It seems that the labia minora, the delicate hairless inner lips that smile coyly from the edges of the vaginal opening, were once referred to as the nymphae. Mythos, Eros; the nymphs were beautiful and randy nature spirits, and when they weren’t gleefully decorating Pan’s maypole or giggling and jiggling him into satyriasis, they were bound to smile coyly from trees and bodies of water — likely lying around all juicy and sighing and daydreaming about the day someone would eventually invent the Hitachi Magic Wand. One might say that it’s only natural this is where the word nymphomania comes from, though that’s hardly a stretch when you’re alluding to horny maidens who dig trees and fountains, if you get my drift. Reasons to smile, indeed.
At any rate, I’m writing about the smarmy little prostate gland today, and tonight. Smug in his seat within the male urogenital system, he has little to do with nymphs and lots to do with satyrs, and I’m excited to finally get to write about this pleasure zone bad-boy and do him some sexual justice. He’ll have more to do with nymphs when I’m through with him, that’s for sure. (“For this book,” she blogged, with a very coy smile.)
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