****WARNING: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT. GO NO FURTHER IF YOU ARE A PRUDE, DEVOID OF HUMOUR OR HAPPEN TO BE RELATED TO ME.*****

Dear menfolk everywhere,

Being a heterosexual male, I know you worship at the altar of the pink petaled blossom of love, but I fear you don’t fully understand just how complicated a woman’s love machine really is.

My vagina is here to help.

We’re here (me and my cooter are rather inseparable) to explain the mysteries of the va-jay-jay and why sometimes it’s best left to leave the lid closed on your favorite love box.

I realize many of you only know about the enigma of a woman’s sacred spot through the fuzzy recollections of long ago sex-ed classes where an awkward teacher once tried to explain the instruction manual of vaginal science while wrestling a condom on a banana and telling little Jimmy to get his hands out of his pants.

Some of you may have furthered your education in vaginal studies by picking up how-to magazines at the local corner store and studied the pictures intently when you thought you were alone.

But I’m here to tell you it doesn’t matter how often you studied those diagrams and drooled over those pictures, we know you didn’t read the articles. We understand you were distracted by thoughts of all the fun you and your future va-jay-jay may find together.

I’m here to lift the veil of secrecy that we women keep shrouded for your own protection. I’m here to help you and wives everywhere by explaining why the candy store sometimes closes its doors and shuts down business for service repairs.

You see, there are times a woman’s vagina turns into a snarling angry beast. And no, I’m not talking about when the circus comes to town.

I’m talking about something much more sinister.

I’m here to tell you about the Plight Of Pillsbury. Better known as crotch rot.  This is officially diagnosed as a yeast infection but women everywhere know better.

I know, I know, it’s an unpleasant subject and your swizzle stick of love just shriveled into a tiny twig at the mere thought, but as a woman it’s my duty to explain to you why women everywhere are snarling at their mates and letting the hedges go untrimmed and begging to be left alone as they munch on chocolate and read trashy romance novels while shooting you death looks if you so much as breathe on her.

I know it doesn’t seem fair when you have a love sausage just waiting for some muff love, but I’m here to explain why it’s in your best interest to just hand over the ice cream container and a spoon rather than risk permanent damage to your manhood by poking at our nest.

You see, every now and then, for a variety of reasons a hoard of angry beavers comes and attacks a woman’s cooter. It’s known as beaver fever and it’s vicious. Imagine the gnashing of angry little beaver teeth tearing at your man bits and you may have a better idea of what we women occasionally have to deal with all in the name of womanhood.

It’s itchy, it burns and it kills any sexual desire we may hold for our loving partners. Crotch rot kills cooter love.

There isn’t much a man can do for his friendly neighbourhood vagina during this time other than to be sensitive to the fact there is unwanted bread in the shed and perhaps go to the local pharmacy to pick up some ointment (and now is not the time to pinch pennies and buy the cheap stuff) to lovingly be snatched out of his hands as his beloved partner tries to fix her snatch.

We women know how much our favorite one-eyed snakes like to play in our grass, but boys, when there is yeast in our beast the last thing we want to do is listen to you men whine about how you aren’t getting any and how it was just last week the circus was in town.

You aren’t the only ones suffering. While you are going through a dry spell, our cooters are driving us crazy with mold in the folds and it’s all we can do to keep from tearing your faces off when you dare ask if we’re open for business yet.

Yes, we acknowledge it is unfortunate that Pillsbury is hampering our dreams of mattress dancing with our loved ones, but it is a small price we women occasionally have to pay for the privilege of possessing the lotus flower of love.

Understandably having one’s pink bits being descended on by yeast gone astray is not fun for anyone. But men, until you have a vagina that has been stretched like a rubber band as your child tries to claw it’s way to freedom, subsequently stitched back together and then have to suffer the indignities of the monthly visit from Aunt Flo, you need to learn to keep your damn yap shut and not remind us we have a mouth we can use while our cooch is closed.

Lest we remind you our mouths contain teeth. Teeth we are just itching to chomp on something like a rabid raccoon so that you too may feel the angry burn of crotch rot.

I’m here to remind you it doesn’t matter how much wine you ply us with while we fight the sourdough, there will be no cake for anyone as our cooters hold us hostage with itchy reminders of our femininity and we are forced to fight the fungus.

So menfolk near and far, my vagina would like you all to know that women everywhere are working our hardest to get the situation under control and resume business operations as normal but in the mean time, it would all be in your best penile interest if you took this unwanted vacation from sexy times to celebrate the unique condition of a woman’s body and thank your God, the universe or the dude next door that you weren’t saddled with a bearded clam.

With patience and understanding (and perhaps a back massage free from any strings), it won’t be long before the lid is lifted off your favorite box once more and romance is restored.

Your local vagina will thank you for it.

Signed,

My Vagina