Uncut

As many of you know I have worked at a Girl-Scout camp for some time, meaning it’s all girls except for a handful of men who are absolutely repulsive. These men I speak of have a well-known nickname, they are purple popsicles.

 The reasoning behind the name is this: imagine it is a terribly hot day, the sun is beating down and you are in need of some refreshment. However much to your dismay the only popsicle left in the freezer a purple one, your least favorite flavor. The unbearable heat rears it’s ugly head again and that ordinarily unappealing purple popsicle appears to get better and better in your desperation. Such are the men at camp, they are mostly locals, undesirables, but in the drought some have been known to indulge themselves.

 The other alternative to the purple popsicle is one usually of some desperation and boredom as well. Let us just say that some girls get experimental in the woods, hey what happens at camp stays at camp right? The nickname for those in temporary streaks, or even long term lesbianism, is known as cottage cheese. Don’t ask me for a rational explanation for that one, it was something camp friends and I came up with when we were 15 and it stuck. Leaving us free to discuss the bizarre politics of camp relationships in mixed company. Coincidently I have never toyed with either, besides the time I smuggled my British boyfriend in as a lifeguard one summer…but that’s another story.

I have been perfectly happily living my non-cottage cheese life for 23 years, of course this not denouncing anyone that does, more power to you. However, one traumatic night I was forcibly placed far closer to female parts than I have ever wanted my face to be. 

It was a rather standard evening; towards the end of my awful hour and a half long commute back home to Staten Island. I had survived the train, the ferry, the only excruciating feat left was the bus, and it was crowded. Luckily I had secured myself a seat, I usually just zone out till I reach my stop anyway. But something that night pulled me out of my cloud of pop punk tunes, I noticed the woman standing in front of me had her pants unfastened. At first I thought it was an XYZ moment, an accident, it happens to all of us. That was until I realized not only was she exposed but apparently going commando. In other words my face was mere inches from the pubes of a black woman, possibly a crack head.

At the realization of this I became severely uncomfortable, I felt defenseless with no choice but to be subjected to this torture that only I seemed to recognize. My best effort for self-preservation was to close my eyes until the angry vagina went away. I eventually made it home, visibly shaken from the encounter, and found myself asking was I technically cottage cheese now? That was the closest to muff diving I ever hope to come.