People I don't want to know

The delicate art of c**t flashing.

In my lifetime I’ve seen more vagina then frankly I’ve ever needed to see. I have my own you see, and so from where I stand my dance card is full so to speak – I do not need to yours, little miss ‘my boyfriend left me at the races after fingering me near the starters gates, and I think I’ve vomited on my shoes and that’s why I’m sitting with my legs spread and talking on my iPhone and now it’s itchy and so now she starts scratching it…’ – oh for the love of god, this recent popularity in minge flashing has to stop!

Now look, it’s not like I seek vagina out, it just happens to find me – like that kid in school who always picked his nose and ate what he didn’t smear on the seat and farted all day long, who always ended up sitting next to me on the school bus and somehow manages to clean himself without the use of tissues or a hankey, because oh no, my David Jones kids section colleted shorts would just have to do because ‘oh my god Lou, there’s blood in my snot! Blood in my snot! I can’t eat that!’ – and so like I took issue to the nose picking kid who once asked me out after farting his name under his arm, my relationship with vagina is also steeped in friction – namely my relationship with other peoples vaginas.

Not that I’d never had an issue with my own. There was one time when I was five years old when my mother spotted a small ‘lump’ on my groin. After an unsuccessful attempt at getting the fire department to come and check it out, my mother, conceding defeat, drove me to the nearest emergency room, where upon arrival she declared to the triage nurse that it looked like I had ovarian cancer. After a quick glance at my intimate region the nurse debunked my mothers theories on ovarian cancer in favour of a nice warm flannel – to wipe away the hardened yoghurt my mother had mistaken for a lump. As you can imagine my mother was furious, driving home in almost silence until finally I perked up the courage to ask her what was wrong. She took a deep breath and rolled down the window ‘an illness I could’ve handled, but to think they think I have a filthy child, a child who does not wash – well if I wanted that I would’ve married a transient Louise, a transient.’

My complicated relationship with (I think we know what I’m talking bout by now) continued well up to my early teens, when at the age of 13, and not yet cool enough to secure a birthday party invitation without an in from my parents, I found myself relegated to the kitchen of my on-again, off-again best friends, on my own, away from the fun party times. You see, it turned out that I’d worn the same rose coloured dress and sash combination as the birthday girl. I thought we looked different enough though – I mean I had two separate eyebrows – she didn’t see the humour and so it was decided I’d spend the rest of the party out of site. If anyone asked, we told her it was a mutual decision.

Alone with nothing but a chocolate cake to keep me company as I pondered my impending ascent into my thirties teens, I was startled to find my friends sister staring at me from the doorway, quietly staring. She was the older sister, and when I say older I mean of the stepsister, first marriage variety. She was 16, wore 8-ups, watched Press Gang before it was ironic and above all she was the only person around my age that saw a psychiatrist and not because she had an eating disorder – she was an exhibitionist, and given I still got dressed in the privacy of my own room with a towel wrapped around me and away from the mirror – well all of the afore mentioned made her better than me, and as a young girl on the brink of puberty, I was like a moth to a flame (thank you Janet Jackson).

She leaned on the counter and fingered my chocolate cake, smearing it on her white shirt.

‘I’ve got something to show you’ she murmured.

I grabbed my cake – great, dinner and show!

When we got to her room I was struck with awe – Sarah McLachlan and Take That posters everywhere – she obviously didn’t have a BluTak quota like I did – there was barely any wall, and to top it all off she had a Fresh Prince of Bel Air bedspread (years from that very moment she would fashion that bed spread into her high school valedictorian dress, but by that stage with her reputation firmly cemented, going dressed as a bed would be seen as literal, lacking any sort of irony whatsoever).

She went to over to what I only could’ve have imagined at the time was a brand new CD/ Cassette player and slipped in Tom Petty’s Life is a Highway, and began to dance around the room. I stood there. Sure I was a good dancer, but I knew better then to upstage her and then suddenly she took off all her clothes and stood very still in front of me. I didn’t know what to do – I wasn’t the right audience, I hated interpretative dance, yes, even naked interpretative dance, but I couldn’t tell her – ‘that was great’ I stated. She took my hand and started to push it down ‘touch it’ she said, and before I even had time to tell her how funny this situation was because it was the exact same thing I did with her brother the other week – my parents burst in – and lets just say from that moment onwards there were two girls in the neighbourhood who saw therapists and not for eating disorders – as my mum told my Nan over a shared cigarette one day ‘she likes vagina’s which is cool, but I can’t help but think it’s just greedy, I mean she has her own and if she gets curious she’s got her grandma or me to go to – there’s no need to go outside the family- I just don’t want it to get to the stage where’s she getting arrested for peaking through windows.’

And so now even in my twenties I still find myself subjected to the vagina. Take for example last Tuesday. I was minding my own business in a public bathroom when two young ladies of orange persuasion trolloped in. I quickly ascertained with their misuse of hair extensions and polyester that they’d been at the races that day, one had even managed to get her hair caught in her zipper, but she didn’t care, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t hers. I think her name was Nanessa, and her friend who taking centre stage and blocking me from drying my hands was called Chantelle, and Chantelle had a problem – her undies were really uncomfortable – she wasn’t use to wearing full briefs and from the looks of Nanessa telling some third party on her mobile phone –the whole situation was rather distressing.

According to Nanessa though, the solution was simple:

‘Just take em off Chanty’

‘But don’t you think my dress is too short?’

‘Nah, it’s not as short as mine and I’m not wearing any,’

‘F**k off!’

‘Yeah, see, and we’re going dancing, not like anyone can tell’

And with that, Nanessa bent over  – she was right, you couldn’t see her c**t, primarily due being distracted by finally seeing someone who appeared to bleach their anus – it sounds wrong, it looks wrong.

I pushed past to get to the dryer, trying not to stare, desperately trying not to stare.

‘Ok’ exclaimed Chantelle and took her own knickers off and started to shimmy around, like she was on that very dance floor where no one cared if you were wore undies or nor.

‘Arms up’ commanded Nanessa as she pulled out some lip gloss and a cigarette.

Chantelle raised her arms, as Nanessa studied her carefully.

‘Nup, your fine, just don’t stand in front of any lights or the sun’, words from an old pro I thought, but I spoke to late as I turned around in time to come face to face with Chantelle as she came to the realisation she still had her tampon in…

Trying not to cry, I grabbed my handbag and headed for the door when someone tapped me on the shoulder – it was Nanessa.

‘You’ve got something stuck to the bottom of your shoe’

‘I’m fine’ I barked back and looked down to find a condom wrapper stuck to my shoe.

I had never felt so embarrassed and unaware – who was I to judge these girls, they helped me, perhaps vaginas weren’t so bad after all – maybe I just needed to brush up on the etiquette and really learn to stop staring – or maybe they could just wear underpants- for the love of god – and then I slipped on the condom wrapper and fell over, arse over tits.

‘Oh my god!’ Chantelle shouted ‘she wears her undies on the outside of her stockings – that’s disgusting.’ And with that they both stepped over me, sans undies, and left me lying on the floor. They were right, I was disgusting – don’t look at me.


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