What happened to us and our vaginas?
After marriage and after kids, somehow, somewhere along the way, we started lying to ourselves and to our cold and hardened Mom vaginas.
We act like we are aroused when dishes are done without being asked. We brush off genuine husband advances because we’re too tired or haven’t showered or some other bullshit reason that wouldn’t bother their impending erection at all.
We pretend wine and post-bedtime silence is satisfying.
(The last time I checked even the boldest Bordeaux does not leave us sopping wet and star-fished, hanging half off the bed with our mouth so full of half-screamed moans we forget what our first born child’s name is.)
Our vaginas are so wise and creative and capable and so goddamn neglected.
And it’s our own damn fault.
We’re always so busy and so tired. The ever-evolving flow chart of running a family. Working. Creating and serving three meals a day. Maintaining meaningful relationships with family, friends, peers, children and husbands. Flossing, driving, nagging, reminding, tidying, playing, exercising, dusting, crafting, baking, pinning, commuting, consoling – we are doing all the things but not the most important thing.
Respecting our silent and forgotten vaginas.
We care enough to slather wide hot rivers of wax all over our tender pubic zone and then rip it off in a flurry of bit-back screams.
We try to exercise and choke down acres of kale and chia seeds and super food that tastes like dirt and sadness.
We apply shaky eyeliner and sweatily tuck that extra 10, 15, 30 pounds into Spanx, and day-to-day we do our best to present our best selves to the world.
Then we fall asleep in front of Netflix in an over-sized t-shirt and waste all that time and upkeep. Our vagina cries itself to sleep every night.
Enter Magic Mike XXL. It whispers our names in a pitch only Moms can hear. It knows that under all our Mom bravado and understandable sacrifice beats the hollow unanswered cries of an abandoned pleasure centre.
Grab all your friends. Tell your husband you will be back by midnight. Scream off on two tires to your nearest movie theatre. Buy the biggest soppiest bag of buttered popcorn with a fistful of napkins and zero caloric fucks given.
Magic Mike XXL will make you laugh in loud surprising unlady-like barks. You will feel like the very first nerd watching the very first Star Wars movie.
You will feel tingles.
You remember – TINGLES.
That fluttering vibration down low, like in eighth grade when the new boy handed you a piece of paper and your fingers brushed and you felt your underwear go up in flames as the blush in your face threatened to pop your ears clean off.
How your spine, guts and clitoris hummed and melted when you first tongued the man you would then choose to spend the rest of your life with.
Magic Mike XXL and all its words and abs and thrusts and primal bass and F-U-N reminds us what really matters.
It sees through all our smoke and mirror excuses and heads straight to our vagina’s front door, as potent as catnip, using just shy of 2 hours to turn our blood into warm chocolate and our previously placid personae into a Tigress of Fuck.
It is the torch that will light you on fire and the biggest brightest bluest flame will come spurting out of your vagina.
Don’t let this movie down. Don’t you dare.
You hot-foot it home immediately to either fuck the shit out of your husband (who has been ready and willing for years for this moment) or use your God-given fingers and bookmarked porn to fan the flames.
It is our job as women to keep the most powerful part of us stoked.
There’s still time. There is always time.
Honour her. Play with her. Embrace her. Please her.
It’s not complicated – all you need is a partner to straddle like a pony or a good Internet connection.
No magic required.