“Stop calling their vagina a flower.” Advises an article online from Vice.com. “Vaginas are no more like flowers than penises are like popsicles. A better comparison would be like…pie? Tacos? Hotdog buns?”
What about Frankenstein’s monster?
That’s what I thought my wife, *Sophia’s vagina resembled as we talked about her pain, swelling, and high fever back in 2010, three days after the birth of our second son. His head was a little too big and tore her. Sophia had an infection from an episiotomy that made it look like bloated lips trying to bust out of its stitches.
We never talked of her vagina before except a statement she once made about it looking like a roast beef sandwich.
At the afterbirth of our second son the doctor delivered the placenta; pulling the cord gently with one hand while pressing and kneading her uterus with the other, asking her to push at the appropriate time.
Subsequently, the doctor examined Sophia’s vagina and went to work repairing and sewing her up.
As I glanced over at my new son’s placenta sitting on a silver platter the doctor called for the nurse.
“Look at that!” he said. His hands out in presentation to Sophia’s reconstructed vagina.
“Oh wow!” The nurse exclaimed, staring down at Sophia wide eyed. “That looks fantastic!”
Through her recovery, we were without intercourse. I swore I would never be one to masturbate, but like that well-known Seinfeld episode, The Contest, I caved in surfing the net.
After Sophia healed sex was scarce. This deficiency motioned me to surfing the net again. Its wealth of information and comments made me assume that Sophia was no longer intimate because she was having an affair. Was my wife of twelve years committing adultery? Has my marriage been deflowered?
Coincidence had it that an iPhone of hers broke. She discarded it after it wouldn’t turn on from being dropped. It sat in the junk drawer of our kitchen for a month before I opened the draw and connected the device to my computer. I wanted to salvage the contacts Sophia had lost.
It took two days to get the phone to turn on. I retrieved her contacts and much more. A slew of recovered texts sat on my screen; Numbers I did not recognize with content like, “Lets meet for lunch”, “He won’t find out”, and “I like to be dominated.”
I called one number and a man picked up.
“Who’s this?” I demanded.
“This is Charles. Who’s this?” he said.
“This is the husband of the woman you’re trying to meet for lunch,” I said.
Sophia was having an emotional affair with Charles, her ex-boyfriend with whom she was in a relationship with when she was sixteen. Maybe they were trying to relive the original glory of young love.
I confronted her with my findings and she assured me that I was the one she loved and the affair had ended. There was nothing to be worried about.
“Has there been any physical intimacy?” I asked.
She asserted there was none. I convinced myself that this was so and agreed to rekindle our relationship.
Sophia surprised me at dinner one night with a new wedding ring and a letter she read before we ate. It was full of heartwarming prose professing her renewed love and remorse.
Our marriage’s rebirth caused an influx of sexual activity. Spring was in full bloom, but something was off. I had this nagging doubt. Could there still be the possibility of an affair with her ex-boyfriend, emotional or physical?
Early one night after putting our boys to sleep I approached Sophia and said, “To ease my doubt I’d like to get a hold of your current phone.”
“There’s the same stuff you saw on the old one before you found out,” she said as she started crying and claiming there was no reason to have any distrust. I accepted her pleas and kept my doubts to myself.
One night I executed a plan to retrieve data from her iPhone by directing the device’s backup to my cloud account. I purchased an iPod touch to restore the backup to. I would then recover data from it.
The next morning, we kissed as we always did before saying goodbye and starting our day. After Sophia drove out to work I began the recovery. Two and a half hours later I succeeded in retrieving data. Aghast, I began clicking through a slew of vagina and penis pictures, and texts saying, “My vagina looks amazing.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” one said. Another responded, “You’re going to have to wait.”
I stood up pacing around the room and called her ex-boyfriend.
“You lying piece of shit,” I began. “You told me there was nothing going on between you and my wife and here I see you’re sending her penis pictures.”
“That’s not my dick. I cut all contact with Sophia after our conversation,” he said.
“That’s not your dick?” I said, irate. “Whose dick is it then, huh?”
“I don’t know, but it’s not mine.”
I ended the call and sat back in front of the computer. I was staring at the screen in awe. Sophia’s vagina pictures were perfect. That delivery doctor did do a fantastic job!
Every vagina picture looked like a different exotic flower. One like the Calla Lily, another like the Clitoria, another like the Hydnora Africana.
Knowing I would never see this rare flower again, I called Sophia at work and stated, “I want a divorce.”
*Names have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.