Behold, the Smart Bitch HooHah Monologues, proving that you should fear many things with deeper anxiety than seeing the word “vagina” on a marquee, such as Smart Bitch writers revealing the soliloquies of their downtheres.
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And now: on with the holes:
Entry #1
You’re killing me down here. First, I’m claustrophic. You KNOW this. I went the first 17 years having myself to myself; you know damn well I don’t appreciate house guests. The measures you take when you get your monthly visitor are bad enough. But it’s the other three weeks I dread. There I am, minding my own business, cleaning house and working on my haiku and all of a sudden there’s no SPACE and there’s this big fleshy THING and the son of a bitch is a sadist, you hear me? Bad enough he shows up at all, but then…whoops! He’s gone. And then he’s back. And then he’s gone again. And back. Repeat ad nauseum for two, sometimes three minutes. And then? He floods the place…and LEAVES! Talk about the house guest from hell. And I’m left to swab the Goddamned deck like a Shanghaied sailor.
Don’t get me wrong; I don’t mind your yearly checkup. Yes, it’s crowded in here when Mr. Speculum pops in for a visit, but at least he’s quick, clean, and doesn’t leave a mess. Too bad the other bums you invite over don’t exercise the same consideration.
I’ve had it. I quit.
Entry #2
Prithy, where is my false fibrous phallus? My marble Mecca of Manhood? My jubilant source of juicy joy? Mayhap that miscreant, that mousy maid, has misplaced it yet again. Shall I be consigned to consorting with a cucumber, or perhaps a puerile pencil? Inconceivable. Impossible. Impenetrable. I think not.
I do hope Puss is not batting it on the bedroom Bokhara even as I speak. It would not do for the cat to paw my cat’s paw. I shudder to share my shameful cher ami with my chat. It is not fitting. In fact, it is that fractious feline who drove Lord Dixon from my pearl of pleasure. No gentleman cares to have a cat’s claws clenched into his caboose when he is close to coming. I hear the poor man has not yet recovered.
Alas. I am alone and awash with ennui. My mistress means well, but lacks imagination. Surely there are diffuse delights other than dildo and Dixon. Perhaps if I exert myself with a quintessential quiver, she will come to the conclusion that a new man is mandatory. I cannot kiss myself, after all.
Entry #3
It’s Hard to Be a Normal Vagina in a Paranormal World
I’ve been working with the same author for a while. We met over in Regency and made the leap to single title together. British-set historicals featuring 2.5 sex scenes were our bread-and-butter until sales recently took a dive.
When some doggy-style action with a hung duke didn’t fix the slump, our editor had a suggestion.
“Turn up the heat,†she said, “and go for the paranormal market.â€
I was game until I realized what this meant for me: Super-sized werewolf dick.
I know what you’re thinking—as a 28 year-old virgin, I’m supposed to breathlessly protest its size. But honey, I honestly can’t accommodate what I saw silhouetted in the moonlight back in Chapter 8.
I have a girlfriend over in erotica, so I pinged her.
“Just one giant cock?†she asked, all superior and shit. (Polyamorous slut!)
My last hope is the clap. (Rumor is a diagnosis wins you a bye on penetration.) Disease isn’t a problem given my Regency experience—trouble is, I can’t find a muff doc anywhere in this genre. Let me know if you get a bead.
In the meantime, do you know where a girl can buy some lube around here?
Entry #4
I wish we were back in the seventies. My friends tell me that big bushes were all the rage. I was a carefree wee thing, no yeast infection worries, but also no frolicking with the leading man either. Call me buzz kill Betty, but when did it get fashionable for my mistress to torture me, waxing and plucking? What the hell is a brazilian anyway? Do people realize how cold it is in winter to be flapping in the wind? It must be warmer in Brazil. Not to mention the hours of torture involved in ripping off of all of my curls. I can’t believe no one has asked for my vote in the process. I feel like a prematurely balding old man. But I don’t think there’s a men’s hairclub for vajjys.
It’s one thing to shape me up a bit, give me an even do, some zing, but the plucked chicken route? Goes too far.
It could be worse, we could be in a paranormal and subject to vampire dick and fangs. Enough said.
Maybe Brazilians aren’t so bad. Just please, don’t forget the painkillers, they give a girl a little fortitude.
Entry #5
They say my dear friend is a monster magnet and I say, well that’s a good thing. You see I am her vagina, or as I prefer to be called, the best damn part of her body. The brain may think she’s all that but come on when I’m getting all flushed and rosy as if that know it all brain doesn’t love it. Besides despite ms.snooty brain, the poor dear cannot avoid them and I sadly am the cause. Really the way I see it, it is win win, for me. Many of these so called monsters really know what they’re doing more then the average boring, tried it yesterday bloke. Vampires have got centuries of experience and all they have to do is start sucking a little blood and I go off like a rocket. Vampires when you know the stereotype are easy enough to find and there has been more then one morning when she has woken up after a lusty session with monster of the night, wondering what the hell happened besides multiple orgasms. I encourage concentrating on the orgasms not why this keeps happening to her. Now werewolves. Oh boy do they have stamina, yum yum. Witches, well lets just say some of them certainly know how to use their * ahem * spells. I really could go on and on too but I will refrain, the guy next to us used to be a pleasure slave for some demon queen and I’ve got some major hoohahing to do.
