The Vagina Monologues Read Online Free

reason—it’s the leaf around the flower, the lawn around the house.
    You have to love hair in order to love the vagina. You can’t pick the parts you want. And besides, my husband never stopped screwing around.
    I asked all the women I interviewed the same questions and then I picked my favorite answers.
    Although I must tell you, I’ve never heard an answer I didn’t love. I asked women: “If your vagina got dressed, what would it wear?”
    A beret.
    A leather jacket.
    Silk stockings.
    Mink.
    A pink boa.
    A male tuxedo.
    Jeans.
    Something formfitting.
    Emeralds.
    An evening gown.
    Sequins.
    Armani only.
    A tutu.
    See-through black underwear.
    A taffeta ball gown.
    Something machine washable.
    Costume eye mask.
    Purple velvet pajamas.
    Angora. A red bow.
    Ermine and pearls.
    A large hat full of flowers.
    A leopard hat.
    A silk kimono.
    Glasses.
    Sweatpants.
    A tattoo.
    An electrical shock device to keep unwanted strangers away.
    High heels.
    Lace and combat boots.
    Purple feathers and twigs and shells.
    Cotton.
    A pinafore.
    A bikini.
    A slicker.
    “If your vagina could talk, what would it say, in two words?”
    Slow down.
    Is that you?
    Feed me.
    I want.
    Yum, yum.
    Oh, yeah.
    Start again.
    No, over there.
    Lick me.
    Stay home.
    Brave choice.
    Think again.
    More, please.
    Embrace me.
    Let’s play.
    Don’t stop.
    More, more.
    Remember me?
    Come inside.
    Not yet.
    Whoah, Mama.
    Yes yes.
    Rock me.
    Enter at your own risk.
    Oh, God.
    Thank God.
    I’m here.
    Let’s go.
    Let’s go.
    Find me.
    Thank you.
    Bonjour.
    Too hard.
    Don’t give up.
    Where’s Brian?
    That’s better.
    Yes, there.
    There.
    I interviewed a group of women between the ages of sixty-five and seventy-five. These interviews were the most poignant of all, possibly because many of the women had never had a vagina interview before. Unfortunately, most of the women in this age group had very little conscious relationship to their vaginas. I felt terribly lucky to have grown up in the feminist era. One woman who was seventy-two had never even seen her vagina. She had only touched herself when she was washing in the shower, but never with conscious intention. She had never had an orgasm. At seventy-two she went into therapy, and with the encouragement of her therapist, she went home one afternoon by herself, lit some candles, took a bath, played some comforting music, and discovered her vagina. She said it took her over an hour, because she was arthritic by then, but when she finally found her clitoris, she said, she cried. This monologue is for her.
THE FLOOD
    [Jewish,Queensaccent]
    Down there? I haven’t been down there since 1953. No, it had nothing to do with Eisenhower. No, no, it’s a cellar down there. It’s very damp, clammy. You don’t want to go down there.
    Trust me. You’d
    get sick. Suffocating. Very nauseating. The smell of the clamminess and the mildew and everything.
    Whew! Smells unbearable. Gets in your clothes. No, there was no accident down there. It didn’t blow up or catch on fire or anything. It wasn’t so dramatic. I mean . . . well, never mind. No.
    Never mind. I can’t
    talk to you about this. What’s a smart girl like you going around talking to old ladies about their down-theres for? We didn’t do this kind of a thing when I was a girl. What? Jesus, okay.
    There was this
    boy, Andy Leftkov. He was cute—well, I thought so. And tall, like me, and I really liked him. He asked me out for a date in his car. . . . I can’t tell you this. I can’t do this, talk about down there.
    You just know
    it’s there. Like the cellar. There’s rumbles down there sometimes. You can hear the pipes, and things get caught there, little animals and things, and it gets wet, and sometimes people have to come and plug up the leaks. Otherwise, the door stays closed. You forget about it. I mean, it’s part of the house, but you don’t see it or think about it. It has to be there, though, ’cause every house needs a cellar.
    Otherwise