VAGINA CHRONICLES
Sisterhood of the Traveling Pubes
An international love story
With a full ’70s style bush, I set off on a long journey with my husband and kids to cross international borders in the pursuit of happiness.
My initial plan was to clog the shower drain of our Airbnb the morning our quest began, but we were running behind schedule. I imagined beginning this adventure with a baby smooth clamshell, soft to the touch, and somehow making our car more fuel-efficient and aerodynamic.
Despite my woolly penis fly trap, we still made good time on the road and were surprisingly closefisted with our fuel economy. I wondered if my unshorn whispering eye had more sending power than I had imagined. I'm not a science geek, but I do believe in magic. If my bewhiskered beef curtains were accelerating us to our final destination, who am I to question this divine power betwixt my thighs?
Viva La Mexico!
My husband was tired of working endless hours at a dangerous job. I was tired of cold winters, Trump supporters, and the countless conversations that began with “I don’t see color! I have biracial people in my family,” and “I’m not racist but the whole country went to Hell when the Black Lives Matter movement started.” We were tired of our kids coming home to tell stories of how they had yet another school-shooting drill. We were all exhausted, and my chapel-of-ease was too stressed to play hide the sausage. Something had to give.
My furburger and family realized we were destined for a better life, and that life was outside of the ol’ U.S. and A. We de-cluttered, downsized to bare necessities, and put our house on the market. Shockingly, we had an offer on the house in less than 24 hours and for above our asking price. My beaver and I were sent spiraling down a rabbit hole of anxiety and panic.
Is this really happening? I thought of all the possible what-ifs that could take place, meanwhile, my love glove was grumbling from lack of attention and maintenance. What were we to do?
I slicked down my lion's mane, put on my big girl panties, and buckled the fuck up. These powerful pubes weren't going to take no for an answer, and they damn sure weren't going to let us fail!
To Shave or Not to Shave
My Arctic Muskox and lackluster navigational skills had taken us through the Alaskan tundras, across Canadian provinces, and finally down to the border of Mexico. I debated sheering off my Breakfast of Champions before we crossed the border into Mexico.
Leather seats and Mexican heat make for a fish fry no one wants to be invited to.
However, I was reminded of the tale of Samson and Delilah. I wasn't ready to chance cutting off all this pelvic power for the sake of vanity and ventilation. Stuffing down my hubris, I settled on cotton garments, A/C, and loose-fitting pants. I refused to cut my lucky locks and ruin my winning streak.
My mystic mange had gotten us through white-knuckle driving and snowstorms, the Bible Belt and Trump country, and all the way to Mexican immigration, where “No entiendo” and “Lo siento” were the only Spanish phrases I could remember.
My quaffed coils had gotten us this far — I couldn't stand the thought of becoming the Delilah to my scruffy Samson. These protective pubic hairs were taking me to the promised land!
Home Sweet Hellish Inferno
Mexico is hot — like really fucking hot. The first few days driving through Mexico, I contemplated shaving my head because it was just too much insulation, and the idea of being cool and comfortable were at the forefront of my mind. At that moment, I thought of my crab dungeon and how far she had made it, being stuffed between two sweaty thunder thighs and endless hours in a hot-box traveling upwards of 100 mph for the last two weeks.
If she could do it, so could I. We made it to our final destination, and upon entering our home, I stripped down to my birthday suit.
Free at last, free at last! Thank God almighty, we’re free at last!
On my new matrimonial bed, spread eagle like DaVinci’s Vitruvian Man, I let my curly kitty free to take in the Gulf Coast breeze. We were home. We were free. We were finally at peace with the world. Our stresses melted away like hot beeswax on a willing labia majora. My furry foxhole had escorted us over six-thousand miles and was ready for her next journey off to the by-and-by.
We said our goodbyes, she and I. Somberness filled the air, memories of us flooded my mind, and a stillness, full of gratitude, overcame me. Standing in a moment of silence, hovering over my toilet in a wide stance, I turned on the clippers and began my new journey.
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