Pussies are wonderful. This is hardly an original sentiment. But I’ll explain anyways.
Pussies are passages between the raw and the cooked, the moist and the dry, chaos and order, the organic and refined. They are the embodiment of opposites. And even as they are unity themselves, they can still act as a passage, a home that welcomes and embraces penetration and hardness and wetness to create yet another dimension of unity.
Starting from the outside, we move over smooth, soft skin, that outer shell of appearances and order. Perhaps some hair may hint at the turbulence inside. But better hints of the depths can be felt as we move closer to the center, towards the fleshier and spongier skin that adds a third dimension of softness. And and as we move even closer, the quality of the skin itself changes. It becomes redder and rawer, bursting in unpredictable directions yet still maintaining the form of a budding flower. A knob can be found towards the top, an anchor for the folds of tapestry that descend. Like nipples, the clitoris is where the energies from inside push out to meet the world, straining for contact, engorging and swelling when pleased.
The descending folds of flesh frame an opening into the inner world. The gates are moist and reddish—flesh, but not the kind of flesh that usually sees the light of day. It is flesh that is raw and pliable, pulsating and wet. It is flesh made of blood and meat, not skin. It can expand to astonishing dimensions to let objects pass, or close around them to grab them in its sponge-like embrace. It creates juices and blood of multiple textures and colors, Some of those juices help to soothe the passage into the depths. Others spurt, dribble, bubble and overflow from out of the depths and into the air. And when pleased, the passage itself can pulsate and churn, sending waves throughout the entire body.
The depths of the pussy are never completely plumbed; the mystery never completely recedes. Pussies brings pleasure and satisfaction, but never completion. We may be exhausted and satiated for the moment. But there is always more, some ungrasped essence, another promise, an unfulfilled hope.
Some people are repulsed by pussies. Others are obsessed. Pussies attract both anxiety and admiration, fear and love. That’s only what we should expect from a place in which the mystical is made flesh.
I wish I could be so enthusiastic about cocks or assholes, because that’s what I have. Both are all right. But they just aren’t pussies.