Coo Coo Ca Coochie.
Mood:  on fire
Topic: Evil Things
This morning I was about to step out of the shower when I suddenly realized my coochie was still full of soap. As I sighed and turned the water back on, I figured that stood to reason; I haven't seen the benighted thing in weeks. Which could only mean one thing: the hedge must be in need of a pruning by now.

I sighed again and pulled out the scissors, reflecting that this particular exercise is a lot like carefully tending a garden no one can ever enter or indeed approach, because it is guarded by three angelic imps who never sleep. But a girl has certain maintenance duties, and these days, the grooming of the woo-woo has found a place on that list.

It wasn't always that way. Back when I was coming of age, the only thing required was that we keep the area squeaky clean. The upkeep of the Fun Zone with razors and such was considered racy indeed, in those days when Fear of Flying topped the bestseller lists. Gamely, I tried the shaving thing when I was about 18, with the result that I suffered first razor burn and later, of course, stubble. My boyfriend at the time, who was also an English major, dubbed the region the fretful porpentine, a la Bill Shakespeare. (Thanks a lot, hon. You got yours later, the time I tried to give you a "sensual massage" with that homemade cinnamon oil concoction. How was I to know cinnamon was so caustic? That wasn't on purpose. I swear it.)

These days, I act my age and adopt a style best described as well-trimmed retro, which like my taste in all hairstyles is hopelessly outmoded. In the 21st Century it's deemed obligatory to go Brazilian, or at least do a landing strip. Shit, even Morgan Fairchild, who is even older than I am, shaved down for her Mrs. Robinson stage role, as Miss Doxie hilariously revealed. Razor burn is no longer an issue, thanks to modern technology; I think Howard Stern's girlfriend has her parts sanitized of secondary sex characteristics by laser removal. Me, I'm sticking to my guns. I figure that if God had intended for men to tangle with bald coochies, He would have made it legal to have sex with eight-year-old girls.

The people I really feel bad for are gynecologists. Before my beloved former coochie doc retired, I used to puzzle over the etiquette of how to present my see-you-next-Tuesday when I went in for my pelvic -- he was around 70 years old and I figured too much grooming might scare him to death. But if the guy's a gynecologist, you have to figure he sees plenty of scary coochies anyway, what with yeast and chlamydia and what have you. The idea of that dear old man spending his day facing down twats with infections and heart-shaped curlies was more than my mind could handle. So I refused to think about it, and so should you. However mightily some of them might dispute it, that would be enough to turn any man gay.