I'm a photographer. I specialise in portraits and glamour work. Nothing seedy, it's all tasteful and sophisticated rather than raunchy. I was taking a series of snaps of girls in classic sapphic poses and, as I was checking them on the computer, my ladyfriend had a gander and exclaimed, "Christ! She's got a weird vadge."
"Who?" I said. "What do you mean, 'Who?' The one with the deformed trumpet." "
Deformed?" I said. "I can't tell the difference." Well, that tore it.
"You can't tell the difference between a perfectly normal growler and Quasimingo?" Then she got her book group involved. And they all agreed that one of the girls had a kebab that belonged in a medical museum. But bugger me if I could see why.
They kept explaining but it was like listening to people shout the instructions for folding ornamental napkins.
Leon, by email
Before I give an answer, I'm going to run the next letter, which is related…
How do you address a new snatch? What do you call it? I pulled this bird the other night and we were getting down to the main course and I said, by way of encouragement, "Oi! Let the dog see the rabbit!"
Next thing I'm standing on the wrong side of the front door wearing my trousers as a snood. What was I supposed to say? And don't write "vagina". I can barely type "vagina".
Funnily, neither can my iPad. It's just tried to spell-check it as "Virginia", "Virgoan", "virgin" or "Virginian". You could always try Virginia.
In answer to both of you, the mons veneris, pudenda, labia both minor and major, perineum and clitoris will always be names on a map of a place we visit but are strangers to, a destination of which we know little though we have often gone down for the weekend. It is another country, and we don't speak Cuntish.
Jack, I sympathise. They're pretty much all of a muchness. They look the same, the way pastrami sandwiches all look the same. The ladygarden isn't a delicate yielding place of fey petals in subtly dusty hues scented with musk and oud. It's a mess. A lovely mess, a boy's own mess, but it's an edible laundry basket that was made in the dark by a gay God.
And as for what you call it, best to wait to be introduced. You could try the creepy paternalistic opening, "Oh, and who do we have here?" If you think that'll set the wrong tone, just leap in with, "Wow! You have one round the front as well!"
Or you might like to introduce yours first. "Say hello to Mr Ruff Puff." Or, "Throb the Babymaker". In the hope that she'll say, "Pleased to meet you, I'm sure. This is Secret Num-num Hideyhole." Or, "The Toothless Cock-muncher".
But be warned. There are plenty of girls for whom a baptised penis is a deal breaker. Groaning, "Hey, bitch, beg Mr Muscle for more!" is a rare turn-on that won't work with everyone.
The naming of parts is one of the lacunae of language. Mind you, lacunae isn't a bad name for it. It's not that we lack colloquial terms for the organs of reproduction, it's just that there are precious few that sound affectionate. So we're going to start a competition for the best his and her names for the moist bits.
The prize will be something suitably euphemistic donated by a major advertiser. We might also have a runner-up prize for the worst names, the ones that are least likely to get you a cooked breakfast. Like, Wizard's Sleeve, Pottyhole, Splosh or — my most-least favourite — Slimepocket.