Does Size Really Matter?

Recently, my little circle of bloggy friends has united on the subject of our gaping vaginas.  (P.S.  According to my computer, vaginas is not a word.  What is the plural for vagina?  Anyone?  I mean obviously, more than 1 vagina exists, so there should be a word right?  Maybe it's like deer or fish, where the singular is the same as the plural?  Our gaping vagina...  That can't be right.)

Anyway, the other night, the Hubs and I were doing it, you know, IT.  And I kid you not, right in the middle of IT, I started thinking about Oak and her 'pons.  This should in no way suggest that the sex was bad or that I am in fact a lesbian.*  What it should suggest is just how terribly disturbed I am at the thought of my vagina being gigantic. 

I started analyzing the sex.  Wondering, can he even feel this?  I started doing kegals during the intercourse because, if I flexed that had to make it feel tighter, right?  Nevermind that my face then had to freeze and my eyebrows stretched up toward my hairline and my nostrils started flaring.  I'm quite certain I am not good at sex when I'm trying to focus on tightening my pelvic floor.

After it was over, I asked my husband if he enjoyed it.  Of course he said yes.  I asked him if it felt like a hot dog in a hallway and after a blank stare and a round of laughter, he assured me that it did NOT.  I'm almost positive men don't notice the size of our vaginas (vaginae? (Spell check agrees!  Our vaginae.)) They are just grateful they get to put their hot dogs in them. 


* I do, of course, have a large girl crush on her.