That's a Vagina.

So, dear reader, as you may already know from my previous blogs, my quiet roommate, who hasn't done much dating in the last few years, has found himself a hooker/self-proclaimed model named Teniqua or Lutwella or something, who seems to have moved in with us suddenly. So this dear writer has to find a new place to live by January 1. Oh Joy.

I told my roommate that the prossy needs to leave for the month of December. In exchange, I will find a place to live by January. He acquiesced. Ms. Thang went back to Cleveland on a Greyhound, patiently awaiting her return to my naive roommate and her free abode in NYC.

I thought the month of December would offer me a bit of quietude as I figured out what the heck I'm going to do. But my formerly shy, balding 43 year-old roommate, who seems to have recently discovered the apparatus in his pants, has decided he should test me a little more. Two nights after Leticia leaves, I enter the apartment after a hard day's work, and he has another "young lady", shall we say, in our living room. Her name is Maesha. She looks a whopping 16 years old but turns out to be a whopping 20. They are drinking Hennessey and she's telling him about this rash she's developed, this nasty rash, on her chest and do you want to see it? At this point, I grab my tea and retreat posthaste to my bedroom, but leave the door open a crack, as a sick form of masochistic pleasure, akin to driving slowly past a car accident or picking a scab.

Before my roommate became a fulltime freak, he was a painter. He begins to show her the various paintings hanging on the walls. When he gets to the one hanging right outside my bedroom door, he and Maesha stop.

Now I've always liked this particular painting. It has these deep shades of blue and brown and in the middle there is a sharp, silver swoosh. I think of it as a bird plummeting to the ocean for prey. Or maybe even a falling star. Apparently, I'm painfully off base.

He points to the painting and says to Maesha, "That's a vagina." I spit out my tea and begin coughing loudly. "That's a vagina." It plays over and over in my head like an audio nightmare. "That's a vagina." He proceeds down the hall with Maesha. They go in his bedroom and I realize my audio nightmare has only just begun. "Dat's the spot, baby!!" "Oh yeah, dat's the way I like it!" I run for my bed, wrap a pillow around my head, but I can still hear it.

"That's a vagina! That's a vagina!" I wonder if I'll ever want to have sex again after this. "That's a vagina." I have a sudden urge to run down the hall, bust open the door and grab my vagina and scream "No..this is a vagina, you little bizarro!" as bullets magically fly from between my legs and race thru his bald skull. Maesha would huddle in the corner, screaming "Not me, bitch. Not me." I'd let Maesha go, I suppose. Maybe.

"That's a vagina." How dare you? How dare you use MY female body part in your dumb ol' art and then use it as a weird way of picking up girls from da hood? What do YOU know about vagina, Mr. Vagina Man? "That's a vagina." So is your head! Your head is a vagina. A big fat vagina! I pray for the day a 3-mile wide vagina drops from the sky and sucks you up in it for eternity. Then...and only then, you creepy bastard, will I allow you to say in my presence "That's a vagina."

That's a vagina...indeed!