WARNING: This Article May Contain Language and Themes of a Graphic Nature, and May Not Be Suitable For Work. Viewer Discretion is Advised.

Vagina.

Yes, I said it. And yes, I'm going there. Today we are going to be discussing vagina's. And penises. And assholes. And I'm not talking about the men that come into the bar. I'm talking about the ole' brown eye...

I warned you in the title.

Maybe it's because I work in a strip club and have become hyper sensitive and over exposed to these certain areas, but it seems as if a lot of time, energy, and money are frittered away daily on vaginal upkeep and maintenance. A hell of a lot more than, let's say, penis upkeep and maintenance. At some point in time we became, as a society, vagina connoisseurs. No longer was it appropriate or even socially accepted to allow our vagina's to simply be vagina's; it has now become necessary- demanded even- that we truss our vagina's up in the latest fashion and trend.

I, for one, am tired of this.

It started out innocently enough: a trim here, a bikini wax there. Next thing you know we're all searching for "Brazilian wax" in our local yellow pages. It's not enough to merely garden the lotus flower, we now need to remove all traces there was ever a flower to begin with. There's always the option of the "landing strip," but you try shaving a straight line in the shower with one foot propped up on the water spout and the other one attempting to balance yourself while swiping aimlessly with a fucking razor blade and hoping that you'll achieve something resembling a strip. It's not like you can really see what you're doing down there.

Once we thought we had mastered the art of grooming, along came Vaginal Reconstructive Surgery. Yes! Now you, too, could have the vagina of a virgin! How exciting for all of us! As if we didn't have enough to worry about, now we had to be concerned with the inside of our vagina's, and whether they were the right diameter for the average penis. Although this practice was first intended for women who had partaken in the terrifyingly painful obstacle of vaginal labor, it is now available for those who wish to have their labia's trimmed, vulva's re-sized, and anything else to make your vagina more attractive and symmetrical.

Personally, I don't find vagina's attractive. I mean, sure, they're nice and all, but I've never seen one and thought to myself "damn! That's an attractive vagina!" They all pretty much look like vagina's, and they all serve the same purposes: sex and babies. I have yet to show a man my vagina and have him respond with "say baby, have you thought about having your labia trimmed? I think it would be a good look for you." Usually men are happy enough just seeing a vagina, they're not apt to complain about any assemmetricism.

This brings me to another point: things on your body are naturally asymmetrical. Almost every woman with natural breasts has one larger than the other. It is not uncommon for one foot to be slightly larger than the other. One man's testicle will hang lower than the other, and they are usually asymmetrical as well. I have yet to see an advertisement for "testicle reconstructive surgery," barring those men who have lost a ball due to cancer. Men don't care about the shape of their balls. They are simply happy to have balls. Women, we should follow in suit.

You don't see advertisements for men to have the head of their penis trimmed to be more fitting with the girth of their shaft. You don't see advertisements for men to have the girth of their shaft trimmed to match the size of their head. You don't see advertisements for "penile reduction surgery," nor do you see advertisements for "testicle enlargement surgery." This perverse side of the cosmetic industry belongs solely to women. Ladies, do we not see anything wrong with that?

I, personally, spend entirely too much time on the maintenance and upkeep of my vagina. Shaving my vagina is the last thing I do in the shower, because you have to let the hot water open the pores up and soften the hair shafts; even though the hair is coarse enough. Then comes the lather and shave, which I have already described in all it's irritatingly torturous detail. Then, post shower, a mixture of deodorant and Neosporin is smeared all over the bikini area, to help stave away any trace of razor burn. Finally, a light dusting of baby powder, to help keep away moisture and give you that "fresh scent."

Ladies, it's a vagina. It's supposed to smell like a vagina.

Now, let me ask the men in the audience a question. Would you want to put your face in that?

I didn't think so.

