Imogene and the Mail-Order Vagina

Imogene had been standing outside for almost an hour, waiting for the delivery truck that would be bringing her brand new vagina straight from Amazon.

No more E-bay specials for her. This time she spent the money and was doing it right. She had even paid extra for super rush delivery. It was date night, after all, and she didn't want to live with the bad first impression her current vagina often left on people. Besides, it seemed so….old fashioned. If it would just get here.

"Stop."

And that was as far as I got in the story. I looked up.

"Don't read any more," Jane said.

"Why? Are we missing someone? I can wait."

"No, we're not missing anyone. That's just an inappropriate story for the North Fond du Lac Tuesday Writers' Club."

"But it's fiction night…" I started, but before I got any further, what's her name, the ugly one, chimed in.

"It’s offensive," she, let's call her Betty, huffed.

"You don't even know what it's about yet. I let you finish your piece of shit poem."

"It wasn't a piece of shit poem…." started a startled-looking young man, not startled because of this. He was always startled. Born that way I think. He wears glasses.

"She outgrew her bike, and she's sad about it. Blah, blah, blah, well, here's a thought. Buy a bigger bike."

"It's symbolic of lost youth…"

"Oh, fuck lost youth," I said. "What about Imogene? She's got real problems. She bought her last vagina from a company in China. The voltages were all wrong. And now she has a chance to …."

"It's offensive, " Betty said very slowly, articulating each syllable very carefully. "Of fen sive," she repeated.

"Is she a robot?" asked the quiet one, Laura.

"A robot. I don't think so. Who'd make a robot that looks like that?" I answered.

There was a pause.

"Not Betty," Laura said. "Imogene. I mean how does the mail order thing work? Does she plug it in? What about the old one?"

"Oh," I said. "Well, not a robot, really. The story really explains it all. It takes place in the future, designer vaginas with optional labial tattoos are more of a narrative device. The moral of the story is don't go switching vaginas…"

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave," Jane interrupted. "You are just not a good fit for the club."

"I…"

But she wouldn't let me finish. "No, your ode to oral sex was technically illegal inside a public library, but because it was after hours no minors were directly affected by it…"

"But…"

"Your essay on the benefits…."

"Please, not again," the startled-looking guy begged.

"…made Steve cry."

"His name is Steve? Startled Steve?"

"Just…maybe you should go."

So, with all the dignity I could muster, I put my short story back into my folder. I held my head high, refusing to let them see they've hurt me. I cleared my throat and addressed them as one.

"Your cookies suck. You say you made them, but they're obviously store bought, and they still suck. Well, the North Fond du Lac Tuesday Writer's Club won't have me to kick around any more, but remember this. Writer's Club doesn't require an apostrophe. It descriptive not possessive, morons. Your stationary is all wrong."

I was bluffing. I wasn't sure about the apostrophe, but it made Betty start to cry again, and that was all that counted.