I recently read a post on a terrific blog Sex on the first date and one of the commenters used the term “vagina worthy.” This harkens back to the Seinfeld episode where Elaine has a limited number of contraceptive sponges (due to their having been taken off the market), and so she had to determine whether a man was “sponge worthy” before she slept with him.
While the number of times my vagina can be “occupied” is not finite, the poster is right that it should only be “occupied” if the occupier is vagina worthy.
The commenter also went on to adamantly state that she refused to “fuck below her class.” I again was struck by her remark. In my past relationship, the guy was not vagina or sponge worthy (although he was a sponge), and I definitely was fucking below my class. While that may seem harsh, it’s reality. When you fuck below your class, unlike the movie Overboard, it rarely works out. You know the movie. Goldie Hawn falls off a yacht, gets amnesia, and falls in love with Kurt Russell, who lives in a shack-like house with a passel of snot-nosed kids who run around like wild animals.
True, my ex didn’t even have his own shack, and could never have supported a passel of snot-nosed kids. He couldn’t even support himself. But he did have a truck similar to Kurt Russel’s. And an affinity for beer.
Why did I fuck someone below my class who was not vagina worthy? Well, first and foremost, it had been a while.
Yes, I was in a serious dry spell. And people kept telling me I was too picky; I needed to be more flexible in my choice of a mate; relax my standards. I was advised that even though he wasn’t husband material, I could have a wild fling, get my juices flowing, and then move on to someone who suited me better.
All of that was terrible advice, and I ask that you all please refrain from telling your single friends these things from here on out. It’s bullshit. And not helpful. Standards are important. Dating a man from your socioeconomic status is not being classist or snooty; it’s a necessary item for a relationship to work out. Pretty Woman is bullshit. It doesn’t happen. (Unless the guy wants an armpiece rather than a partner.) And neither does Overboard. As I mentioned in a previous post Stupid Oxytocin (aka Sex Voodoo), I can’t fuck just to get my juices flowing. I get involved. My vagina and my heart are connected. It’s a sad reality of being female. If you let a man into your bed, before you know it, he’s occupied your heart. And then your condo.
Standing in solidarity with the wise commenter on the other blog, henceforth no one shall occupy my vagina (or my condo) unless they are worthy. Moreover, I shalt not fuck below my class. Amen.