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‘I’ve had a baby and now my vagina’s
really massive’
Baby talk with Dr Boo
Just what does a normal vulva actually look
like? I mean, apart from Rod Stewart’s face. Labia minora
inside the labia majora? Or drooping outside like floppy bunny’s
ears? How does the average woman know? We unashamedly admit
to pulling new shoes out of their boxes to compare with nearest
and dearest but how many of us child-bearers would ever admit
to sometimes having to pull our boxes out of our shoes. And
more’s the pity. If we took some time to really look
at each other’s cunts, we might realise God made us all
in his image.
Which brings me to this week’s problem.
A lady approached me after Church on Sunday, in some distress,
complaining, “I’ve had a baby and now my vagina’s
really massive.” Our gaping pal went on to explain how
she felt absolutely nothing during sex. Dreadful. Imagine
living your life not even knowing if you’re having sex
or not? You’d feel like Jeffrey Archer.
But what other options are there? Forget all
about it and do some work for charity? Or why not teach it
to speak? Maybe you could divorce your husband and find a
man with a knob girthy and worthy enough of your spacious
muff. (Check out www.massivecocks.com to get your juices flowing
- but make sure your property is insured against flood damage.)
The most snug option by far is to bite the
bullet and trade in your old Vulva Estate for a brand new
Armani Punani. You can purchase a smashing Designer Vagina
from the Corrective Vaginal Rejuvenation Clinic in Los Angeles.
You simply take in a picture of your favourite twat (they
don’t accept photos of Michael Winner) and they make
you as tight as you like. Isn’t science wonderful? In
three months, you’ll have them queuing up down the street
chanting, “Britney! Britney!”
So that’s that. But whatever Miss X chooses
for her chimney, I do hope, when the dust settles, she can
find happiness. Peace to you, lady, and all who sail in you.
For future reference, readers, my parting lip service for
pregnant women worried about having a post-partum wizard’s
sleeve has to be: use the sun-roof. Your stomach is so bulbous
before birth, it’s practically crying out to be sliced
open. It’s forcing itself in your surgeon’s face,
shouting, ‘Cut here and save my flower from ruin’.
It may be a dangerous major operation leaving you debilitated
for 6 weeks, but it is free, and at least your curtains won’t
be flapping in the breeze as wee fills your Jimmy Choos.
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