In my home we have a "no post-shower cunnilingus rule." Boyfriend doesn't really like the taste of deodorant and Neosporin, he says the deodorant dries his tongue out. Go figure. The ironic (and sad) thing is that the only time I don't have any annoying vagina stubble is right after I get out of the shower. And if I don't follow this strict hoo-haa regime, my vagina will explode into tiny red bumps which is so not attractive.

This really leaves the vagina conscious of us all no other option. We must succumb to the Laser Hair Removal. Yes, for the low, low price of a few thousand dollars, you too can have six or seven mildly painful treatments spread out over the course of six to eight months. Then you can be stubble free! How lucky are we?!?!?

And finally, now that hair removal and vaginal surgery are the norm, we move on to Anal Bleaching. As if we needed yet another thing to worry about, we must now be concerned with whether or not our asshole is too brown.

It's an asshole. You know what comes out of it.

Never once have I thought to myself "gee, I wonder if my asshole might be a little too brown. Maybe I should bleach it." Why the hell would you want to put bleach on your asshole? Who cares if your asshole is brown! It's an asshole!!!

Okay, I take that back. One time I considered it. Last night, actually.

I picked up a shift, and one of my old friends was dancing that night. About a year ago she underwent laser hair removal to permanently remove the hair from her vagina, asshole, and underarms. For months she regaled us with tales of being spread eagle on a table while technician's ran lasers over her vagina and around her asshole, and how the "topical anesthetic" really doesn't work.

"How's the hootie hair," I mentioned while she was getting dressed.

She promptly took off her panties and proudly showed me her vagina. "See, she said, pointing to the labia, "I have to go back again, I still have some hair growing there."

"Oh yeah," I murmured. "What about your asshole? Do you have to go back for that as well?"

Rather than telling me about it, she leaned over the counter and spread her ass cheeks, exposing me to the wonder that was her poopie place.

"See," she said, looking over her shoulder while balancing herself on her elbows, "there's still some there."

I. Was. Flabbergasted. And believe me, it takes a lot to render me speechless. I had never seen an asshole this close before, and here I was being given the "full Monty," if you will. And let me tell you, it was brown.

I panicked, made some offhand remark about the weather, and got the hell out of the dressing room. It was no use, every time I closed my eyes I could see her asshole, and the area surrounding her asshole. It was a shock to my system.

I've never even seen my asshole. I've never been struck, before yesterday, to bend over the dryer while holding a compact and attempt to spread my butt cheeks enough to see my butt hole. You can bet your ass that's the first thing I did when I got home.

"Baby," I said, crawling into bed with him after the mirror inspection was over.

"Mmmph," he said, half asleep.

"Is my asshole too brown?"

"Jen," he said, sighing into his pillow, "it's four in the morning. Go to sleep."

"No, really," I protested, growing anxious. "Is my asshole too brown?"

"No baby," he replied, "you're asshole is not too brown. Now can we go to sleep?"

I was still not satisfied. "Are you just saying that because you want me to leave you alone?"

"Christ, Jenn," he responded, "it's a fucking asshole. Who gives a fuck?"

"Do you think I should get it bleached?" I was whining now. "Will you look at mine and tell me if it's too brown?" I received no reply, so I continued. "Here," I said, reaching for his boxers, "let me see your asshole. Then I can compare it to mine, and if yours is the same, then it'll be okay."

He wrestled my hands away and sat up. "I'm going to sleep on the couch," he replied, grabbing his pillow. "I'll see you in the morning, when you're sane again."

This is the problem. We, as women, are so damn sensitive to the "norms." If everyone is hairless, damn it, we have to be hairless. If an episode of Dr. 90210 mentions the need for anal bleaching, we all have to get our butt's whitened. The minute someone tells us we have! to! have! something in order to make our bodies more socially acceptable, we're the first people in line for it. Remember the original breast implants? Remember that they leaked and caused cancer? Women still flocked by the millions to have bags of "safe" silicone inserted into our chests. We are a beauty obsessed culture, where women go through extremely dangerous, painful procedures to satisfy not the men in our lives, but to "keep up with the Jones'."

Or, more specifically, to keep up with Mrs. Jones' vagina.