“I’m here for the room service, not the animals,” says Joan Rivers as I carry her luggage into her room at the safari guesthouse. “Are you gorillas really my fans?”
“You are a legend in the jungle,” I reply. “Before we go to sleep we say: ‘A hundred blessings for Mother Joan and fifty more for her plastic surgeon.’”
“Hah!” she exclaims. “If you knew what I know, you’d give two hundred blessings to my plastic surgeon!”
That evening, at the bar, she expands on this theme to a TV producer from England.
“I always tell women ‘if you can afford it get everything done – the face, the boobs, the butt, the whole package’. Get real! Women are judged on their appearance, they always have been and they always will be.”
“How about labia reduction surgery?” asks the TV producer.
“LABIA?! You’re putting me on, right? Why would a woman want to pay for something only her gynaecologist gets to look at. Don’t those guys charge enough already?”
“No seriously Joan, there was a documentary* about it on British TV. A lot of women are having their flaps trimmed because they can’t bear the sight of their vaginas. It’s becoming like a nose job.”
“BUT WHO LOOKS AT IT!” shrieks Joan. “When I was a young woman, your vagina was neither seen nor heard. Not unless you did pussy farts in a freak show.”
“What about oral sex?” asks the TV producer.
“Hey gimme a break, I’m Jewish! I was brought up to believe that even thinking about such acts was asking for God to strike you dead with a lightning bolt!”
“But suppose a young, good-looking guy walked up to you today and said: ‘Miss Rivers, it has long been my ambition to eat you out.’ Would you let him?”
“Jeez, is that the kind of dialogue you write for British TV shows? I guess if he’s really set his heart on it I wouldn’t stop him. But only when I’m safely under the covers. And no torch! He has to burrow like a mole searching for a hole. Let him use his sense of smell.”
“But Joan, that would spoil half the fun!” complains the TV producer.
“I don’t care! If he wants to look and lick he can go suck a popsicle instead. What is this shit about staring at a woman’s pussy? Hey GB, do you look at your females down there?”
Having listened quietly to the conversation with a bar tender’s discretion, I am caught off guard by this unexpected question.
“Hum ah well yes, let me think,” I grunt, searching my memory. “I don’t make a habit of it, but I did once inspect a female’s vulva before mating with her.”
“So what happened?” asks Joan.
“After I’d stared at it for a bit, she said: ‘Are you going to fuck that thing or take a picture?’”
“Heheheh!” laughs Joan. “Your females sound so GREAT! I wish I could be a female gorilla. Not forever, of course, just for a couple of hours.”
“Why don’t you join them for their tree-dance?” I say. “When female primates shake their rumps together they become sisters under the skin. I’ll introduce you and play the bongo drums. You can keep your pants on.”
“The tree-dance?” inquires Joan. “Is that like humping a piece of wood?”
“Not quite,” I reply chuckling. “It more like pretending to give birth in an upright position.”
“That I can do!” declares Joan. “As long as it’s just pretending. My ovaries dried up in ’79.”
Next morning, Joan does her ‘Dot Matrix’ shtick from Spaceballs while I escort her into the jungle. She quietens down after I introduce her to the females – most humans are lost for words after they’ve been patted by female gorillas. Everything proceeds smoothly: Joan discovers her inner ape in the tree-dance and the females get autographed copies of The Life and Hard Times of Heidi Abromowitz. When we return to the safari camp, her mood is serene and contented – hanging out with gorillas does that for you. She tells me a lot of personal stuff, most of which I won’t reveal, and I feel like I’ve become her rabbi. Before I leave she makes a final confession:
“Hey GB, the night before the tree-dance I self-examined myself with a hand-mirror. More Mick Jagger than Lionel Ritchie, know what I’m saying?”
“You’re a lucky woman Joan,” I reply. “The Stones have always been big in the Congo.”
“And they’d be even bigger with my pussy as their lead singer!” she says laughing as I give her a parting embrace.
Joan Rivers always has the last word.
* Charliemingles funny and informative review of The Perfect Vagina can be found here.
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