When the staff editor at Nashville Scene, the cool-kid newsweekly in my hometown, asked me to contribute to a new women’s column, I was excited. When she told me I’d be in the mix with writers I consider mentors, I was honored. But when she said the column was named Vodka Yonic, I was terribly confused.
I had no idea what a Vodka Yonic was and couldn’t very well ask, lest she realize I am completely divorced from pop culture. So I kept my lip zipped. She later sent an email explaining that “anything with a hole may be considered yonic. A yoni is like a phallus, only female. It’s a stylized representation of a vulva worshiped as a symbol of a goddess or Shakti.”
I am in no position to judge her womanly wordplay. Fifteen years ago, when I was a Scene staffer myself, I scoffed when my editor replaced “roast beef curtains” with a kinder, gentler synonym for “vagina” in a sex and dating column I co-wrote.
I make no references to vaginas in my first Vodka Yonic column, which debuted today. But I have plenty to say about my ass, and the handful of friends I could call to wipe it, if need be.