For the first time one recent afternoon, I scour the shelves of my local liquor store considering not which varietal of wine my palate desires, but which brand of vodka my vagina deserves. General distaste for hard alcohol be damned, I’m on a mission to explore slimming, defined by Urban Dictionary as “the vaginal or anal insertion of a liquor (usually vodka) soaked tampon for the purpose of rapid intoxication.”
Surveying the options, I want to believe my lady parts are worthy of a pricy Grey Goose or Belvedere. Since I won’t taste the stuff, though, reason dictates going for something cheaper, like Smirnoff. Following a 10-minute long internal battle between sensibility and delusions of vaginal grandeur, I settle upon a 200-mililiter bottle of the midlevel Absolut for $9.99.
On the way home, I think about the time-honored tradition of getting wasted. Stone Age beer jugs dating back to the Neolithic period point to the consumption of alcohol by our prehistoric ancestors, and we know from pictographs that Egyptians were downing wine as early as 4,000 B.C. Cut to present day, by which time man has exploited his ingenuity in developing a vast spectrum of deliciously potent concoctions—from margaritas to fuzzy nipples—as well as various methods of consuming them—from shooting to bombing and funneling.
In the quest to invent strategies for becoming blindingly blitzed, no group excels quite like the young. It’s no surprise, then, that the slimming route to inebriation originated amongst the teenage set. To some, the idea of sticking a foreign object up one’s anus or reproductive organ for any reason other than reaching orgasm might sound loony. But to advocates of the tampon train to Tipsytown, the act has a plethora of benefits.
First, by sidestepping the digestive system, alcohol can supposedly enter the blood stream—and get you blasted—faster. Slimmers also claim to bypass the intake of unwanted calories, and the stomach queasiness that too often leads to retching. For the under-21 set specifically, another advantage is that the practice limits the stench of one’s breath, making it easier to avoid detection. So the key to skirting the law might just rest beneath a girl’s skirt!
I may already be of legal drinking age, but as a steadfast supporter of the don’t-knock-it-‘til-you’ve-tried-it approach to life, I feel obligated to give slimming a go. As soon as I reach my apartment, I grab a Playtex regular tampon (capacity for absorption: 6 to 9 grams) from the medicine cabinet. I push the rocket-shaped cotton swab out from its plastic applicator and drop it in a shot glass. It’s then that I’m reminded that the device is designed to expand as it gets wet, which will make inserting it post vodka bath a serious challenge. Fortunately, I’m way too proud to bail on an experiment the average rebellious 16-year-old can handle.
In nothing but a bra, straddled above the toilet in case of drippage, I touch the sopping wad to my privates.
“Ahhhhhhh!” I exclaim, totally unprepared for the burning sensation down below. It feels like someone zapped me with a light saber. Don’t be such a pussy, I tell myself, then laugh at my own terrible joke.
Several deep breaths later, the thing is lodged inside me.
While dressing, I squint and flex whichever vaginal muscles I can to stave off serious discomfort. Eager for a distraction, I rush out to meet my friends wearing a black pleated dress, patent leather pumps, a grey blazer, and one laughably agonizing vodka-cotton contraption.
“Everything okay?” a friend asks immediately upon seeing me.
“Yup!” I assure, but my contorted expression tells a different story.
Twenty minutes later, when we arrive at a Chelsea gallery for a private opening, I’m feeling better. But is the thing working?
There’s only one way to find out. Inside a bathroom stall, I whip out a breathalyzer kit purchased at Brookstone just for the occasion. The gizmo reads my blood alcohol content (BAC) as a whopping .14% already.
Mingling with friends amongst art, I can’t help but smile. I’m definitely drunker than I would be otherwise, so I can nurse a glass of wine rather than chug it. I pat myself on the back for minimizing the day’s calorie count, and for being such an avant-garde drunkard.
It’s not until two hours or so later that I start to feel an inordinate amount of moisture accumulating in my underwear. If I don’t do something fast, I fear it’ll soon appear as if my water’s broken. Since I don’t have the baby bump to pull that look off, I dash to the ladies’ room yet again. I can only hope I haven’t left a dribble trail behind me and/or raised suspicion about having a coke problem.
Behind stall wall, I assess the situation. Fuck, I think, for neglecting to wear a panty liner. I have to get this thing out. If only being on the sauce didn’t make being nimble so difficult.
A good deal of concentrated pinching, prodding, and yanking later, my vaginal canal is free from alcohol. But the burning sensation remains.
Back at home, incessant stinging motivates me to research the potential risks of what I’ve just put myself through. I’m soon reminded that there’s a reason we douse wounds in rubbing alcohol: As a solvent, alcohol kills bacteria. And while microbe slaying might be wonderful for avoiding infection through scrapes and cuts, it’s likely to upset the delicate balance of good bacteria inside a gal’s vagina.
The frequent slimmer might as well beg for a yeast infection. So moving forward, I plan to stick to ingesting alcoholic beverages orally—at least until someone teaches me how to “eyeball.”