It got hotter and drier and flatter the closer I got to Palm Desert. In a lot near Dr. Jane Norton's office, a resort is halfway completed. Water was being hosed in and a mountain of flowers, like a volcano erupting, was positioned to the side of the entranceway, its riotous colors and textures at odds with the smooth tans and whites of the desert. I imagine that this is the effect that candidates for Dr. Norton's vaginal rejuvenation are going for: a nicely-colored, expertly organized and juicy reservoir in the middle of what is otherwise sagging and spotty. Perhaps it will encourage old men to visit it more, they might think. Dr. Norton was not forthcoming with details about the sewing-up-the-insides surgery because, like Dr. Matlock, she is a self-proclaimed pioneer, and as such, she wants to keep the secrets to herself. No vaginal photo gallery. Her age is equally well concealed. I put her anywhere between thirty-five and fifty-six. She wore a floral print silk dress and pursed her lips. Dr. Norton is one ribald lady. Promising to make me more "orgiastic," she leaned in close to add: "It's all about friction. Friction and pressure." She cocked one eyebrow, and I was a believer. I pulled my skirt up and my panties down, then she poked around a bit and nodded. She would perform both vaginal rejuvenation and labiaplasty on me for $5,500 (or $4,500 for one). There's the added bonus of "harvesting" fat from the inner thighs and injecting it in the labia majora to give you that plump and youthful look. I wanted to know about scars. "Say there's somebody down there with a flashlight . . .?" "I don't think it's a flashlight he's going to have in his hand," she chuckled. "There will be no visible scars. There is scar tissue initially, which has to be stretched out." "So I just . . . stretch it out?" "Well, you don't your boyfriend does. Her-her-her." That's how she laughed, deep in her throat or maybe even down to her chest: her-her-her. Her left eyebrow gave me a final cock good-bye.
Back in L.A., I saw a van with a naked mannequin on top. She wore enormous glitter wings and yellow goggles, and was shooting a plastic machine gun. I've lived in fourteen states and three countries. Nowhere but in L.A. would I expect to find a creature like this bloodthirsty butterfly woman. Hollywood is special. It has its own standards and requirements that have absolutely nothing to do with those of the rest of the country. The air pulsates with devices that make voices and persons go where they're not. Its water, like its girls, is imported. It's not exactly the most natural spot.
Dr. Matlock's offices are like the insides of a luxury swimming pool all marble and tile and glass. I sat between two huge ferns, the back of my chair two inches wide and chrome. Before meeting the man, I was shown a video of him, in which he pointed out parts on a transparent vagina model and used words like "rejuvelize." You are encouraged to check out Dr. Matlock's website while you're waiting, and learn that "as a biological organism Women are Superior to men" (caps his). "Dr. Matlock is coming," one of the nurses said. "You're in for a treat!" her eyes added.
Dr. Matlock is a very good-looking black man with high cheekbones and elegant fingers. I learned on the website that he speaks English, Spanish, Portuguese and French. I learned in person that he gazes deep into your eyes and that if I met him two hundred years ago I'd be shelling out gold nuggets for some of his snake oil. Not to disparage his credentials the man has been an OB/GYN for sixteen years. He has about a hundred framed credentials on the wall. And to his credit, he was telling me not to get labiaplasty.
"You don't need it," he said. "I have seen fifty thousand vaginas, and your inner labia are ideal. Trim, symmetrical . . . " He took out an imaginary camera and pointed it between my raised, spread and naked legs. "I would show your labia to my clients and say, 'This is what you'll look like when I'm done.'"
So why, I wondered, would the first two surgeons so happily cut off something perfectly functional as well as (apparently) aesthetically pleasing? Do plastic surgeons not have to take the Hippocratic oath?
I was making plans to go buy a round of drinks for all my friends, to celebrate my perfect labia, when Dr. Matlock frowned and added, "Yet there is quite a lot of give on the inside." His gloved, lubed hand was poking my bladder. "Have you had a baby?" I had.
Her age is equally well concealed. I put her anywhere between thirty-five and fifty-six. She wore a floral print silk dress and pursed her lips. Dr. Norton is one ribald lady. Promising to make me more "orgiastic," she leaned in close to add: "It's all about friction. Friction and pressure." She cocked one eyebrow, and I was a believer. I pulled my skirt up and my panties down, then she poked around a bit and nodded. She would perform both vaginal rejuvenation and labiaplasty on me for $5,500 (or $4,500 for one). There's the added bonus of "harvesting" fat from the inner thighs and injecting it in the labia majora to give you that plump and youthful look. I wanted to know about scars. "Say there's somebody down there with a flashlight . . .?" "I don't think it's a flashlight he's going to have in his hand," she chuckled. "There will be no visible scars. There is scar tissue initially, which has to be stretched out." "So I just . . . stretch it out?" "Well, you don't your boyfriend does. Her-her-her." That's how she laughed, deep in her throat or maybe even down to her chest: her-her-her. Her left eyebrow gave me a final cock good-bye.
