Name that garden slug

Sometimes you never know where your limits are til they hit you in the cojones.

“What do you call your p?”

“Huh?”

“Your p. What do you call it? Does it have a name?”

“What? No! Why should it have a name? That’s just weird.”

“Im a weird girl.”

“Sometimes weird is good, but this is just…” I was going to stay ‘stupid.’

“Come on. Give me a name.”

She wasn't going to let up. I wanted to get this over with so I sighed a sigh of resignation and gave her a name off the top of my head. “Call it [some stupid name].”

“Haha. That’s so funny. If yours is [some stupid name], mine is…”

“Stop. Just stop. Girls don't give names to their genitalia. You don't mess with tradition,” was all I managed to get out. Tradition my foot. I wanted to tell her how personification of female genitalia made my stomach churn, but she was obviously enjoying herself and I didn't want to put a damper on her idea of fun.

“Hahaha. Ok. Youre funny.”

I’m beginning to rethink my friendship with this chick. I can handle gross-out humor as well as the next person. I can dish it out as well as the next person, but this… Brrr-r-r-rrr. This was just creepy. It felt wrong in some fundamental way that I can’t explain. I know some guys give names to their dicks in the spirit of fun. It’s allowed. I mean just look at it. The penis is just asking to be made fun of. It looks like an eyeless little alien with one tiny mouth. It looks like a garden slug. It’s a party-going garden slug and I wouldn’t exchange it for anything, but female genitalia are something else entirely. They are the very cradle of life. At one time in human history, they were considered sacred, so much so that medieval architects modeled entrances to cathedrals after vaginas. Maybe that’s why there’s something so fundamentally wrong about something sacred being allowed to be defiled by multiple party-going garden slugs. We have a name for women who do that. Maybe I descended from one of the stone masons who worked on a Spanish cathedral and by the prodding of some genetic memory, am aware of the intrinsic sacredness of this tunnel of love. You just don't make light of it.

“Did I creep you out?,” she said.

[Duh.]

“Sorry. I thought it was cute.”

[Silence.]