I am what most would consider to be a fairly attractive woman. I’ve had no problem getting dates in my early twenties, and by “dating” I mean having semi-anonymous, no-strings-attached romantic encounters with a seemingly endless parade of attractive, successful men. I was on top of the world, for a time… Like most young women these days, I bought into the whole “sex positive” rhetoric which claimed that woman should never be shamed for their sexual appetite, however voracious it may be. If a woman wanted to have dozens of sexual partners, then gosh darn-it, she was entitled to that right just like any ole man would be!
And so I did. For nearly 10 years I furiously rode an continuous c— carousel, racking up a staggering number of partners. I would eagerly engage in intercourse with any man who expressed even a remote interest in me. I felt like I was indulging my natural instincts as a progressive, liberated woman in the 21st century, until one day, everything changed.
Right around the time my pool of “friends with benefits” dried up, I read your previous Go Ask Jane column, How To Determine If You’ve Had Too Many Sexual Partners. All the things you spoke about in that article began happening to me. These men who had formerly enjoyed bending me over grimy sinks in public urinals on a regular basis started to develop interests in women who were bland, dull and boring. In short, they wished to “settle down”. They wanted “good girls”, or rather, girls who were a little more discriminatory when it came to the men whom they allowed access to their greasy oyster.
These guys wanted nothing more to do with me once they were hitched. The nerve! I always assumed that when you offer up your nappy dugout to a stranger, it instantly fuses you together in a sacred bond which connects you for all eternity. Boy, that was a hard lesson! All my former “friends” high tailed it with their new prim-and-proper partners, abandoning me in a haze of residual lubricant and seminal fluid. Those passionate encounters were just a distant, bitter memory. I felt like a used condom, tossed unceremoniously into the gutter like so much refuse.
These days my prospects have become more and more depressing. I have tried to connect with men on a more meaningful level, but I can’t seem to shake my reputation as the town skeeze. The only men who will give me the time of day are frumpy autistic louts who just end up stalking me, or flatulent, middle-aged alcoholics who can’t keep an erection and usually just pass out in a stinking, hairy heap, mid-thrust.
I am bewildered and saddened by my situation. Nobody in my Women, Gender and Sexuality studies courses in college ever explained these sorts of predicaments to me. I feel horribly betrayed, by men, by life, by my liberal arts education.
Jane, my question is, has my vagina officially expired? Is there some magical way I can regain my worthiness in the dating pool, and once again become appealing to the top-shelf shafts which formerly enjoy plowing my nether-bits to smithereens? Or should I just throw in the towel and resign myself to a smattering of sweaty, desperate encounters with random downtrodden buffoons?
Please, please, pretty please help me.
Well Linda, it seems like you have landed yourself in a classic conundrum that many women are finding themselves in these days. Ladies who have seemingly swapped their self-worth for a life of immoral meanderings. Once you have been branded a skank by your local peers, it is nearly impossible to shed such a status. You may want to consider changing your name and moving to a small town where nobody knows who you are. This is the only way I can foresee you meeting a decent man who is mercifully unaware of the extensive abuse your vagina has taken over the past decade.
Men are incredibly shallow, and cannot comprehend the intricate emotions we ladies experience. They don’t understand the spiritual beauty which remains untouched by the miles of shlong you’ve endured in your short life. Promiscuity creates feelings of primal terror in the brain of an average male, and every fiber of their being will avoid long term commitment to a female they deem “easy”.
Think of your vagina as a colorful pinata stuffed with candy. A crowd of joyous Mexican children rush forth and take turns beating on the pinata with a stick as sweet treats explode from it’s glittery form. These Mexican children are all the men you have allowed enter your meat-purse. One by one they gleefully step forth, pummeling and smashing the thing until it is battered to ribbons, and no longer produces the delectable goodies that they once found so appealing. Eventually they lose interest and move on. Later that night the children’s drunk uncle staggers out to where the war-torn pinata is tethered, rips it from the tree and violates it…
Do you see where I’m going with this, Linda? Best of luck.