Making Crotch Rot My Bitch

Kristine Laco
Written by Kristine Laco

As a public service announcement to randy newlyweds, I thought I would share my story. Let this be a warning to y’all in the name of fresh snatches worldwide.

This story starts while I was a newlywed. We did the nasty like runaways auditioning for Vivid Studios. And we needed several takes a day. When the Red Baron paid me a visit, I thought it might mean our nethers would get a bit of a break, but we just couldn’t stop. Period be damned, we were going to fornicate until we couldn’t speak. Don’t worry, this didn’t last.

I was plugging, unplugging, cleaning, gyrating, plugging, and unplugging at an outstanding pace. It was hard. Hard to keep track.

Days after my flow had stopped and I had given my cotton rockets a month off, I showered but just could not get that fresh and ready to get dirty smell. It didn’t stop us any. Until one day, the elephant in the room started to stink like an elephant was living in the room with his two cousins and in-laws.

We were new in town and had no idea how to find a doctor nor did we even know the whereabouts of a clinic or hospital. The incident in question happened Before the Internet, for those babies with no knowledge of life BI, and I couldn’t just look up fur burger funk in the Yellow Pages. Asking brand new colleagues who their vagina virtuoso is was also not going to happen. I was going to have to solve this problem myself.

I made it to the chemist and found a vinegar and water douche to make that elephant smell like she’d been eating fries off a newspaper. I left knowing that my problem would be solved momentarily.

It didn’t work.

I wanted to try again, but I couldn’t buy all the boxes of douches at one store. There would be a world of embarrassment rivaling that of my first condom purchase or that time a stranger grabbed my mammaries measured me for a training bra. So, I drove with the windows down to every pharmacist within a 20-minute radius to purchase one box from each. That way I never had to use my planned parting words at checkout if I got the stink-eye, ‘I was told to clean the house with vinegar and water, and this is all I found.’ Yes, stink-eye was intended to be funny.

I rode my new plastic gushers like I’d been riding them my whole life. But, when the vinegar wasn’t cutting it, I decided to go fishing. As a woman early in her vaginal intimacy life, I had not had the pleasure of being inside my body in that manner. I was still using tampons with applicators. I was a fingering rooky. This did not last either.

I enjoyed another vinegar rinse, poked, readjusted, poked, wretched, and poked for, what seemed like a sweaty, uncomfortable eternity. I had navigated every nook and cranny with no fish to show for it. That elephant was the one that got away. Nothing seemed out of place, but I did not know what I was poking around for, so I reeled in.

Dejected, I would shower the outside and inside of my body twice a day worried that I was slowly decaying or that too much sex really could kill you as my grandmother had warned. My valiant husband chose that time to travel for work and be otherwise too exhausted to tempt my twat into action. I couldn’t blame him. Everywhere I went, the stinky elephant followed.

Finally, I found the nearest clinic and got the nerve to make an appointment when it was time to board the red train again and decided to postpone. I did my daily shower and flush and inserted a rocket. A few hours later, I grabbed that string and went in for the catch when the elephant finally showed herself. A one-month-old tampon; that black, foul cotton mouse came out of my delicate, clean body and onto the awaiting tissues stuck to the back of that morning’s insertion. I didn’t know whether to scream, finally read the toxic shock syndrome brochure in the Tampax box, or hail Jesus. I chose none of these options.

I wrapped the dead cotton baby in a tree’s worth of tissues, took out the trash at arm’s length, and called my husband to come home early from work. He had some business to take care of, and it wasn’t going to involve nose plugs or any other type of plug. Rejoice! I did have a come to Jesus moment after all and I learned that vinegar and water does not clean everything when you are a dirty girl.

About the author

Kristine Laco

Kristine Laco

Kristine Laco shares the stories we all have with a splash of sarcasm, a pinch of bitch and a ton of wine. Her middle finger is her favourite and she lives by the motto that if you are not yelling at your kids, you are not spending enough time with them. She takes selfies at the gyno. Taco Tuesday is her gospel. Reality TV is real folks. She is making turning 50 a job because she doesn't have one.

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