I Am The Queen of Vagina

I lived in Alaska as a kid and while that alone borders on child abuse, I did get out eventually. Before leaving on what ended up being hours of precarious mountain driving in a Cadillac Caprice with a transmission on the verge of signing its Dear John letter, I rifled through my mom’s cassette collection. Since I was nine-years-old and really only familiar with The Lion King soundtrack, much of it was lost on me. With an uncommitted gaze, I dismissed Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton and The Rolling Stones as if they were hanging on a sales rack at Old Navy.

But I was able to recognize one  – Michael Jackson’s Dangerous. Its contents tore through the foam of my headphones throughout the entire trip. The only exception being “In the Closet,” when I would lower the volume because even though I didn’t know what it meant to “give it,” I figured that whatever it was would result in a conversation that I was too young to understand but old enough to feel embarrassed about.

Luckily, I’ve since grasped the concept. Which is why I’m able to appreciate Majela’s position on bearded men tickling her vagina:

After spending my afternoon perfecting the casual way in which she strums her vagina, I noticed the impressive cassette collection in her living room, or rather, shrine to the day that someone graduated from something. I can only hope that Dangerous is buried there somewhere and that, if given the opportunity, I’d have enough sense to swipe the cassettes that inspired her to sing about her “wet, wet, wet juicy vagina.”

growing up Music vagina why didn't I think of this