A happy vagina is always worth the wait

In which Attempt Number Four leaves your vagina feeling as though it was worth the wait.

 

The morning after the night before you wake up to an immediate snowball of panic thrown full pelt in your face, banging vaguely somewhere in the region of your solar plexis, the exact place your diginity should have rested. And BANG - here starts the protocol you didn’t expect to be undertaking now you are moving swiftly through your twenties.

 

Rule One - check your current location. Is this where you passed out?! ‘Why, how and where?’ spring to mind. So many questions your mind is a myriad of ‘what if’s’ that lead to the next very important port of call –

 

WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU NAKED?!?

 

 And my, oh my, what a colourful bruise lacing the top of your thigh.

 

Stop freaking out, don’t freak out, who’s freaking out, who said anything about freaking out, no-one needs to freak out, it’s just a –

 

“Hello monkey!”

 

Uh-oh.

 

Who is this you find yourself next to, and what’s that thing digging into your back?!?

Your vagina stirs happily as it wakes up - it is telling you things you didn’t realise were possible. My oh my! Could it be so! Could it be true! Have you taken the mighty step into Sluthood you’ve been longing for during almost all of your teenage years?

 

You look under the covers to your feet and find to your relief that at least something remained under fabric. Seconds later the relief evaporates and in its place is ludicrous shame. Did your sluttish friends never teach you anything? Everyone – repeat – everyone looks like a massive twat if they are completely undressed save for socks.

 

What the fuck. Have you done. To yourself??

 

And honing in a little closer to the issue at hand, who the fuck do the socks belong to?! For the grey and hairy numbers snugly covering the pride of your shameless toes most certainly don’t belong to you.

Your feet twitch smugly as if to say ‘at least we still have our decency,’ and you laugh in their face whilst praying you haven’t caught varrucas.

 

Apparently that’s not the only thing you could have caught.

 

Ok so… ok… how did you get here? Did someone take you? Were you driven/carried, did you skip here happily? Did you cry? Oh no! Not again! Tell me it isn’t so!

 

Water. Need water. Need – to calm – down -

 

SHIT! WHAT’S THE TIME! I HAVE WORK THIS MORNING!!

 

Not again. Not again not again not again!

 

Shhh. Quiet. Don’t stir the sleeping homosapien.

 

It’s coming back in floods, like a wave you can’t avoid, coupled with a wave of nausea –

 

And you are so. So. Proud.

 

Your loins are tingling. Your heart is racing. Your vagina is swelling with the utter jubilation of its victory, it is cheering you onwards and curing your hangover. “Thank you!” It is saying! “God bless the sunlight! God bless the opening of a firmly locked trapdoor! God bless your steely courage and your wayward ways! We are so, so happy!”

 

Finally. In your twenty-somethings-moving-swiftly-onwards, you have doubled your quota in one night, you have upped your game, you have joined the club of those that can compare penis sizes, finger techniques, and laugh at your disastrous attempt at being sexy –

Disastrous attempt at being sexy…

Disastrous…

 

And you can’t remember it. So it must have been good. Right. Right? You didn’t do anything stupid, did you? Did you?

Oh no.             I expect you laughed, didn’t you.

Cried.

GASP! No… surely you didn’t cry. Surely you weren’t a crier? Asked him to marry you? Begged him to meet your parents, brought up the topic of ‘Alfie,’ your favourite baby name –

 

Oh no. Not the baby name. Tell me there were no baby names.

 

Think think think.

 

And when you see his chest you realise he is sprinkled in bite marks and you have scratches on your neck and you sort of can’t work out whether or not it’s sexy or just vaguely inappropriate and slightly over the top.

 

After a cheeky attempt at round two, in a haze of sort-of-wanting-to, and sort-of-being-rather-confused-about-this-whole-affair, you are struggling to find your clothes for work, it is twenty to nine, you can’t find your friends who apparently have passed out in rooms nearby - where they are you couldn’t say, and how to find them is such a logistical nightmare you can’t even consider it in your lucid state.

                                                           

It. Is time. To leave.

 

Your mouth tastes like sandpaper and you don’t have a hairbrush but you have to drive straight to work because you are now a twenty-something-professional running twenty minutes late.

And you are wearing NO SHOES.

 

Sometimes, in the name of sex, we have to make sacrifices.

 

“It’s always the way,” quotes Sluttish Friend Number One, (aka 'Best Friend on the Floor - see previous post!!) and you nod knowingly now you have finally been initiated into the Slut Club.