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Anatomically Incorrect
Written on 2001-10-09, at 1:27 p.m.
Seeing a vagina is one thing.

Handling it is another.

Being forced to finger one is altogether a different story.

For a gay man.

For this gay man, at least.

No, this isn't the preamble to some restless dream induced by a lethal combination on alcohol and "Buffalo Sauce", which I'll still never get the reason as to why it's called that.

This was "Biology of Human Sexuality".

Though I did have a rather interesting dream of chasing dinosaurs through the Altamonte Mall.

Well, as not to break from what has become my standard operating procedure for school, I arrived a little over ten minutes late for class this morning.

Which, I don't understand about myself.

I'm the most punctual person you'll ever meet. I'm the one who has been waiting when others arrive. I detest tardiness.

But for some reason, it plagues me in the realms of academia.


Arriving late for class usually warrants me at least two things.

1. An exasperated look from a professor, who now has the daunting task of putting a check mark next to my name as present, and...

2. The opportunity to play the little game I like to call “What Have I Missed?”

Well, I believed that I had just missed some of today’s lecture.

Well, I was wrong.

Because as I’m taking notes on the mammary glands, something is passed over to me.

Something which looked almost, but not entirely like a grapefruit turned inside out.

Upon further inspection, this was the aforementioned vagina.

So sitting there on my binder, like a fleshy Mount Vesuvius waiting to erupt, was something that I have had little to no experience with.

I looked at it.

I looked at it in much the same way an American traveler looks at a European electric socket for the first time.

Confusion. (What…is…that…)

Thoughtfulness. (Maybe it's just decorative.)

Realization. (Wait, it goes in like THAT!!)

Action. (I’ll have to buy an adapter.)

Not that I haven’t seen one before, I mean, sometimes some of that trashy “bi” porn slips in with the tasteful, artsy gay pictures littered throughout the internet.

But never has one been there.

Right there.

Hair and all.

(She needed to trim.)

Oh yes, so…it’s there.

A vagina.

Lands on my desk.

And me with no logical reason, other than the thought that some poor woman had just been vivisected on the ceiling above me.

I then think that…if that was the case…she seemed to have some interesting tattoos:

Labia Majora.

Labia Minora.

Clitoral hood.

And hinges…she had hinges too.

Again, remember, I don’t have a strong working knowledge of that area.

It's not something I could, in good conscience, put under the “Skills” section of my résumé next to “Word”, and “PowerPoint”, but I’m fairly certain that there aren’t hinges down there.

So, I was to look inside this alien anatomy, was I? “Poke around” as my professor later called it, and see the inner workings of what we call “Woman”.

I could do that.

I could be scientific, and highbrow, and look at this from a purely academic standpoint, and not on the fact that I’m a prissy queer.

I could.

But instead I swing the thing open like a barn door, get squeamish, and attempt to pass it on.

“John, make sure you check up inside there…put two fingers in and feel for the pubic bone and the birth canal.”

So, I gave my class a display on how inept I can be when dealing with the nether regions of the opposite sex…

…by successfully jamming my finger directly into her urethra.

Much like "The Little Dutch Boy".

Be well…


Your Host and Emcee...dizboy.

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