Speaker 1: What do pussies think about? Really? I asked my own
one evening. We'd just had dinner, a warm bath, candles,
and now we were settled in bed for a quiet evening.
It told me that, contrary to popular belief, the number
of orgasms it had experienced in a single day did
not hold its attention, nor did it give much thought
to penile or clitteral dimensions, or any other sexual characteristics
such as breast or hip size. Those it informed me
were of no concern to it, other than that it
felt the need for some occasional tending, which was to
be expected. What did occupy much of its thought were
matters that until then had never even entered my mind,
such as how it had managed to stay hidden from sight,
even from my own. Pussies are funny like that, As
I'm sure you know, you might see a woman naked
as off as you'd like, in as many different positions,
and the pussy would still manage to be invisible, to
remain hidden between the thighs, even though you knew exactly
where to look. Then it asked me how I thought
it could have gotten so skilled with my clit, a
part of me that was unknown even to me until
the first time we'd met. My pussy sighed an exasperated,
knowing thing. You really don't listen, do you. The words
vibrated low in my body, like an unspoken purr. You
think about sex in that cerebral way, but I think
in rhythm, in pressure, in hunger. Then it told me
that its lips longed to be kissed and touched with
the same passion and attention the clit gets, so I
reassured it that I would take care of it. Then
it said that it knew it was wet most of
the time, but did I understand that that was an
normal state and that the amount of lubrication present was
in no way indicative of my level of arousal. In
other words, sometimes a wet pussy is just a wet pussy.
I had never really given that any thought, to be honest,
but I agreed. Then it began to tell me about
how the vagina was a very different creature. Pussies my
own told me were relatively simple. All they wanted, it
explained to me, was a little tenderness and some loving caresses.
But vaginas my pussy told me, are a much more
complicated thing, and not nearly as easily satisfied. Vaginas want
to be fucked, it told me, but with a lot
of foreplay. Vaginas like hard cocks and thick fingers and
even tongues and love to be filled to the brim
and fucked to their heart's delight. But my vagina is
my pussy, isn't it, I interrupted, my pussy side exasperated, sweetheart,
it said, you really don't listen, do you, I bristled,
shifting in my seat. Excuse me. Your vagina is the gateway,
the passage, the dark, sacred corridor of want, it continued, unbothered.
But I the pussy. I'm the temple, the throne, the
silk and the heat, the thing they worship before they
ever get inside. I exhaled. That's poetic as hell. It's
the truth, my pussy hummed. The vagina is deep hunger,
But I am the invitation. I am the teas, the velvet,
whisper of wet lips, the purr before the growl. The
vagina is a storm. Yes, she craves to be filled, fucked,
stretched wide, But I am the reason it even begins.
I am the use, the seduction, the first touch that
makes the world forget itself. I swallowed, heat, curling in
my stomach. So what you're saying is my pussy? Chuckled darkly, darling,
I run this show. And then I realized my pussy
had an ego of its own, not just a voice,
not just a personality, but a damn near royal attitude.
It expected attention, It demanded devotion my pussy, I murmured,
you you're kind of a diva. My pussy preened a goddess,
it corrected, and rightfully, so do you have any idea
how many people have begged to worship at my altar?
I rolled my eyes. Okay, now you're just showing off.
But my pussy just hummed sm and yet, it mused,
despite all those admirers, you forget about me the most,
neglect me, ignore my needs until it's convenient. I paused,
that's not entirely untrue. Of course, it's not a soft
purr between my legs, and all I ask in return
is a little reverence, a little devotion, a little indulgence.
I smirked, So you want to be worshiped, my pussy sighed, long, suffering, darling,
I expect it. Then my pussy got down to the
nitty gritty and started getting philosophical on me the way
pussies saw it. My pussy informed me the world was
divided into two distinct groups, the fuckers and the fucked.
It did concede that there was a great deal of
movement back and forth between these two groups, but in general,
it told me you'd find the majority of men on
the fucking side of things and most of the women
on the fucked side. There were, of course, a significant
number of people in the world that enjoyed participating on
either side of this equation. Then it asked if I
knew which group we fell into. I admitted that we
were a work in progress. As my pussy spoke, I
traced a slow fingertip along my thigh, idly listening. Yet
something inside me stirred. Not arousal, not quite, but awareness,
a thrumming hum beneath the skin, a sense of something
my body had always known before my mind caught up.
Then the pussy told me that when I used the pomp,
I turn into the fucker and can fuck like a man. Ah. Yes.
Then I remembered those good old times, and it asked
me why I don't play with the pump more often.
My pussy really enjoyed it. Well, it was right. The
problem is I was lazy and it was easier to
just do it organically with my fingers. You think you
like fingers best, My pussy purred. But I remember that
time with the silk rope, how you pulsed against it,
how you craved the pull. I swallowed hard. That was
just an experiment. Sure it hummed. Then why do you
keep thinking about it? You're scared to admit it, aren't you,
My pussy mused, voice slick with mischief, that you want
to touch me right now, that this conversation is turning
you on. My breath hitched. That's ridiculous, I scoffed, but
the pulse between my legs betrayed me, thrumbing a rhythm.
I hadn't yet agreed to answer, but the conversation with
the pussy continued. I asked if my pussy had anything
to do with the way I was feeling that day,
the way I dressed and acted in my moods. It
told me that it was indeed, And then, after another
moment or two of quiet thought, it told me, to
the best of its recollection, that the last time i'd
actually listened to it was when we'd made love, but
that I hadn't paid it much attention otherwise. So I
told my pussy I would do my best to pay
more attention and to be more considerate. And then it
asked me to take more selfies together. It was very important,
my pussy said. Selfies made it feel sexy and wanted
glamorous and desirable, So it told me to put that
at the top of the to do list. My pussy
had more to say. It told me it felt I
needed to learn how to talk to it, to really
communicate with it in a meaningful way, To learn its
language and the many subtle signals that pussies send to
let us know how we're feeling. To understand the difference
between the messages it sent when it wanted to be
touched or when it was ready for penetration. My pussy
also suggested that we spend more time exploring each other,
learning each other's likes, dislikes, wants, needs, desires, and fears.
My pussy was telling me that as far as pussies went,
I had no idea how much it had to say
to me, how much I needed to know about it.
It had a lot to tell me about my life,
about the way I saw myself and the world around me.
It was getting late and I had an early day
ahead of me. But before we went to bed, I
asked the pussy one more question. What is the one
thing that you'd most like for us to do? My
pussy answered, without hesitation, masturbate Moore. Please. I reached for
my phone, hesitating just a moment before flipping the camera
to an angle I'd never dared to before. For you,
I whispered, capturing the moment, letting the shudder click like
a promise between old friends. Looking at the picks, I
had to admit my pussy looked pretty damn hot. Then
my pussy said, if you really want to excite me,
send it to you know who. My thumb hovered over
the message I can. I shouldn't, I wouldn't, But my
pussy just hummed, smug and knowing, come on it, Purret,
be a good girl,