How ‘The Vagina Monologues’ scarred me for life

Matt Busekroos

Landing strip. Hot pocket. Axe wound. Easy bake oven. Flaming lips. The vagina.

Nestled in Buckman Theatre, WAVE presented a special performance of Eve Ensler’s award-winning play of “The Vagina Monologues.”

Before the performance, I looked around the room for sympathy. I found myself comforted by the fact that I was not the only male present. However, there was that one guy in the crowd unlike the others. He was alone. He was quiet. I looked at the bearded man for empathy. Instead, I was greeted with a crooked smile as if he was in attendance for dating tips on how to master the lips between the hips.

Before the lights went dark in Buckman, I was aware of the gratuitous series of monologues I was about to observe.

Unfortunately, nothing could prepare me for the vivid descriptions of the pussy cat and the untamable jungle that is the vagina.
One monologue involved a 72-year-old woman who never had an orgasm. It took one pleasurable bath with her arthritic hand for the woman to relieve herself. She cried tears of joy. I held back vomit.

It did not take long for the vagina to be compared to fish. Under no circumstances should the love tunnel be compared to food.
“I want to taste the fish! That’s why I ordered it!” exclaimed Christina Giani, who performed the monologue “My Angry Vagina.” That is certainly not what I ordered and will never again thanks to this play.

Men should note that the clitoris contains 8,000 nerve fibers making it the most sensitive spot on the woman. According to the play, “The clitoris is pure in pleasure.” Perhaps, focusing on that area will get you a second date (for you skeevy guys out there who find girls stupid enough to put out on the first date).

The moans and groans from Heather Rudow invigorated the acerbic play, which had gotten worse as the minutes ticked on. Her impromptu striptease into a piece of red negligee caught my attention and prevented me from falling asleep. She flitted around the stage in the small article of clothing and eventually imitated every different moan imaginable one would hear during sex. In particular, her take on the African-American woman, Anglo-Saxon protestant, uninhibited bisexual and typical college student was spot on.

“I have a WQAQ meeting in 20 minutes,” she whispered in the role as the college student. Her delivery of “that’s it?” following the simulation left my mouth agape in awe of her bravura performance.

As the play wrapped up, I could not help but thank my lucky stars that the most awkward hour and a half of my life ended. I left with a sense of confusion not fully comprehending all the inside jokes that only women must find funny (and yes, inside jokes do exist outside the dorms. Unfortunately, I am not privy to these ones either).

How about a play titled “The Penis Disquisition”? I am sure women would be curious to learn all about the art of “manscaping.” Perhaps women will finally understand how men manage to keep it up when their female date is laying stiff as a board. However, the latter situation may be too hard for women to grasp. That’s what she said! (Sorry, Lenny.)

On the way out of Buckman, I was tempted to take a vagina lollipop. I quickly realized that a lickable keepsake would not be the best idea following one of the most emotionally scarring nights of my life.