Just when I've learned to appreciate a good "silicone" job, something new comes along!
Ladies and Gents: I had a tough time suppressing my humor while reading this article.
Gucci Hoochie? (Published 03/08/01 http://www.westchesterweekly.com)
"Apparently, there are enough out-of-shape vaginas in California to keep "vaginal rejuvenation" surgeons in business."
By Kim Ficera
Not too long ago, while in a salon waiting to get my hair cut, I picked up an old issue of Harper's Bazaar-the most recent issue of Time was nowhere in sight.
Harper's is not a magazine I normally read. I don't need advice on which shoes go best with this or that bag, because I don't really care. And I don't need "10 Tips on How to Please My Man," because I don't have a man. But, if I did, I'd ask him how he'd like to be pleased, not a magazine.
Harper's is one of those magazines that imply that perfection is attainable for the price of a subscription. And that amuses me because I can get the same, if not better, advice from a fortune cookie. Simply by adding the words "in bed" to my fortune, I can transcend inadequacy and propel myself toward sexual perfection. And it works the same way with a Harper's headline. You know, you've probably played the game-"Five Minutes to a More Beautiful You...In Bed."
As I waited for my stylist, I leafed through the magazine, giving the glossy pages only a fraction of my attention-until, that is, I reached the health section. There I saw a picture of a naked woman lying on her back with her legs crossed. Her head and breasts, and the bottom of one leg, were cropped out and the words "Designer Vaginas" crossed her flat belly.
I'm guessing that her posed legs represented a somewhat awkward looking "V" and that the picture was supposed to be "artistic" in nature. But to me, the model looked like an amputee doing a porn layout. That, plus the words "Designer Vaginas," sparked my curiosity; but when I added "in bed" I was completely hooked.
The teaser at the top of the page read, "Face-lifts, liposuction, collagen injections-commonplace procedures all. But vaginal tightening?"
Ewww, I thought!
As I read, I learned that Dr. David L. Matlock, a California gynecologist, practices the latest technique in cosmetic surgery-female genital reconstruction. From remodeling the appearance of the inner and outer vaginal lips to reducing the diameter of the vaginal canal, he and other gynecologists and plastic surgeons are altering private parts at the request of those willing to shell out the thousands of dollars necessary to get the procedure done.
According to the author of the article, Susannah Breslin, Matlock considers himself "the Picasso of vaginas." Now, I don't know too much about Picasso, but don't his paintings lack a certain symmetry that vaginas require?
A scary doctor needs a scary office name, and Matlock's got one-"The Laser Vaginal Rejuvenation Center of Los Angeles." There, according to the author, an average of 20 vaginal surgeries are performed a month.
Apparently, there are enough out-of-shape vaginas in California to go around. I don't know if that has anything to do with all the free love that was handed out there in the '60s, but Dr. Jane Norton of Palm Desert, Calif., who also performs the technique, welcomes the wilted wee-wees that seek her help. She's quoted in the article as saying, "Whatever needs to be fixed, I fix."
Whoa!
But wait. Sagging Sallies rejoice! It gets better.
According to another surgeon who rejuvenates vaginas (but who apparently and wisely chose to remain nameless for the article), there's no difference between himself and the doctor who, after completing an episiotomy on a woman, fulfills her husband's request to "throw a stitch in there for me."
Sweet, I know. But, before all you droopy girls reach for the phonebook, you should know that Harper's is quick to point out that these procedures aren't approved by the American Society of Plastic and Reconstructive Surgeons. The writer suggests that women interested in improving vaginal muscle function (in order to have more and better orgasms) should first look at non-surgical treatments.
In a section called "Intimate Advice," Breslin offers alternatives, which include Fem Tone Vaginal Weights-"a five-pack of vaginal 'barbells' that range from 20-70 grams apiece." They give new meaning to the term "workout," I thought, so I made a mental note to ask a friend, who is also a personal trainer, if she's ever heard of such things and if they require a spotter.
As I continued to read, I gasped again and again, because I don't want anything that resembles a laser, a knife or a needle anywhere near my hoochie, and therefore can't imagine electing to have surgery on my Love Boat, even if it was sinking.
An older woman waiting in the chair next to mine apparently felt the need to respond to my audible disapproval.
