"Come and get tighter vagina for you right now."

My inbox, already a dumping ground for pre-approved applications and "teen licking dogcock" e-mails, is being bombarded with ads for vaginal reconstructive surgery. The spammers say everybody's doing it.

They're not far off.

The American Society of Plastic Surgeons says that vaginal surgery is one of the cosmetic industry's fastest-growing segments. It's been marketed in magazines and newspapers, splashed across billboards and lauded on Howard Stern. And while it's not uncommon for an obstetrician to throw in an extra stitch after an episiotomy, most of these fix-'er-uppers prey on female vanity.

Some surgeons predict that within 25 years, the cunt makeover will be as popular as the boob job.

Barbarism! cry the feminists. Sacrilege! shout the Bible thumpers. Vagploitation! says my mom. Even the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists has denounced these pussy-prettifying procedures. Still, I wanted to learn more about labiaplasty, an outpatient procedure that surgically reduces or reshapes the snatch, should a woman determine her labia minora ain't so minora after all.

Jennifer, a patient information coordinator at a Bala Cynwyd gynecologist's office, says phones have been ringing off the hook. Teen girls and 50-something divorcees alike are asking about labiaplasty, citing issues of discomfort (itching, dryness) and self-esteem (an unfashionable camel toe, a refusal to wear skirted swimsuits).

Curious how women know what to ask for—"I'll take it frosty pink, symmetrically balanced and tight as a fist, please"—I ask Jennifer if they're requesting the glossed-up pornginas found in Vivid videos or angling for a more realistic, twat-next-door look.

"Oh, they know what they want when they come in," she assures me. "With the fashions for Brazilian waxing, there's nothing to hide behind anymore."

After trolling through pages of before-and-after vaginas on gyno-surgeons' Web sites, I start to wonder about my own Southern belle. Pre-op vaginas, puffed out like sofa cushions, were now slim and pretty, with nary a hint of razor burn. The more jellyfish-flappy vaginas I look at, the more paranoid I grow.

Oh my god, is mine this weird-looking?

I start to panic. I break out a mirror and get to straddling. Things looked kosher, but every time I peed thereafter, I'd do a quick self-examination. Yep, still there. Yep, still normal.

The next day, I dial what I think is the OB/GYN and Midwifery Care center at Pennsylvania Hospital, but get a break room phone instead. A gyno happens to answer, and I tell him I'm the concerned owner of a "gargantuan labia." He adamantly advises me against surgery.

"You're playing with fire," he warns, then suggests maybe it's my technique that actually needs the work. "Here, write this down," he says, "www.HowToHaveGoodSex.com."

The doc sounds young and hot—maybe a resident—and I consider asking for his number. Then I remember why I called in the first place ("Sir, I have a GIANT vagina") and think better of it.

He swears I'm "just fine" as I am, which makes me question how much men even really care.

That night, I strip naked and slide into a tub filled with poundcake-scented bubbles. I stare down at my Matisse-ified kisser and realize the absurdity of all this vag talk. I never questioned her beauty or functionality before—why start now?

Questions? Comments? Wanna show me your newly reconstructed vagina? E-mail ashlea.halpern@citypaper.net. No phone calls.