The Vagina Monologuesby Eve EnslerThe official scriptfor the2008 V-Day CampaignsAvailable by special arrangement with Dramatists Play Service, Inc.

To order copies of the acting edition of the script of “The Vagina Monologues” (the original – different fromthe V-Day version of the script) for memento purposes, to sell at your event, or for use in theatre or otherclasses or workshops, please contact:Customer ServiceDRAMATISTS PLAY SERVICE, INC.440 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10016Telephone: 212-683-8960, Fax: 212-213-1539You may also order the acting edition online at for:Book title: The Vagina MonologuesISBN: 0-8222-1772-4Price: 5.95Be sure to mention that you represent the V-Day College or Worldwide Campaign.DRAMATISTS PLAY SERVICE, INC.Representing the American theatre by publishing and licensing the works of new and establishedplaywrights.For more than 65 years Dramatists Play Service, Inc. has provided the finest plays by both establishedwriters and new playwrights of exceptional promise.Formed in 1936 by a number of prominent playwrights and theatre agents, Dramatists Play Service, Inc. wascreated to foster opportunity and provide support for playwrights by publishing acting editions of their playsand handling the nonprofessional and professional leasing rights to these works.Dramatists Play Service, Inc. has grown steadily to become one of the premier play-licensing agencies in theEnglish speaking theatre. Offering an extensive list of titles, including a preponderance of the mostsignificant American plays of the past half-century, Dramatists Play Service, Inc. works with thousands oftheatres and supports the living theatre's vital position in contemporary life.

INTRODUCTION(*This introduction is arranged for three actresses but can be readjusted to suit your production needs. Itcan be performed by a much larger group, but may be no less than 3 people. We encourage you to cast asmany people as possible.)WOMAN 1I bet you’re worried.WOMAN 2We were worried.WOMAN 3We were worried about vaginas.WOMAN 1We were worried what we think about vaginas, and even more worried that we don’t think about them. Wewere worried about our own vaginas. They needed a context of other vaginas — a community, a culture ofvaginas. There’s so much darkness and secrecy surrounding them — like the Bermuda triangle. Nobodyever reports back from there.WOMAN 2In the first place it’s not so easy to even find your vagina. Women go weeks, months, sometimes yearswithout looking at it. A high-powered businesswoman was interviewed and she said she was too busy; shedidn’t have the time. Looking at your vagina, she said, is a full day’s work. You have to get down there onyour back in front of a mirror that’s standing on its own, full-length preferred. You’ve got to get in theperfect position, with the perfect light, which then is shadowed somehow by the mirror and the angle you’reat. You get all twisted up. You’re arching your head up, killing your back. You’re exhausted by then. Shesaid she didn’t have the time for that. She was busy.WOMAN 3So there were vagina interviews, which became vagina monologues. Over two hundred women wereinterviewed. Older women, young women, married women, lesbians, single women, college professors,actors, corporate professionals, sex workers, African American women, Asian American women, Hispanic1

women, Native American women, Caucasian women, Jewish women. OK. At first women were reluctant totalk. They were a little shy. But once they got going, you couldn’t stop them. Women secretly love to talkabout their vaginas. They get very excited, mainly because no one’s ever asked them before.WOMAN 1Let’s just start with the word “vagina.” It sounds like an infection at best, maybe a medical instrument:“Hurry nurse, bring me the vagina.” “Vagina.” “Vagina.” Doesn’t matter how many times you say it, itnever sounds like a word you want to say. It’s a totally ridiculous, completely unsexy word. If you use itduring sex, trying to be politically correct — “Darling, could you stroke my vagina?” — you kill the act rightthere.WOMAN 2We were worried about vaginas, what we call them and don’t call them.WOMAN 3In Great Neck*, they call it Pussycat. A woman there said that her mother used to tell her “Don’t wearpanties underneath your pajamas, dear, you need to air out your Pussycat.”(*You can add “Great Neck, New York” if you are unfamiliar with this town)WOMAN 1In Westchester they called it a Pooki,WOMAN 2in New Jersey, a twat.WOMAN 3There’s Powderbox, a Poochi, a Poopi, a Peepe, a Poopelu, a Poonani, a Pal and a Piche,WOMAN 1Toadie, Dee dee, Nishi, Dignity, Monkey Box,WOMAN 2Coochi Snorcher, Cooter, Labbe,WOMAN 3Gladys Seagelman,WOMAN 12