"What are you reading?" she asked curiously.
I held up the page and showed her. "Haven't we come farther than this?" I asked, sure she would agree with me.
She looked and nodded furiously. "I read that," she said. "You're too young to understand it now, but when you're my age, and have pumped out four kids like I have, you'll appreciate what those doctors are doing!"
"No, I won't!" I insisted.
"Sure you will, Honey," she said. She leaned in close to me. "You're young. You're TIGHT!" She laughed the laugh of someone who'd smoked 50 cigarettes before breakfast. "Take it from me, tight is GOOD."
Well, I couldn't argue with that, but there was something about her enthusiasm that scared the hell out of me. So, I was happy when her stylist came to get her.
I watched her walk away and wondered if she feared some vital organ would just fall out of her and slide across the salon floor. But then I realized that she wasn't concerned about anything falling out, she was more concerned with keeping one thing in.
So, I wondered how a conversation between a man and woman might start on the subject of vaginal weakness. I pictured a couple in bed. The man, attempting to reach orgasm, struggles to prevent his penis from slipping out of his loose-lipped wife. The woman, cramped from trying to hold him inside of her, feels like an old pair of stretch pants that's lost its snap after a couple of thousand spins in the dryer. Eventually the man, who has become nothing more than a selfish, frustrated penis on a mission, yells, "Damn it, you loose bitch! Go see a doctor, will ya?"
And then the woman, convinced that it's her pathetic lack of hoo-hoo muscle function that's turned her into a blow-up doll, doesn't push the jerk off of her and leave him for a man with a bigger penis, she instead says, "You're right, Honey. Anything for Mr. Peter!" And then she reaches for the phone beside the bed, dials a guy like Matlock and exclaims in desperation. "Hello, Doctor? Help, my vagina is loose and it's ruining my marriage!"
"Of course it is," the doctor agrees. "Come to my office immediately with a check for $4,000. And tell your husband to bring a deck of cards and a bottle of Chivas!"
I was pulled out of that nightmare by my stylist, who stood before me with scissors in hand. "I'm ready," she said with a smile.
And I was thankful-very thankful-that all she was about to cut was my hair.
Ladies and Gents: I had a tough time suppressing my humor while reading this article.
Gucci Hoochie? (Published 03/08/01 http://www.westchesterweekly.com)
"Apparently, there are enough out-of-shape vaginas in California to keep "vaginal rejuvenation" surgeons in business."
By Kim Ficera
Not too long ago, while in a salon waiting to get my hair cut, I picked up an old issue of Harper's Bazaar-the most recent issue of Time was nowhere in sight.
Harper's is not a magazine I normally read. I don't need advice on which shoes go best with this or that bag, because I don't really care. And I don't need "10 Tips on How to Please My Man," because I don't have a man. But, if I did, I'd ask him how he'd like to be pleased, not a magazine.
Harper's is one of those magazines that imply that perfection is attainable for the price of a subscription. And that amuses me because I can get the same, if not better, advice from a fortune cookie. Simply by adding the words "in bed" to my fortune, I can transcend inadequacy and propel myself toward sexual perfection. And it works the same way with a Harper's headline. You know, you've probably played the game-"Five Minutes to a More Beautiful You...In Bed."
As I waited for my stylist, I leafed through the magazine, giving the glossy pages only a fraction of my attention-until, that is, I reached the health section. There I saw a picture of a naked woman lying on her back with her legs crossed. Her head and breasts, and the bottom of one leg, were cropped out and the words "Designer Vaginas" crossed her flat belly.
I'm guessing that her posed legs represented a somewhat awkward looking "V" and that the picture was supposed to be "artistic" in nature. But to me, the model looked like an amputee doing a porn layout. That, plus the words "Designer Vaginas," sparked my curiosity; but when I added "in bed" I was completely hooked.
The teaser at the top of the page read, "Face-lifts, liposuction, collagen injections-commonplace procedures all. But vaginal tightening?"
Ewww, I thought!
As I read, I learned that Dr. David L. Matlock, a California gynecologist, practices the latest technique in cosmetic surgery-female genital reconstruction. From remodeling the appearance of the inner and outer vaginal lips to reducing the diameter of the vaginal canal, he and other gynecologists and plastic surgeons are altering private parts at the request of those willing to shell out the thousands of dollars necessary to get the procedure done.
