Ode to a Pretty Cunt

This isn’t a legitimate Ode because I’m not really that into poetry. This is however, a celebration of all cunts and one in particular that just happens to be on my mind today.

As a woman, I’ve spent far too much time worrying about what is going on down there. Over the years, I formed insecurities based on ridiculous ideals derived from porn and pop culture and silly pre-adolescent notions of what it is supposed to be like. That’s just not reality though! We are all differently formed, inside and out, and none of us have perfect vaginas, but we are all perfect in our own imperfection.

We have different shapes, like flowers. We aren’t all roses, we are peonies and lilies and violets, orchids and hydrangeas and gardenias. Some of us bloom slowly, our petals peeking out shyly between puffy lips. Some of us are dramatic, announcing ourselves with a flourish of folds that invite the beholder deeper.

Flowers have varying scents, just like the cunts, pussies and vaginas of the world. I am particularly fond of jasmine, and I think that most people would agree that a blooming Bradford Pear smells like rotting fish. I have yet to meet a cunt who’s odor was unpleasant to me. Some are musky, some a little sour, and when aroused, most emit an intoxicating aroma, sweet and buttery. I smell my own fingers after they’ve explored my slippery depths, and don’t tell me you’ve never done the same!

The taste of a hungry cunt is surely something special, tangy for some and surprisingly sweet for others. I’ve been left wondering, “Did she dowse herself in honey?” I’ve never come up from tasting a woman’s pussy thinking that it was unpleasant. I’ve only wanted more.

Why did I spend so much time worrying about my cunt, my orgasm held at bay because my mind was focused on my own taste and smell, my frustration growing because I was worried about how I looked. I was too hairy or too wet or had too much razor burn. I wasn’t fresh or smooth or pink or glistening, like the perfectly prepared pussies of porn. I should have been enjoying the mouths and fingers working to bring me pleasure instead of worrying about something so ridiculous.

I have a completely different outlook now. As I’ve aged, I’m not so concerned anymore, I have a greater appreciation for and a better knowledge of my own body, and I know that I am perfectly and imperfectly acceptable down there, just like other women.

Speaking of other women, I want to get back to that one particular cunt that has me dreaming today. It was just like any other, pink and wet, tasting of lovely things like need and desire, but I really enjoyed this one. The owner of this cunt was sweet and shy, but when I put my face between her legs, she opened up for me. I could see the dampness dripping down her skin to the crack of her ass, dripping for me and for him as he bound her in his rope so that I could play with his captive. She squeaked for me, small moans and sighs as I softly licked her clit. When I gently rubbed my fingers just inside, she pushed onto them, beckoning me to give her more. She squeezed her thighs around my face when she got close to coming, breathlessly panting out incoherent words. I knew the meaning though, don’t stop, keep doing that, I’m going to come. She suffocated me with her cunt, bucking her hips into my face, greedy for more tongue. I came up with a smile, wiping her juices off my chin with the back of my hand.

That is what makes a cunt more delicious and desirable for me, knowing that what I did caused pleasure. To see the dripping juices, to hear the moans, to feel the clench of muscles and the squeezing of thighs, the shuddering and shaking, and to witness the release of tension and the sleepy smile when she’s finally come is what makes it all worth it. I wish I’d realized that a long time ago. It’s not about how it looks or smells or tastes, it’s about the reaction and the obvious enjoyment.