He tells us he'll give us a moment to "get ready" and then he leaves to go fetch the molding materials.
Now or never. I yank off my jeans, leaving on my socks and turtleneck sweater, and hop up onto the table. I look at David. He stands shivering in a corner of noses and labia, and I immediately get the giggles.
McCartney bursts back into the tent. He is carrying a couple of buckets, and he accidentally slops water all over the floor, causing David to bump into the heat lamp. Their Larry and Moe routine isn't doing much for my nerves, and my heartbeat switches to flamenco. McCartney gets to work mixing the materials, chatting away as he does so. He explains that it's a two-part process. First he makes a cast out of the algaenate—the dental stuff. And then, using that as a mold, he makes the actual sculpture.
The algaenate mixture turns out to be a bright blue, and as he walks over to the foot of the table, I lie back, close my eyes, and I…assume the position.
I spread 'em.
And despite the strangeness of it all—despite the fact that a man in rubber gloves is applying cold blue goop to my vagina while my fiancé looks on, despite the fact that it is freezing cold, and outside the tent I can hear children playing on the boardwalk, and somewhere in the distance—a chainsaw…well my nerves seem to cease, and I suddenly feel strangely…comfortable. I mean I'm not ready to kick back with some chamomile and The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, but I also don't really feel that scandalous. It really isn't much different than going to the gynecologist or getting a bikini wax. True, Jamie has no medical or cosmetology license, but he is an artiste. And there have certainly been people who were none of the above whom I have allowed to see me in all my glory. And while the cold goop isn't what I'd describe as pleasurable, it's a walk in the park when compared to hot wax or a speculum.
Once McCartney has the goop on, he has to give it a moment to set, so I just have to lie still. The tent falls quiet. Ho Hum. How about those Mets?
Suddenly, the ginger cat slinks her way into the tent. The cat eyes our activities warily, and then makes a hasty move to jump onto my stomach.
"NO NO NO!" We all cry at once, and David and McCartney both lunge for her. McCartney manages to grab her, and shoos her out of the room. Whew. Relief. I try to block out images of starring in one of those wacky AP headlines. Did you see the thing about the woman who got the live cat stuck to her vagina???
"Okay, here we go." McCartney says. And I am shocked that it is over so quickly. It really did only take about three minutes. He begins to peel the cast away, and the sensation is akin to taking off a pair of bikini bottoms after swimming.
"There you go." He holds my Smurf blue vagina up for me to see.