Last week, I received the type of phone call every man dreams about. The voice on the other line was playful with an almost sinister quality.
""Hey,"" she said. ""Do you want to see a vagina?""
It was too good to be true. People wait their entire lives for propositions like this, and here I was, only 22 years old. It had to be a trap.
I could hear schoolgirl laughter coming from the background on the other end of the phone. Something was up. I wasn't going down that easy.
""Maybe,"" I lied. ""It depends whose it is.""
At this point, it's worth noting that the voice on the phone was that of my girlfriend Ang, and the giggles were those of her friend Ben and her roommate Stef. As usual, this bunch was up to no good.
""It's Britney Spears',"" Ang said over a hum of snickers from her cohorts. ""Just Google it and call me back. It should be on the first site that comes up.""
Then, she hung up the phone. For a second, I stood dumbfounded like a treasure hunter who'd just been handed a map to the Holy Grail or a fat man who'd found the keys to the Jimmy Dean sausage factory.
I thought back to the eighth grade, when nary a day went by without some discussion of Ms. Spears' anatomy.
My friend Keith was exceptionally avid in his search for photos of the then-fresh faced pop starlet. He scoured the information superhighway in search of an accidentally exposed breast or a hidden dressing room camera. Perhaps she slipped on some ice or ripped her shirt during a performance and some lucky photographer had captured it on film, Keith reasoned.
You might say Keith was a pervert. You might even say I was a pervert. But before you do, I'll remind you we were middle schoolers in the late '90s. The Internet was opening up new avenues of exploration. Yahoo!'s checkers rooms were the place to be, and every online conversation started with the three timeless letters: a/s/l? In short, everyone was a pervert.
I guess maybe that's why I was so shocked last week when Ang called to give me that juicy news tip on Britney's southern exposure.
For some reason it just didn't seem right though—maybe because it was eight years too late or maybe because it was too easy.
Either way, I still had to see it. I followed Ang's directions, and clicked on that first site—the wonderfully named HollywoodTuna.com—where I came face to fa...er...flesh with Britney.
Once the image loaded on my screen I called Ang back to report on my findings.
""It just looked like a regular vagina,"" I said.
""It was kind of disappointing, wasn't it?"" she asked.
You have no idea.
