Betty Dodson with Carlin Ross

Better Orgasms. Better World.

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I was showering this morning (you know - getting wet, soaping up, hitting all the important parts and the less-important parts that just feel good to hit), when I was surprised by something... the bushiness of my bush. I mean, I knew I hadn't trimmed her lately, so it made sense, but had no idea she was already so, um, natural. I struggled to remember the last time I had gardened down in my posy patch. Let's see, I haven't done the dirty in 75 plus 10 carry the one. Yeah. It's been a while.

In my life, I've tried out many a ‘do on my Little Miss Don't. For the first 25 years or so, she roamed free. Like a gazelle. Or maybe a porcupine. Then I found porn and realized that everyone didn't look like me down under. Up until then, I had only seen other cooches in anatomy textbooks or National Geographic magazines or in my college dorm room. Every one I had ever seen pretty much looked like mine, give or take a few tufts. This world of partially hairless love pillows intrigued me. A snoozy sex life (I was watching the porno alone so, uh, yeah) lead me to try to jazz up my vageezy. I took a little off the bottom at first, as sort of a fuzzy version of training wheels. Or, at least that was the plan. But, for some reason, I couldn't get it right. I couldn't get it straight. I tried again and again to make a neat triangle, taking off tiny bits at a time. The triangle got smaller and smaller. Narrower and narrower. Soon, I was left with Hitler's mustache, staring back from the handheld mirror. No, I supposed that wouldn't do. I went full tilt boogie, cleaning up until all I was left with was a mound resembling a hamburger bun, split and all.

While it took a little getting used to, visually, I wasn't really looking at it all that much. What I WAS doing was feeling it. It. Was. Awesome. I felt free, I felt sexy, I felt itchy. Okay, yes, it was a little itchy. But free and sexy! I vowed to never go back to the jungle!

But, time and two kids lead me back. I wandered away from the clean shaven muffin of yesteryear. I got busy. I got hairy. Then I got a job showing my business on camera. I went back to completely bare down there. But it seemed like a chore. It was for work, so I automatically resented it. It was a uniform for my pussy. As soon as I went back to wearing clothes for a living, I went bushy again. In fact, I've gone back and forth most of my adult life. My poor ladyfriend is a schizophrenic in a hall of mirrors.

So, back to this morning. I didn't have time to fix her up right then and there in the shower. Once you get to the stage where it looks like you are smuggling Rip Van Winkle in your panties, it takes a while to right the wrong, if you know what I mean. I was late, as always, but drove extra careful on my way to work, lest I have an accident and have to be stripped naked in a hospital, only for them to find Richard Simmons' fatter twin between my legs. I also tiptoed around at work, sure this would be the day that I amputate my arm in the flower chopper or one of my excoworkers comes in all disgruntled to settle the score. Not with me but, you know, sometimes there's collateral damage. "Please don't let me die today," I prayed, "Not this way. Won't spontaneously voiding my bowels be punishment enough for my misdeeds?" What I secretly DIDN'T reveal in the prayer was the fact that spontaneously voiding my bowels is not unique to death and, instead, pretty much a daily event for me.

So, I made it through the day without incident and am finally safe at home where I can makeover Wednesday Addams and take her from slightly frumpy to totally humpy. But it's late. I had a hard day. I am tired. And the Berenstain Bears are on. Tomorrow, though, tomorrow... doubleprayers and then double blades. Probably.