This past Sunday I was sitting in the garden with friends drinking tea from delicate cups (pinkies properly extended) and enjoying a delightful selection of delicious Petit Fours when between tiny sips and dainty bites, the discussion naturally turned to the variety of ingenious ways by which

elicit substances are smuggled into jails and prisons, including the tried and true method of shoving said substances up ones ass. A friend allowed as to how when she was incarcerated some of the women who had court dates would arrive back at the institution with coffee (which for some reason was considered contraband) rolled up in plastic bags and safely secreted high up in their vaginas. This revelation drew a collective “Ewwww!” from everyone at the table.

Ignoring other revolted guests, who by now had set down their cups and were eyeballing them suspiciously, as if perhaps the tea they were drinking was imported not from Great Britain or China, but from a women’s penal colony via the local courthouse, she turned to me and said, “What’s the matter? I thought you liked vaj.”

Well of course I like vaj. I’m a lesbian and vaj liking is the first requirement in the Lesbian Rules & Regulations Manual. I do not, however, like flavored coffee … of any kind. Not Raspberry Truffle, not Mint Chocolate Chip, not French Vanilla and certainly not Court Smuggled Vaj. I also don’t like caffeinated concoctions. If you happen to run into me at my local coffee dispensary you will never hear me ask the barista to whip me up a half caff low foam soy vaj latte.

It’s possible that my childhood disinterest in the popular and vaginaless Barbie (I preferred G.I. Joe who, while also lacking a vagina also conveniently lacked a penis, essentially making him the perfect man for me) may have foreshadowed the importance of the role vagina would play later in my life, but though important they’re not something I think about all that often.

I can’t speak for all lesbians because unlike the late, great Whitney Houston who was, apparently, every woman, I am only one lesbian; but when I see a woman I find attractive I don’t think about her vagina. Ever. And I think about the vaginas of women I find unattractive even less. Depending on how well I know her what I find appealing may be purely physical … face, smile, breasts, eyes, hair, ass … or I may be drawn to her personality, her laugh, her sick sense of humor or the way she always smells like soap and sunshine.

But crotch thoughts? Nope. I pretty much don’t think about a woman’s vagina unless I’m having sex with her, about to have sex with her or fantasizing about having sex with her. And even then my fantasy life isn’t all that vaj-centric … it’s usually more about the build-up, the getting there rather than the being there. And I don’t mean that I imagine candlelit dinners, long walks on the beach, skipping tra-la hand in hand through flower filled fields or any of that other romantic bullshit that permeates online dating sites. I’m referring to the other things about a woman that make being a lesbian so much fun: the softness, the sensuality, the gentle sighs, the mystery … and, of course, the hot, passionate monkey sex once you get past the soft, sensual, gentle, mysterious part.

Monkey sex aside, I imagine these may be the types of thoughts that make many straight women say things like, “I’ve always thought I might like to be with another woman.” Only that’s not exactly what they say. Usually what they say is more along the lines of, “I’ve always thought I might like to be with another woman, except y’know …” followed by a meaningful glance or gesture in the general direction of their crotchular area implying, of course, that they’re not too sure about the whole vaginal aspect of the theoretical encounter. I’ve yet to hear a straight woman stand up and declare, “I’ve always thought I might like to be with another woman because I’d really like to get me some pussy!” This is probably because any straight woman who just can’t wait to get her some pussy is a lesbian.

All others aside, there is one vagina that I think about regularly: mine. I am concerned with its health and well-being, keep it groomed and tidy in between professional detailing services and run regular performance checks (daily if possible) to make sure that everything is working properly. I don’t do this because I believe anyone who sees me strutting down the street is thinking about the fancy, well-maintained vagina lurking just behind my zipper … if I don’t think about yours, I assume you don’t think about mine. I do it for the same reason I keep my toenails painted even in the winter: I never know when I might unexpectedly meet someone who makes me want to rip my shoes off.