am not able to plow into it with superhuman abilities, for hours at a time causing repeated and rare inhuman pleasurable sensations for my partner.  But after all I've been through; I'm just happy with the fact that I can still hear it calling out my name, whispering to me.

Reviews

[Theta S. T.]

Alex,
This is a great story, seeing that I have no kids and your child-birthing reminisce has truely frightened me...thanks for that by the way...I have to say that adoption is imminent..lol There were parts of this story that had me in tears infact I'm still laughing now and then the "subs" that was awsome I swear I could see the look on your mom's face it must of been priceless!!! This is a great write and I can't wait to read some more of you read some more of your work..

~~Theta

[T. L. O'Neal]

I have to say that I really enjoyed this, it was funny as hell and you had to have some balls to write it. Great laughs all the way through it. T

[Bubo]

This is a fab story........no writers lull here!
I loved the take on things from a male point of view from puberty to becoming a father and what a laugh i had!!
Your honest account of birth makes great reading!

It took my wife approximately 6-8 weeks to recover from the birth to the point where she could, if she so desired, have sex again. It took me substantially longer than that. I had more than just the physical trauma to recover from; I had the mental images that continued to wash ashore every time sex was mentioned. I suffered from post traumatic birthing disorder.

The wit and style you write with is entertaining and you had me hooked from start to finish.......your por mother, that made me laugh, I have no son's so i will never have to throw a book at him!
Well done, really enjoyable!

[Jared Kardos]

That. Is. AWESOME.

Funny as hell. Hell, I was already laughing my a*s off by the title alone. :D

Good job, sir. Keep it up.

[[Starshine] Faerie]

lmfao.
this cracked me up.
I could NOT stop laughing.
The submarine story darn near killed me.
I can already see my mum reacting to something like that.
Not quite like yours, but hysterically hilarious just the same.
Thanks for the awesome read.
I'm still laughing.
=]]

[Rick]

HAHA!! like someone once said about Men: We spend the first 9 months of our lives trying to get out of a vagina, and THE REST OF OUR LIVES trying to get back deep inside one!!

what a sweet, subtle reminder of the dread and dangers of both ends of that particular rainbow, elusive pot of gold and all!

[Celtic Cat]

Holy Mother of God!! I don't even know what to say about all this. I sincerely think I should offer my condolences, but, that doesn't really seem fitting.
Sexuality is the most odd thing to teach. I shocked my own mother with the detailed drawings which I didn't receive until 9th grade. My mother, who grew up in Scotland and finished school at 14, apparently didn't have the level of sex education we had in America when I was growing up. Sex talks didn't happen in my house at all. I always proudly state that "I learned my morals on the street" because it was my friends who educated me sexually, and of course the boyfriends who later came along.
I absolutely loved your submarine story, I think I was using the maxi pads for knee pads one day, or maybe it was my sister. Either way this is a fine example of how lack of communication is ruining us all! Thanks so much for the laughs, my friend, you are a gifted story teller!!

[Nicole (Carpe Diem)]

oh my... this story is great... i knew from the title that this was going to be one hell of a story... i loved it, parts of it were so funny that i had tears streaming out of my eyes... i will also admit i too am one of those overly sarcastic people that sometimes doesnt see that line in the sand...
i hope you can make time to write more... as i hope there is a follow up to this.

[Chiquita]

I must say that I did not know what to expect with the title, "The Vagina Whisperer". I was pleasantly surprised by a story that made me laugh. It is rare to see such honesty and frankness regarding a male perspective of the vagina. I mean men may share their perspectives openly and honestly on a regular basis. I appreciate, as a woman, a man's glimpse at the vagina.

I say, "Bravo!". You get an A for honesty and straight forwardness. My boyfriend get's a new pet name out of this deal. I will not steal your title exactly but you have inspired me to gift him with a new title. ;)

This is an enjoyable read for sure.

[Ryan Jaimz Knight]

This was funny as hell, especially towards the end, however there are a few parts that needs work. I feel that the beginning is to long in regards to building up the fact that the main character is suffering from writer's block, and that some extra detail when conversing with his friend is needed in order to make both characters more real and tangible to the reader. Towards the middle and end, this piece really hit it's stride, and I was laughing so hard by the time I reached the final line that I almost passed out. I enjoyed this immensely, thank you for taking the time to write and share this piece. I am definitely looking forward to reading more of you work in the future. In the meantime, have a wonderful and creative day.
BJH