A piece published on the website of Justice for Men & Boys (and the women who love them), the political party of which I’m the chairman, in September 2018:
A hilarious piece by Deborah Ross in today’s Times, emphases ours:
I have just taken receipt of a “vaginal egg” from Goop. It costs £65, is made from jade, and looks almost exactly like the jade egg my grandma had on display in a cabinet, but I don’t think that was one of these. It is bitterly cold to the touch, which is not welcome news, given where it has to go. Dare I? Shall I? Just so we all know what such eggs are all about? Just so we can put it to bed for all time?
I have my reservations. I am pretty scared. What if I take to it then forget to remove it? When we’ve all seen what heavy earrings do to lobes? What if I sneeze violently and it shoots out, crashes down a trouser leg and rolls across the floor? How would I get out of that one? Should I just be completely straight: “Oops, sorry, there goes my vaginal egg. I’ll just pop it back up, shall I?” And should one blow on it before popping it back up, or would that be unnecessary?
But here it is and here I am. It was bought from the Goop pop-up shop in Notting Hill, west London, opened by the actress turned “wellness” entrepreneur Gwyneth Paltrow. The shop has proved the talk of the town with everyone trucking up to take the piss, basically, but I do think you have to respect Paltrow, who has always soldiered on regardless and has never given up on her mission to help us all to improve ourselves to death.
The egg has also been in the news. It was said to balance hormones, regulate menstrual cycles and prevent uterine prolapse until the California Food, Drug and Medical Device Task Force declared such claims “unscientific” and Goop was forced to pay $145,000 in civil fines. But the eggs remain a Goop product — sold now on the basis of increasing “feminine energy” and improving muscle tone down there — and if you read up on the subject, some women do swear by them. One says that regular use of an egg means she can lift a tin of beans with her vagina. I am impressed, sort of, but wonder how this skill might be useful, or how you might convey that you had mastered it. If someone else were reaching for a tin of beans, for example, should you exclaim, “Out of the way, let my vagina do that”? And would you be narked should the offer be declined? “Great. You went ahead and did it yourself even though I said my vagina would do it. What’s wrong with you?”
But I am stalling. Here it is and here I am. It comes in a pretty little drawstring cotton bag. When I was a kid I carried my jacks around in a bag just like it. I’m remembering my teenage years and wishing my older sister were here. Back in the day she taught me how to use Tampax by directing me through the crack in the toilet door, in the manner of The Golden Shot. “Left a bit, left a bit, right a bit . . . shoot!” That said, she never specified that the cardboard applicator wasn’t part of the deal, insertion wise, so for the rest of that day I walked about very stiffly, unable to bend, quite like Dobbin from Vanity Fair. And now I’m stalling again. Understandably.
I open the little bag. The egg is just a bit bigger than a quail’s egg. The card inside says that yoni eggs, as they are sometimes called, were “once the strictly guarded secret of Chinese concubines and royalty in antiquity” and will “harness the power of crystal healing”, but first I must allow my egg to sit in recently boiled water for ten minutes, let it cool, then, for “bonus points”, “burn sage around the egg to clear the energy”. I don’t have any sage to hand. I have basil. And mint. And also parsley, in fact. But I don’t want this to become all about salsa verde, so I skip that bit.
I notice that the egg has two little holes drilled in one end. There is nothing to explain these, but I figure it’s for some kind of thread, so I feed some string through because I don’t want my yoni getting lost up there and becoming a matter for the police and their sniffer dogs. I allow my egg to sit in the warm water while my adult niece, who happens to be around, gets impatient and keeps asking: “Is that egg up your foo yet?” I tell her I would never have asked my aunts such a question. I tell her the egg and my foo are not her business. My egg, my foo. “Yes, but when are you doing it?” Oh God. Now, I suppose.
Let me tell you plainly: it hurts. Perhaps I have a particularly resistant foo — a foo fighter? — and my foo was saying: “No, no, no.” But I persisted and now it’s in and I can feel it. It’s not painful. It just feels as if I want to do a poo with my front bottom, which is weird. You’re meant to squeeze and release for 10 to 15 minutes, should you wish to increase your “chi” and your “orgasms”. Sounds good. I am squeezing and releasing right now but I wouldn’t dare to put my socks on, in case it shoots out and takes out my niece’s eye. And now I’m going to remove it. Plop, it goes, which I think is foo-speak for “Yay!”
I feel no better and no worse. Up to you. But just so you are in possession of the full vaginal egg facts, “you can recharge its energy by placing it in the light of a full moon”. [J4MB: What is wrong with some women, that they believe such nonsense? And why do they have the same voting rights in elections, as sane people?] Also, they are non-refundable. Still, I could always stick it on eBay, right?
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