Dozens of them. It's a cute vajayjay." Vajayjay?" I asked."You know. Your kitty. Your taco. Your coochie."I looked at her."Oh, come on," she said. "Yo...r snatch. Your cha-cha. Your poontang."She started to giggle. "God, there are so many names for it, sweetie.Your box. Your clam. Your cunt."I shook my head. "Please stop."The nurse fell silent. She obviously didn't know that this wasn'tsomething I wanted. I wasn't ready to hear cute nicknames for it. To me,it was mutilation. It was scar. I suddenly realized just what I was doing, and stopped dead. I was way beyond confused, and coming up fast onto a real panic. There hasn't been a streetcar through here since at least 1966; I remember my boyhood sadness...Boyhood?...as the last of the cream-and-red beauties left the car barn that one final time. Yet here was a Route 64 flyer, matter-of-factly turning away. Bell clanging, big as life.I looked around trying to become oriented in time and space - that's what my therapist always. More

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