The rug in the waiting room for my therapist is absolutely ridiculous. At first glance, of course, it seems tasteful enough: it’s of the mossy green oriental variety, with a mauve and gold floral pattern, the curves and cream colors of which are inoffensive and largely unnoticeable. It’s not the kind of rug you would think to stare at, unless, say, you were placed into a waiting room with nothing to read except People magazine.
It was my first visit there, over a year ago now, that I realized that the rug in my therapist’s waiting room was surrounded by pure, unadulterated sex. A long-time ground-starer, I picked it up immediately, even through eyes blurred with self-pitying and confused tears. I had just emerged from the cave. I was only beginning to recognize that the darkness had been darkness.
Legs: everywhere was a naked pair of spread-eagled, spreadedy spreaded, sexy female legs. A woman’s head seemed to peak up between them from a slight distance, as if to say “hello, down there.”
“Bwah hah,” I chortled.
The thing is, the design actually manages to be even more pornographic than that (and a pair of spread legs, repeated some twenty times all around the border of the rug would really be enough for me, outside of a brothel). But the inside of each thigh is multicolored in a layered pattern which, I kid you not, is somehow . . . a vulva. You could teach sex-ed with these legs, how to insert a tampon, where girls pee. They each have their own freaking clitoris. Thighs, people. Vagina thighs. And if that’s enough to make you question your sexual orientation, just wait; at the end of each leg seems to be an alarming spiked high heel, which after some analysis can make the design appear to actually be two sperm, meeting heads for a kiss. Hot, right?
“Hi Adrianne!” my therapist chirps every other Monday at six as she opens her door. It makes a shhhhsh sound over the rug, and she steps smilingly onto a vulva thigh sperm. “So. What’s new?”