Current Issue/Words/My Christmas Vagina

Angela Palermo - "My Christmas Vagina"

My vagina...You want to hear about my vagina?  Girlfriends, are you sure?  Did I hear you correctly?  I don’t think you know what you’re asking.  Listen, my vagina…that’s a very long and complicated story.  Asking a transsexual girl about her vagina is a little like opening Pandora’s Box.  You never know what might jump out.  It’s like opening the proverbial can of worms, if you’ll pardon the pun.  If you ask a tranny girl about her vagina, you’ll be getting in deep, learning more than you want to know.  I guarantee you, she’s gonna tell you all about it.  She’ll tell you how much it cost (mine was $8300 in Thailand), how many years she’ll be in debt because of it (I don’t even want to think about that), how great her surgeon is (there’s no pussy like a Dr. Suporn pussy), how many hours she has to dilate that pussy (too damn many!), whether it ever hurt to have sex with her boyfriend (or girlfriend), how much she’d like to have a boyfriend (or girlfriend), if she can orgasm (not a problem for me, I’ve got a revved up Porsche between my legs), what size dildos she prefers, what’s her favorite vibrator, her favorite harness, her favorite position and on and on and on.  And if you bring up her vagina she’ll also let you know all about the hormones she’s been taking, how her transition went at work and, of course, how she wishes she had bigger boobs.  Believe me, once you get her started, there’s no getting a tranny girl to shut the fuck up! 

            Honestly, I don’t need to rehearse all that shit.  It’s been a couple of years since I’ve taken the Vaginaville exit off the freeway of life.  I’m pretty much all talked out about my vagina.  I’ve moved on, gotten beyond it—you know, been there, done that.  Since I’m already gabbing, let me say one thing further.  Call me crazy, but when I think about my vagina, I invariably think about Christmas.  Go ahead and laugh, if you like, but I just can’t help myself.  The very thought of my vagina sets off all my mental sleigh bells.  I get warm all over like I’m drinking a steaming cup of hot cocoa and I have visions of Santa, Rudolph and Frosty the Snowman.  Christmas is the time of year when family, friends and lovers shower us with gifts, isn’t it?  And that’s exactly how I feel about my vagina—like the Universe, after years of punching me in the kidneys, finally showed some mercy and gifted me with a brand new vagina (well, not really a gift since it came with a 7.9% rate of interest, but you get the picture).  It’s definitely the most fun and fulfilling gift I’ve ever received.  Better even than that the bike I got when I was seven or that eye catching flannel shirt I wore to death during my college years.  What’s more, my vagina is pretty, a real sight to behold, prettier than any Christmas tree.  And it won’t be wearing any ornaments or blinking lights this holiday season.  It’s already got all the bells and whistles it needs.  My beautiful bush beats a bauble bedecked piece of flora any day of the week.  And you know what else?  My vagina tastes a whole lot better than candy canes or eggnog.  Unlike eggnog, you can lap at my pussy all you want.  I promise it’ll never make you loose your lunch, just the opposite.  Tasting my twat is like sucking at a scrumptious piece of chocolate and without any of the calories.  The vagina diet anyone?!  What can I say, my vagina is so wonderful, so exquisite.  It’s the gift that keeps on giving or, should I say, the gift that keeps on coming…and coming…and coming.  Just ask my girlfriend!! 

            I know I’m lucky—very, very lucky.  I feel blessed to have my vagina ‘cause there’s a lotta girls out there who will never be able to afford one.  Girls, who no matter how good they are, keep getting that lump of coal in their stockings.  Girls who would give their left nut—and I literally mean their left nut!—for a surgically created vagina.  So please, let’s keep them in mind and recognize that vaginas don’t grow on Christmas trees.  And the next time we think about our gorgeous, orgasmic vaginas, perhaps we can remember our own good fortune, all the while humming a few bars of “Jingle Bells.”