Vagina! Vagina! Vagina! The chant went on and on interspersed with the “C” word, the “T” word, and the “P” word. Yes – I had ventured into a local performance of the Vagina Monologues written by Eve Ensler. I had not seen the performance before or read the book, so I took a chance on the last night of the run and went for it. There were twenty one people in the audience. Ten lesbian couples and me. I sat in the “what the hell are you doing here” section and attempted to mind my own business. I soon figured out that I could have more fun being the fly on the wall watching me enjoy the performance with this croud then actually watching the performance.
There were many times during the performance when the rest of the audience would laugh and I didn’t. There were also times when I was the only laughing. The monologues were hilarious as well as saddening and traumatic. The local troup did am admiral job of the difficult material. The highlight was the interpretation of more than twenty five orgasmic moans that one’s coochie snorcher could make – if a coochie snorcher could actually make a sound.
At the end of the play, the director came out for some Q & A about the play and this particular performance. One woman in the audience asked a question. When the director finished her answer, she said pointing towards the woman’s friend, “I’m glad to see some men here enjoying the performance.” The woman in the audience responded, “she’s a woman!” The director said sorry, and took the next question. I swear to God, I might have made the same mistake and I have pretty good “gaydar” having lived in New Orleans for a while. The Q & A finally ended and everyone scuttled out with all but me thinking about the fun they would soon have at the candy shop.
I titled this post “Call Me Bob” and I am not going to explain it. If you have seen a performance of the monologues or read the book you will understand.