VA, Wee wee, Horsespot, Nappy Dugout,WOMAN 2Mongo, Mooky, a Pajama, Fannyboo, Mushmellow,WOMAN 3a Ghoulie, Possible, Tamale, Tottita, Connie,WOMAN 1a Mimi in Miami,WOMAN 2a Split Knish in Philadelphia,WOMAN 3and a Schmende in the Bronx.(You can add up to five of your own regionally-specific names to this list.)WOMEN 1, 2, and 3We’re worried about vaginas.3

INTRO — HAIRSome of the monologues are based on one woman’s story, some of the monologues are based on severalwomen’s stories surrounding the same theme, and, a few times, a good idea became an outrageousone. This monologue is based on one woman’s story, although the subject came up in every interview andwas often fraught. The subject being HAIRYou cannot love a vagina unless you love hair. Many people do not love hair. My first and only husbandhated hair. He said it was cluttered and dirty. He made me shave my vagina. It looked puffy and exposedand like a little girl. This excited him. When he made love to me my vagina felt the way a beard mustfeel. It felt good to rub it and painful. Like scratching a mosquito bite. It felt like it was on fire. Therewere screaming red bumps. I refused to shave it again. Then my husband had an affair. When we went tomarital therapy, he said he screwed around because I wouldn’t please him sexually. I wouldn’t shave myvagina. The therapist had a German accent and gasped (Gasp.) between sentences (Gasp.) to show herempathy. She asked me why I didn’t want to please my husband. I told her I thought it was weird. I feltlittle when my hair was gone down there and I couldn’t help talking in a baby voice and the skin got irritatedand even calamine lotion wouldn’t help it. She told me marriage was a compromise. I asked her if shavingmy vagina would stop him from screwing around. I asked her if she had many cases like this before. Shesaid that questions diluted the process. I needed to jump in. She was sure it was a good beginning.This time, when we got home, he got to shave my vagina. It was like a therapy bonus prize. He clipped it afew times and there was a little blood in the bathtub. He didn’t even notice it ’cause he was so happyshaving me. Then, later, when my husband was pressing against me, I could feel his spiky sharpnesssticking into me, my naked puffy vagina. There was no protection. There was no fluff.4

I realized then that hair is there for a reason — it’s the leaf around the flower, the lawn around thehouse. You have to love hair in order to love the vagina. You can’t pick the parts you want. And besides,my husband never stopped screwing around.5

(*The “Lists” that follow are broken up for three women but you are free to divide up the answers to thequestions among your actresses as you choose.)WOMAN 1All of the women were asked the following questions.WOMAN 2If your vagina got dressed what would it wear?WOMAN 3glassesa bereta leather jacketsilk stockingsminka pink boaWOMAN 1a male tuxedojeanssomething form fittingWOMAN 2emeraldsan evening gownsequinsWOMAN 1Armani onlyWOMAN 2a tutusee through black underweara taffeta ball gown6

WOMAN 3something machine washableWOMAN 1costume eye maskpurple velvet pajamasangoraa red bowWOMAN 2ermine and pearlsa leopard hata silk kimonosweatpantsa tattooWOMAN 3an electrical shock device to keep unwanted strangers awayWOMAN 1high heelslace and combat bootspurple feathers twigs and shellscottonWOMAN 2a pinaforeWOMAN 3a bikiniWOMAN 2a slickerWOMAN 3If your vagina could talk, what would it say, two words:7

WOMAN 1slow down*(*Since ‘slow down’ is one of the biggest laughs in the show, this can also be said by all the actresses inunison. After laugh )WOMAN 2is that you?WOMAN 3feed meI wantyum yumoh yeahWOMAN 1start againno, over therelick mestay homebrave choiceWOMAN 2think againmore pleaseembrace melet’s playWOMAN 3don’t stopmore moreremember me?WOMAN 1come inside8

not yetwhoa mamayes yesrock meWOMAN 2enter at your own riskWOMAN 1oh godthank godI’m herelet’s golet’s gofind meWOMAN 2thank youbonjourtoo harddon’t give upWOMAN 3where’s Brian?that’s betteryes, there. there.9

