What happens when you apply a rose-scented spray to your vagina to mask the odor?
In the Spring, the ornamental pear trees in most cities and suburbs burst forth. Their white blossoms announce the changing seasons, and as the gentle wind blows through their branches, all and sundry passing them pause, cover their noses, and are like "My god, why does that tree smell like a very, very potent vagina?"
Vaginas have a smell. Ancient and inborn sexism makes women self-conscious about it. When people rant about the stank of the pear tree, it's not uncommon to spot a woman on the street blushing with shame. Which is actively insane.
If there were as many ball-washes as there are very special magical "down there" bubble potions, we would live in a very different sort of world. Sadly, we don't.
We live in a world where you can still buy a douche (back away from the douche unless you're in France and that's your word for shower). We live in a world where in order to enjoy receiving head without cringing, we are pressured to go to extremes to make our downstairs bits look, feel, and smell like the hind-quarters of a My Little Pony.
There's also a biological reason why women are so attuned to our nether-romas (trademark me). Our vaginas are impressive self-contained ecosystems. Slap that sh*t inside a handblown glass orb and every hippie in your office would be hitting up Etsy to get one for their desk.
The reason you should avoid stuff like douches is because it throws your system out of whack. We might not have "ways of shutting that down" when it comes to rape, but when it comes to infections and illness, we absolutely do. Meanwhile, testicles are all "Guys, it's too warm, now it's too cold, ahhhhh somebody cup me and tell me I'm going to be OK!"
We're attuned to our aroma because if it changes it might be an indicator that something isn't right. That said, I've definitely had days where what's not right is the fact that my sweaty bush and ample thighs have combined to create an odor so alarming it could probably make a child cry. To be clear: I have never tested this theory and that's why I'm not in jail.
That's why when I heard about Vagina Therapy spray by Nene I was like, "Fine, I will try this." The spray is vegan, and as such I thought it probably wouldn't mess up my downstairs too thoroughly. Still, I was wary of the Febreeze effect: Spraying something to cover up a bad smell and just making it even worse.
To ease my fears, I sprayed my cat with the stuff. After all, he's technically a pussy. He was indignant, and rightly so. That said, he smelled like a deliciously refreshing combination of rose and eucalyptus. Given that he spends the better part of his days rolling in actual sh*t, I figured I could rest easy when it came to spraying the stuff on my own junk.
I spritzed before going on a date. The smell was pleasant but the vague burning sensation was not. Also, it irritated my chapped thighs but I will acknowledge that not all users will be as ample in said region as this reviewer.
Once the stinging past, I actually felt great, sassy and refreshed. The sassiness probably came from the knowledge that I had sprayed a product on my meat-lips, a secret infinitely more secretive than my deodorant.
My current bedfellow Buddy made no comment as to the state of my vagina during coitus. But when I revealed that I was wearing this potion, he waited patiently for my take. "I wasn't into it," I said. Because smelling a rosebush while trying to climax is just not my bag.
He seemed incredibly relieved. "Good, I was trying to think of a way of saying I didn't like. I was worried you might be one of those girls." I decided there and then not to tell him that I collected perfume for at least two weeks.
I haven't gotten rid of the spray. For sexual encounters there's nothing sexier than to be a woman who flaunts her own aroma. But when leaving the gym, or as a pick me up in the middle of the day, you can't go wrong.
Additionally, I may continue to use it as a pussy-refresher, if Batman does not kill me first.