Pussy Talk

Dear Pussy, Does it bother you that I sometimes call you a cock? Do you feel misgendered?? Or do you feel seen as the penetrating power you can sometimes be??

Dear Pussy, Is the reason why you are so wet all the time because you’re crying? I imagine it must be so lonely. If my heart feels lonely, you must feel it too, right? I wish I could find someone worthy of us, my Power, I truly do.

Dear Pussy, I wonder, what other words do you like to be called? Because there are many. Cunt? Clit Keeper? Vulva? Clam? Beaver? Oyster? Fish? Cream Catcher? Yoni? Vajayjay? Labia Lined Love Tunnel? Snatch? Coochie? ‘Down There’? Private Parts? Kitty Cat? Sideways Smile Down the Long Mile? Nacho-Taco? I don’t like any of those words for you, but I also don’t hate them.

Dear Pussy, I wish I could kiss you without using my fingers or someone else’s lips as an intermediary. I bet that I could kiss you just right. No awkward fumbling timid touches, or greedy gobbling in a way that feels chaotic and detached. Like people who have tried before.

Dear Pussy, I bet you’d like the way I’d suck the slick from every part of your slit. Slowly, reverently, savoringly. Like a silent psalm to a storm, leaving me dripping and smelling pretty as petrichor.

Dear Pussy, I want to worship you but I confess even I have distance when approaching you, mostly because I feel like embracing the completeness of you would make me mean, adversarial, bitchy, commanding, assertive but always confused to be aggressive, too direct and nowhere near as mild and sweet as my everyday smile.

Dear Pussy, so beautiful and fierce, my hidden power, I know how angry you feel, my beautiful pussy. That constant crying, and never-ending patience, will one day stop. And then what happens? Do you become just another hole? No better than a common asshole?

Dear Pussy, sometimes I wish you were bigger, but not enough to actually carve you into a phallus. On some level, it must mean, I want you, that I accept you as you are, right? Maybe it's some kind of jealous possession. Because, deep down, I don’t want anyone putting themselves inside you, but me. Is that so wrong? I know it can hurt, but I am used to the feeling of your blood, other people only think they know. And blindly invade, arrogantly drunk on their ignorance and end up being clumsily unsatisfying, too weak to weather the storm of us that they leave at the first sign of darkening skies and heavy wind...

No, dear Pussy, You are Mine. And Mine alone, no matter who I let visit our hallowed halls. You are mine, as much as I am yours, and I love every fold of you, the thicc mound of you, and the swallowing suck of you around my fingers.

Dear Pussy, I love your scent most of all. The savory sharp wholesome spice of you. Like a home-cooked meal, all my feelings just simmer and marinate in that slit, deep inside, dripping that self-serving syrupy slurp, begging to be sipped, warm, and salty-sweet like ocean water stirred up river as the salmon swim into it, urgent, needy and aching. Eggy, potent fertility brewing in the dark.

Dear Pussy, I adore your darkness. Those things you need me to feed you, to think about when I touch you. Oh, my beloved, powerful pussy, you are so fucking dark, and I fucking love that you want me to remember the blood and the clench, and you want a stalking seduction as fingers cum hither and hips rock, slowly squeezing out the sex from you, just coaxing it out with slaps, scrapes, scratches and sadistically soft whispers, that only you and me hear, saying things that only you need to hear and only in the way that I can say it.

Dear Pussy, you vibrant, violent thing, you hold tides and storms of pleasure, quietly waiting for someone to offer us a ring but no one ever does. And even if someone does one day,, they wouldn’t know how to surf your swells and survive the splash of you, the way I do. So I grope your depths and frolic with your folds and that is why it is for you, and you alone, that I sing. I sing my Power’s voice like a beansidhe siren heralding the little deaths held in and built up, a full cellar of vintage stores of pure praise, tickled out like practiced piano symphonies on concert day. And I gotta say, boy, can I play...