I wish I liked vajayjays, but please don’t tell my husband

Okay, I’m sure this shit is going to be all kinds of politically incorrect (duh, you’re reading Baby Sideburns not Martha Fucking Stewart), so if you’re a lesbian and you’re reading this please feel free to rip me a new one in the comments section. But really I mean this in the nicest way possible when I say, sometimes I wish I were a lesbian.

Who knows? Maybe all the lesbians reading this will be like, I LOVE you Baby Sideburns and you can totally be my girlfriend, or maybe you’ll be all offended and shit and think I’m making fun. Which I’m not. I am 200% serious.

Unfortunately when evolution or God or my parents (insert heebie jeebies here) made me, they decided that I would be into penises. I can barely even say the word vagina much less lick one. But the other day after writing a little piece about wanting a sister wife I started to think about it. Why stop there? Why not just go for the gusto, drop the whole husband thing completely and just get a wife wife.

I mean, I LOVE LOVE LOVE my husband to death, but sometimes I just think being a married to a woman makes a lot more sense.

Like for example, I just have wayyyy more respect for the hoo-ha than the peeper. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, when God designed female gentalia it’s like he went to the Container Store and decked us out with the Elfa system to keep everything all neat and tucked away behind the curtains where it’s supposed to be. But when he designed male genitalia he didn’t do jack shit, so it looks like one of those exploding closets that stuff just starts falling out all over the place when you open the door. Holy crap, who put the testicles leaning up against the door so they’d just fall out when you open it?!

Plus, I just know the vajayjay wayyyyyyyy better than the peeper. I mean, I’ve had access to one for 40+ years. Shit, way back in the 3rd grade I learned from my friend Aurora (yes, I steal Disney names when I want to conceal someone’s identity) how to discreetly rub my hooha on the edge of the chair in math class to “feel good.” 8+8=ohhh yeahhhh. Now that I’m older and wiser I wonder whether our teacher Mrs. Ballard saw this and laughed her ass off knowing full well what we were doing. Shout out to all the teachers who have to deal with shit like this!

But I digress because I’m so F’ing good at digressing. Back to the real subject at hand. All I’m saying is I think I’d just be a lot more successful in the sack if I were more familiar with the goods.

And if that’s not a good enough reason, here’s another one. You know how when women live together their periods get all in sync? I imagine this totally happens with lesbian couples. Which means I’ll never have to tell my partner I’m on the rag when she wants to do it ‘cause she’ll totally be there too. Ahhh, riding the white ponies together. How romantic.

And then there’s the obvious shit too. Like never feeling the freezing cold wet sensation of sitting on the toilet rim because someone (translation: some fuckwad) forgot to put the seat down. And after I cook a big chili dinner it still might be a little smelly in the house, but I probably won’t be gasping for my gas mask. And here’s another awesome thing about living with a woman— we can set the thermostat in the house for like 78 degrees. Hells yeah.

Of course, switching teams does present a dilemma or two. Like part of me would want a tall wife who can change light bulbs and reach other shit around here that I can’t, but another part of me would want someone my exact same height and size so we could have one big awesome closet and share fat pants and pajama jeans and ugly flats. FYI, that’s not a derogatory comment about lesbian’s wardrobes. It’s a derogatory comment about mom’s wardrobes.

Anyways, tall, short, skinny, fat, I guess it’s all a moot point (moot is such a weird F’ing word) because we don’t get to pick who we fall in love with. Which is why alas, some girls prefer penises and some girls prefer vajayjays. I guess the bush is always greener.

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