Wednesday, September 14, 2011

THE MOTORCYCLE AND THE BITCHY VAGINA

I don’t know why it got under my skin, but it did; this piece this chick wrote about her vagina getting sore riding around on the back of her boyfriend’s sport bike. The boyfriend posted the piece on his website, a very cool, popular motorcycle website, and he was very proud. Her main visual was of that area, in leather riding pants, with an X made of bandages covering her venus. It was a plea to the major motorcycle manufacturers, to please take vaginas into consideration when designing the back of the seat where women ride “bitch”. She was bitching about her vagina, and it bothered me to no end.

It’s hard enough fighting all the stereotypes about women being weak, complaining, not tough enough to participate in the sport without a woman complaining that her vajayjay is sore. Bikes aren’t Barcaloungers, they vibrate, the seats often lack padding, particularly sport bikes which are designed for speed, not comfort, and certainly not passengers. There are Goldwings, and oversized Harley-Davidsons for those who like a more livingroom riding experience. And here she was crying that Ducati isn’t babying her labia.

But the boys that read the piece and commented seemed to love it. Her boyfriend posted it on his motorcycle site’s Facebook page, there were a lot of, “way to go, Ashlee”s, I think the boys were lapping up her repetitive use of the word “labia”. There were also a lot of, “well-writtens!” I had never once seen a guy say “well-written” about any her boyfriend’s articles. It was if they were saying, “Wow, I love a gal who can talk publicly about her privates, and throw it all together in some proper paragraphs.” She’d come up with different names for her whiny vagina, like “cooch” and “lips” and more I can’t recall. She must have had a copy of Roget’s Clitorous Thesaurus on hand.

I wanted to bitchslap that vagina. Tell it to stop whining, get off the back of her boyfriend’s bike and ride her own. I wanted to rip those bandages off her V, and tell her to put her big boy panties on, stop riding the coattails of her boyfriend’s blog, and start her own.

Damned if I could put that bruised vagina article behind me; her boyfriend kept mentioning her on his FB page, “sorry I’ve been away, I’m trying to spend more time with Ashleeee.” OK. Now that you have a real live girlfriend, with a real live vagina we have to hear about it ad nauseum. He carefully worked a mention into almost every sport bike news piece he had written lately. Seems the vagina had him pussy whipped.

Then today he posted another article on Facebook and somehow managed to shout out his vag-chronicler. “I took Ashlee with me today to go check out the protective gear on the marketplace.” I get it. You have a girlfriend, you took her AND her vagina out for his n hers reflective jackets. I should have let it go, but that Vandaid visual had really stuck in my craw. I clicked on “comment” and let it pour from my lips, the ones on my mouth. “Don’t forget to stock up on vagina bandages!!” It was snarky, I knew it was wrong, but like a vagina pressed against the buzz of a Ducati seat, it felt so right.

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