I was scrolling down the event calendar for our local convention center this evening when I came across an event that, to my mind, was long overdue: 2014 VagFest.
An entire festival dedicated to vaginas? My eyes sparkled as I considered the possibilities. Grooming demonstrations (how to treat/avoid razor burn and ingrown hairs in delicate areas); erotic art displays; toys and lubes; scents and flavors to make even the most mundane vagina beguiling. Anatomy lessons for those unfortunate souls who haven’t yet stumbled across their G-spot; group discussions on how to get the most pleasure out of every penis; exercise seminars to tighten and firm those most special muscle groups post child-birth and beyond. That would be a valuable and popular seminar. (Nothing intrigues a woman with three kids more than having a twat tighter than a 17 year old cheerleader.)
The smile spread like warm sunshine across my face as I began to feel at home in this imaginary, labial world. I imagined a special area where men could also browse, learn and discover the secret world where men love, yet fear, to go. Seminars designed to help them not feel threatened by the 11-inch black vibrator in their partner’s nightstand drawer. Advice on how to navigate the menstrual cycle without having to skip the fun stuff. A medical booth where embarrassing questions could be asked and strange pustules examined in anonymity by clinical professionals. A homeopathic remedy booth nearby where women could purchase creams and tinctures that would make their nether parts smell like an herb garden.
As I gazed off into the distance, my face lifted up in supplicant bliss at the notion that the vagina could be celebrated at level worthy of its own festival, I glanced back at my computer screen to make sure I was not dreaming.
And that is when I read the event name again. “2014 VegFest.”
A festival of vegetables and not vaginas?
My shoulders slid into a destitute slump as the air left me in a dejected whoosh.
Damn those organic farmers. They have all the fun.