According to the author of the article, Susannah Breslin, Matlock considers himself "the Picasso of vaginas." Now, I don't know too much about Picasso, but don't his paintings lack a certain symmetry that vaginas require?
A scary doctor needs a scary office name, and Matlock's got one-"The Laser Vaginal Rejuvenation Center of Los Angeles." There, according to the author, an average of 20 vaginal surgeries are performed a month.
Apparently, there are enough out-of-shape vaginas in California to go around. I don't know if that has anything to do with all the free love that was handed out there in the '60s, but Dr. Jane Norton of Palm Desert, Calif., who also performs the technique, welcomes the wilted wee-wees that seek her help. She's quoted in the article as saying, "Whatever needs to be fixed, I fix."
Whoa!
But wait. Sagging Sallies rejoice! It gets better.
According to another surgeon who rejuvenates vaginas (but who apparently and wisely chose to remain nameless for the article), there's no difference between himself and the doctor who, after completing an episiotomy on a woman, fulfills her husband's request to "throw a stitch in there for me."
Sweet, I know. But, before all you droopy girls reach for the phonebook, you should know that Harper's is quick to point out that these procedures aren't approved by the American Society of Plastic and Reconstructive Surgeons. The writer suggests that women interested in improving vaginal muscle function (in order to have more and better orgasms) should first look at non-surgical treatments.
In a section called "Intimate Advice," Breslin offers alternatives, which include Fem Tone Vaginal Weights-"a five-pack of vaginal 'barbells' that range from 20-70 grams apiece." They give new meaning to the term "workout," I thought, so I made a mental note to ask a friend, who is also a personal trainer, if she's ever heard of such things and if they require a spotter.
As I continued to read, I gasped again and again, because I don't want anything that resembles a laser, a knife or a needle anywhere near my hoochie, and therefore can't imagine electing to have surgery on my Love Boat, even if it was sinking.
An older woman waiting in the chair next to mine apparently felt the need to respond to my audible disapproval.
"What are you reading?" she asked curiously.
I held up the page and showed her. "Haven't we come farther than this?" I asked, sure she would agree with me.
She looked and nodded furiously. "I read that," she said. "You're too young to understand it now, but when you're my age, and have pumped out four kids like I have, you'll appreciate what those doctors are doing!"
"No, I won't!" I insisted.
"Sure you will, Honey," she said. She leaned in close to me. "You're young. You're TIGHT!" She laughed the laugh of someone who'd smoked 50 cigarettes before breakfast. "Take it from me, tight is GOOD."
Well, I couldn't argue with that, but there was something about her enthusiasm that scared the hell out of me. So, I was happy when her stylist came to get her.
I watched her walk away and wondered if she feared some vital organ would just fall out of her and slide across the salon floor. But then I realized that she wasn't concerned about anything falling out, she was more concerned with keeping one thing in.
So, I wondered how a conversation between a man and woman might start on the subject of vaginal weakness. I pictured a couple in bed. The man, attempting to reach orgasm, struggles to prevent his penis from slipping out of his loose-lipped wife. The woman, cramped from trying to hold him inside of her, feels like an old pair of stretch pants that's lost its snap after a couple of thousand spins in the dryer. Eventually the man, who has become nothing more than a selfish, frustrated penis on a mission, yells, "Damn it, you loose bitch! Go see a doctor, will ya?"
And then the woman, convinced that it's her pathetic lack of hoo-hoo muscle function that's turned her into a blow-up doll, doesn't push the jerk off of her and leave him for a man with a bigger penis, she instead says, "You're right, Honey. Anything for Mr. Peter!" And then she reaches for the phone beside the bed, dials a guy like Matlock and exclaims in desperation. "Hello, Doctor? Help, my vagina is loose and it's ruining my marriage!"
"Of course it is," the doctor agrees. "Come to my office immediately with a check for $4,000. And tell your husband to bring a deck of cards and a bottle of Chivas!"
I was pulled out of that nightmare by my stylist, who stood before me with scissors in hand. "I'm ready," she said with a smile.
And I was thankful-very thankful-that all she was about to cut was my hair.
