Vaginal Spelunking and the Days o' Yore

Last week I randomly found myself bending over and examining my crotchal region from behind in the bathroom mirror. Well, and my sphincter region, if we’re being honest. This newfangled vaginal narcissism was all spawned from a recent conversation with my good friend Leroy over drinks at NST, where most ridiculousness o’ this ilk begins.—-

Name changed for safety purposes.

What to do tonight:

Mad Hatter for the Official Cincy SXSW Sendoff! Drink and debauch with Bad Veins and The Seedy Seeds before they depart for Austin to represent the musical perspicacity o’ our fair city. Der. Also playing: Hazle Weatherfield. I’ll be the one running around looking for my dignity. Again.

Bockfest! Sausages. Beer. People wearing sausages. Beer. Sausage Queen Coronation! ‘Nuff said. Quit being new.

I digress!

So … Leroy was telling me a story about this girl he’d been seeing and it quickly degraded into pube talk. I don’t remember why. I think the segue was this cute girl walking in the door who always hits on me. Doesn’t take much with us.

Anywho … apparently she was sportin’ some major shrubbery down there and he had been starting to casually, then ever slightly more exigently, suggest that she may want to experiment with a razor.

Everyone knows that vaginal spelunking escapades are imperceptibly more complicated without a map in the forest.

Lions and Tigers and Bears! OH MY!!!!!!

And, being the dear, sweet girl that she was, one day she told him that she had a surprise for him. She cooked him dinner and afterwards stripped down to reveal her newly shorn self. Howevz, being a newbie in the deforestry department, she had unwittingly left a small tuft o’ hair in the taint zone. A furry blond tuft. I don’t think he noticed this fact until they were on the horizontal, upon which he said he was hardly able to conceal the uproarious chortle welling up within him. He said it looked like a rabbit’s foot and to this day refers to it as the Brazilian Soul Patch Incident.


This blog augurs badly for the va-jay-jay grooming insecurities o’ women everywhere.

SATURDAY NIGHT, Biiiiiiiaaaaaaaaaatches!

Dance_MF at Northside Tavern. Razzlebear is Dead. Foul play is suspected. ‘Twill be a dancing whodunit o’ epic proportions.

More beer! Sausage. Beer sausage? Sexual innuendos galore. 12 Debauchitarian points to anyone that gets a picture o’ themselves with the newly crowned Sausage Queen!

I know there are some other fun things going down this weekend too, but fend for yourselves. I need to go shave.

Scroll to read more News Feature articles


Join CityBeat Newsletters

Subscribe now to get the latest news delivered right to your inbox.