The Randy Romance Novelist(20)

Referring back to her question about what I had been educated on in those groups, I answered, “I’ve learned that penises come in all shapes and sizes and that the majority of the female population likes a good tattoo and appreciates a bad boy.”

“They also hate the word moist, Rosie! It makes them cringe, it makes them want to pick up their first born child and sell them on the sidewalk for five dollars or best offer, just to buy a razor blade so they can slice their ears off. Don’t you remember that one post about words not to use…”

“Umm…” I paused trying to reflect back.

“It’s that author you stalk, she asked readers to list their most hated words to be used in books, and do you know what the number one word was?”

“Anal seepage?

“Fuck you! No, you’re disgusting. Jesus, Rosie. It was moist!! They hate the word, moist!”

“What’s so wrong with it? They also hate the word panties, but what else are we supposed to call them? Underwear? That doesn’t seem very sexy. Unless every character for the rest of their lives wears thongs, you have to call them something else. So what is it? Underwear or panties?”

“I can’t even handle you right now,” Delaney said, deflated.

“And what’s wrong with saying the word lady folds? I mean, that’s what they are. They are folds of skin on a lady’s body. Lady folds is way less vulgar than the P word. And I really don’t think I’m ready to use the term ‘sex’ to describe Virginia. Oh, and that’s another thing, apparently naming your private part isn’t wildly accepted either. What’s a writer to do?”

Delaney took a deep breath and let it out. “I don’t know, Rosie. Maybe ask your stalkee. Maybe she will take a break from her meerkat turkey basting and answer your questions.”

“Hmm, that’s a good idea. I think I just might.”

Questions ran through my mind about the proper terms for vagina and how I could address them to Tara, when Delaney interrupted my thoughts. “Are you going to ask me your question?”

Completely forgetting about my question, I tried to remember what I was going to say, where this conversation was leading. “Oh, yeah, so lots of sex. I know there are such things as yeast and bladder infections, but those are more of an itch to the vag more than anything, right?”

“Umm, is this a question for your gyno?”

“Maybe, but I don’t want to go there again, not for another year. Last time I went, I saw hot man doctor, and this was before the red brick road incident. He said . . .” I cleared my throat from embarrassment. “He said he had to part my hair to get a good look.”

Silence.

Then, “I’m about one sentence away from hanging up this phone on you.”

“I’m sorry!” I said quickly. “Yeast infections are itchy and bladder infections make it feel like you have to pee all the time, kind of a burning sensation, right?”

“Right,” she drawled out.

“So what is it when your lady part feels heavy?”

More silence.

Too much silence.

Silence like she was no longer on the phone anymore kind of silence.

“Hello? Delaney? Are you still there?”

“I don’t—” Delaney started, but then stopped. “What do you mean by heavy?”

“Well, I don’t know. Just heavy. Like, your vagina is carrying around twenty pound weights and really struggling to hold them up. Heavy to the point that you feel like it’s really hanging low. Like, if something brushed up against my ankle, I wouldn’t even give it a second thought if I saw Virginia waving at me from down below.”

“I can honestly say, I’ve never experienced my * hanging low to the point of tying my shoelaces for me.”

“You know what I mean . . .”

“I really don’t, actually, Rosie. Please explain.”

“Ugh.” I shifted on the couch and looked around for Sir Licks-a-lot. He was nowhere to be found, so I set the water sprayer on the couch next to me, lifted my butt, and pulled my shorts and underwear down so I could see Virginia. I tucked my shirt in through the neck hole and then spread my legs to get a good look.

I played around, pulling things to the side and examining the inner parts of my entire sex machine. “It’s hard to explain. It almost feels like I’m allergic to Henry’s penis. Things are swollen; sometimes I feel like the folds . . .”

“Don’t say folds.”

I continued, despite her lecturing. “Like the folds are so large and mad that they’ve turned purple.” I put the phone on speaker, set it on the arm rest and dove in deeper to the ins and outs of my vagina. “Right now, it’s not as swollen as usual, but post-coitus, it’s usually more swollen. Is that something?”

“Why am I still listening to this conversation? You lost me at purple vagina and pushed me over the edge with post-coitus.”

“I’m not kidding, Delaney. I’m seriously concerned. Can vaginas be allergic to dicks?”

“How am I supposed to know? Search it on the internet. Wait, actually . . . don’t.”

“What am I supposed to do? What if it gets worse, what if my entire vagina falls off one night? Oh, my gosh, do you think it turns purple because Henry’s penis suffocates it? Do vaginas need oxygen during sex? He is kind of big for me.”