Nobody seemed to notice the snarls and roars coming from in between your legs, and you’d like to keep it that way. They heard something, but usually just assumed it was a cell phone or some other modern device. That something though, was your jag, your jaguar vagina. Your vagina that turned into a full-on jaguar head the summer after you finished college. Now, ten years later, and a full set of teeth below, you’ve learned some things.
Feed your animal on time.
Keep it hydrated.
Let it breathe.
Give it the attention it needs like petting, grooming, and so on.
Jags can be time-consuming. And then there is the problem of satisfying its animalistic nature. Especially since tonight is Friday night, and you are going out. It’s a date, a blind date. Hopefully “the one” to fulfill your jag’s dreams. The prospect? Jim—an accountant who hikes and is into cooking healthy meals such as pan-seared salmon with brussels sprouts. He arrives on time to pick you up. He takes you to a relatively fancy restaurant, one where the menu has things you’ve never heard of, and will likely mispronounce.
It’s been about eleven years since anyone’s touched you, and your jag really wants dick. You know this well, but you aren’t about to compromise yourself and fuck someone you barely even know. You want to make love. And it must be someone you can really connect with, and who cares about you, and you about them. And so, you shove things in your jaguar’s mouth until you can find that someone.
You started doing this when Kevin, your longest relationship to date, broke up with you for a woman he met at the bowling alley. You’ve had some dates since then, but honestly, it’s usually a disaster. Like this one guy, Calvin, who decided to bring his tiny, yipping, rat-dog to the coffee shop you were meeting at. He was constantly reassuring his tiny creature there was nothing to be afraid of. He couldn’t understand what had gotten into his little Co-Co since it was mostly calm and well-behaved. He ended up leaving before you could even order your oat milk chai latte.
Or what about the time when Jack, the construction worker/wanna-be writer, decided to surprise you by bringing you to the zoo? What a catastrophe that was. Your jag went insane, constantly grunting, sniffing, and roaring. The only good thing about that twenty-minute date was that he didn’t suspect a thing as you intermittently straddle walked around the monkey exhibit. Having an angry pussy is not an easy thing to walk around with. So, you apologized and said you had to go home because there was an emergency with your mother. Turns out—Jack had not been honest on his profile anyway. He was the owner of five dogs, two cats, and three cockatoos. He really should have been a swipe left.
But the main challenge about your jag, is the need to constantly find solutions—because you never know when things are going to get problematic down there. And of course, living in between two legs can’t be easy. Nor has it been fun for you. From cutting crotch holes in your underwear to wearing skirts instead of pants—it’s been quite the transition. You’ve become a master at being discreet during feeding times, making sure no one is watching as you spread your legs to satisfy the animal. Rare meat is your usual go-to, but sometimes it’s whatever you have on hand.
It’s been hard for you especially when visiting friends, but you do your best, crossing your legs as tight as possible to keep your jag contained. This night is no exception. You sit down at the elegant, tuxed-up table. The votive candles burn with intensity as you pick up your little hat made of a cloth napkin. Jim, the accountant, starts talking, but it’s nothing interesting or memorable. You order a three-dollars-off appetizer. Kale chips with parmesan cheese on top. Not even five minutes go by before the snarling and grunting begin.
“Look at the beautiful sunset,” you say to Jim, as he shoves dinosaur kale in his mouth. Then, as he crunches and sips his wine, you shove hot bread down there. This seems to do the trick for a few minutes but then your jag starts grunting again, so you shove a chew toy down there, a dog chew toy. The one you got on sale at Walgreens. It was out of desperation because you forgot to stock up your purse before leaving. But the only thing left on the shelves was a Nylabone, flavored like chicken. Catnip can sometimes be an option, but your jag gets too playful, moving its head all around, licking its lips and your inner thighs. You’ve learned that treat can lead up to an orgasm, so you limit the catnip to the nights you spend alone watching Cruise Ship Killers or any other documentary about cults or con artists.
The Nylabone you shoved up there is slobbered on for a few minutes before getting spit out. It bounces and lands at the waiter’s feet as he’s going over tonight’s specials. He stares at it for a second, then keeps on talking. Jim orders filet mignon with fingerling potatoes and green beans. You order the center cut pork chop with mashed potatoes and a caesar salad. You’re starting to get stiff, so you squeeze your butt cheeks together and stretch out your legs in the hope to slide the bone back under the table. A roar and a few grunts sneak out. The vibrations reverberate inside as you try to give your animal more air while pointing at the ceiling.
“Aren’t the chandeliers pretty? I wonder if they’re real crystal.”
“Hey, did you hear that? It sounded like a roar.”
“Do you think you could ask them to bring more bread?”
“Must be someone’s cell phone. People can’t live without their cell phones. So, Angie, that’s a pretty big bandage on your finger. What happened?
Catherine Cort is a writer living with narcolepsy. At this very moment she is probably napping and cleverly escaping the dream police. She resides in Austin, with her lover and two alien corgis.
Photo by Yigithan Bal.