Adjusting

In "day of the triffids" by John Wyndham, these funny green lights appear in the sky, blinding pretty much everyone, then the next day killer vegetation starts growing in the streets and all hell breaks loose. Some people isolate, some run, some hunger for power and control.The fabric of society and humanity rapidly disintegrate and eventually a select sighted few, move to the Isle of wight. Because she knows this, I know this. It currently feels a bit like this. I wonder if she's thinking about the Isle of wight? I know for a fact when she was 21 she was asked to never come back to the isle of wight as she'd be arrested. She tried it on a football tour and nothing happened. Maybe it is an option after all??

My transport female has a partiality for dystopian disaster stories, and an actual mental illness. When said out loud, this doesn't sound too good. The current climate could play into paranoia and fear. Its not what it seems, believe me. She's very fond of reality and therefore, is following the rules and doing as she is told about isolation. It's tricky. The fallopian_ovarian cysterhood have been communicating, and things have changed in the outside world. For me as her vagina, it feel like there is no light at the end of the tunnel. I mean literally, she is spending so little time as a wandering biped and seated for large parts of the day, that  I'm squished in by the lady garden and no light is entering the tunnel.

Normally, and particularly in spring, it would be so bright I would be out on visits, wandering grassy hillsides and even being submerged in water. She calls is "Swimming" I think. I'd catch glimpses of the outside through a loose shorts side panel, or a thin cotton panty. Bright sunshine illuminating snatches of external reality. She isn't brave enough anymore for commando living so my sight of the word is surreptitious. Her partnering penis transporter may, in a moment of spontaneous madness, pull aside coverings and its like being exposed to an overwhelming cinematic experience of sound and colour. She calls him naughty and squeals, and then things go dark again.

Today, she wanted to experiment with indoor cardio as outside running is not currently allowed. I had my reservations. I could hear the smaller genetic versions of her bickering and a rather loud penis owner shouting instructions on her television. There was movement.  It just felt like there was a never ending clang, clang, clang of the the furry clam, slapping together in wild disarray. Wiggling back and forth, dipping up and down giving me motion sickness. No more 30 minutes of jogging. Gone is the gentle swishing together and stroking of my tender flange, to be replaced with a harsh bouncy clashing together, not unlike a 1980's toy of metal balls on someones desks, relentless pendulum bashing with no particular purpose, back and forth.

And then it was over. I am relieved. Thankfully no air has entered the fray or I'd have to exercise smooth muscle to expel it, and she would be embarrassed.  I think we are going to rest. And in resting I can contemplate the readjustments and ponder on the reality of vagina in yoga tomorrow. God help me!

Breaking dawn

And so it begins. My guarded, private life behind the veil of the gusset is disrupted. There is an unrest, a twitchiness, and it doesn't spell the arrival of the fun sausage. Its something more deadly apparently. A virus. Covid-19. My initial thought, obviously, is where are the other 18 covids? Will they come too. And more importantly, do they directly impact vaginas? What do covids look like? Are they like penis daleks or like the dreaded speculum in disguise?

We are a very vulnerable group you know, vaginas. sensitive ph balance, requiring moist environments and no uninvited intrusions. Happily concealed, protected by vulval flowers and a sensitive doorbell. My "transport female" normally cares for me well so I'm hoping things will be ok. She's told me I cannot go for a run, so I wont be flapping past the dog walkers as usual. This makes me melancholy.

 As a vagina, isolation is something I'm already familiar with, but in this heightened time of concern, I wonder if I should peek out beyond the (beef) curtains, and find fellowship. I'm not keen on the vagazelled sisterhood, or the bare faced baddies, but it might be time to reach out. Can vaginas reach out? Maybe I could use the fallopian network and send out messages via the ovarian satellites?

But what should I say. Will they receive me, or reject the more wrinkly version of themselves??? Its a risk I may have to take.