INTRO — THE FLOODA group of women between the ages of 65 and 75 was interviewed. These interviews were the mostpoignant. Possibly because many of these women had never had a vagina interview before. One womanwho was 72 had never even seen her vagina. She washed herself in the shower and bath, but never withconscious intention. She had never had an orgasm. At 72 she went into therapy, as we do in New York*,and with the help of her therapist, she went home one afternoon by herself, lit some candles, took a bath,played some music, and she got down with herself. She said it took her over an hour, because she wasarthritic, but when she finally found her clitoris, she said, she cried. This monologue is for her.(*Can also say “as they do in New York”)THE FLOODDown there? I haven’t been down there since 1953. No, it had nothing to do with Eisenhower. No, no, it’sa cellar down there. It’s very damp, clammy. You don’t want to go down there. Trust me. You’d getsick. Suffocating. Very nauseating. The smell of the clamminess and the mildew and everything. Whew!Smells unbearable. Gets in your clothes.No, there was no accident down there. It didn’t blow up or catch on fire or anything. It wasn’t sodramatic. I mean well, never mind. No. Never mind. I can’t talk to you about this. What’s a smart girllike you going around talking to old ladies about their down-theres for. We didn’t do this kind of a thingwhen I was a girl. What? Jesus, OK.There was this boy, Andy Leftkov. He was cute — well I thought so. And tall, like me, and I really likedhim. He asked me out for a date in his car I can’t tell you this. I can’t do this, talk about down there. You just know it’s there. Like the cellar. There’srumbles down there sometimes. You can hear the pipes and things get caught there, little animals and10

things, and it gets wet, and sometimes people have to plug up the leaks. Otherwise the door staysclosed. You forget about it. I mean, it’s part of the house, but you don’t see it or think about it. It has tobe there, though, ’cause every house needs a cellar otherwise the bedroom would be in the basement.Oh Andy, Andy Leftkov. Right. Andy was very good looking. He was a catch. That’s what we called it inmy day. We were in his car, a new white Chevy Bel air. I remember thinking that my legs were too long forthe seat. I have long legs. They were shmushed up against the dashboard. I was looking at my bigkneecaps when he just kissed me in this surprisingly “Take me by control like they do in the movies” kind ofway. And I got excited, so excited and well, there was a flood down there. I couldn’t control it. It was likethis force of passion, this river of life just flooded out of me, right through my panties, right onto the carseat of his new white Chevy Belair. It wasn’t pee and it was smelly — well, frankly I didn’t really smellanything at all, but he said, Andy said that it smelled like sour milk and it was staining his car seat. I was “astinky weird girl,” he said. I wanted to explain that his kiss had caught me off guard, that I wasn’t normallylike this. I tried to wipe the flood up with my dress. It was a new yellow primrose dress and it looked sougly with the flood on it. Andy drove me home without saying another word and when I got out and closedhis car door, I closed the whole store. Locked it, never opened for business again. I dated some after that,but the idea of flooding made me too nervous. I never even got close again.I used to have dreams, crazy dreams. Oh they’re dopey. Why? Burt Reynolds. I don’t know why. Henever did much for me in life, but in my dreams it was always Burt and I, Burt and I, Burt and I. It wasalways the same general dream. We’d be out. Burt and I. It was some restaurant like the kind you see inAtlantic City, all big with chandeliers and stuff and thousands of waiters with the vests. Burt would give methis orchid corsage. I’d pin it on my blazer. We’d laugh. We were always laughing Burt and I, laughing,laughing. We’d eat shrimp cocktail. Huge shrimp, fabulous shrimp. We’d laugh more. We were very happytogether.Then he’d look into my eyes and pull me to him in the middle of the restaurant — and just as he was aboutto kiss me, the whole restaurant would start to shake, pigeons would fly out from under the table — I don’t11

know what those pigeons were doing there — and the flood would come straight from down there. It wouldpour out of me. It would pour and pour. There would be fish inside it and little boats and the wholerestaurant would fill with my flood and Burt would be standing waist deep in it, looking horribly disappointedin me that I’d done it again, horrified as he watched his friends, Dean Martin and the like, swim past us intheir tuxedos and evening gowns.I don’t have those dreams anymore. Not since they took away just about everything connected with downthere. Moved out the uterus, the tubes, the whole works. The doctor thought he was being funny. He toldme if you don’t use it, you lose it. But really I found out it was cancer. Everything around it had togo. Who needs it anyway. Highly overrated. I’ve done other things. I love the d