An Ode to Pussy

I don't quite know whether this is an essay or a poem. It is a not formal poetry, but neither is it a formal essay. It is a meditation, a musing. Some women do not seem to fully appreciate their own beauty and wonder - the loveliness of each of their parts. They wonder why men lust after what they may view as "gynecological." I do not think I can do total justice to an explanation, but this is my attempt.

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I find feminine genitalia to be an intense and endless passion. I find enduring fascination in gazing at this amazing piece of the female form.

The endless variety in similarity - like faces, all with the same features, yet no two exactly alike. Each a unique expression of the woman. We stare into it, in futile hope of seeing her soul revealed in her intimate parts.

The labia, so soft, some smooth, some convoluted; hiding secrets at times; at other times, blossoming, like a delicate flower opening from the bud. Wanting to touch them, feel them, stroke them, part them, open them, make them engorge with throbbing desire.

The entrance, the opening of the vagina, that most luscious gate of heavenly delights, the place that every man having come from, spends the rest of his life wishing to re-enter. That complimentary part - mating, fitting, connecting with the male organ - the socket to our plug - the perfect warm, moist, muscular sleeve, wanting to grip us, hold us, hug us, receive us, suck our seed from us in glorious rapture. Envisioning the stretching, imagining it being forced open to accept its mating part, forcing it larger and larger, imagining her feelings of fullness, of being penetrated, being taken.

The pinkness and tenderness of those delicate tissues, so soft, so fragile, so needing of gentle, careful touching, licking, tasting.

The position of that other opening, so near, yet so different. How do they work together? How do they relate?

The thoughts of where these passages lead, deep within in her body. Trying to comprehend her inmost workings. Her body practically turned inside out for me, allowing me to imagine myself deep, deep inside.

The moistness forming, seeping, wetness increasing, that lubrication that is meant purely to facilitate the accepting of a penis, luring me in, wanting me.

The change: from closed, quiet, detached; to open, wet, wanting, desiring, lusting. The swelling, enlarging, enlivening, opening out.

The most secret and private, opened and revealed. Her deepest, most closely held privacy displayed for me. Her most intimate parts, shared, given, offered, nothing concealed or held back. Everything bared.

Her desire showing, arousal disclosed, lust apparent.

The clitoris, the mystery, the mystique, the amazingness of an organ devoted purely and only to pleasure: Its only function to make the woman a willing and eager participant in sex, sharing some of the male feelings of desire and lust. The female penis - does it feel the same? Is it large, or small? Covered, or protruding? Wanting to understand, to comprehend, to know it absolutely, what it likes, how to please, how to touch, where to touch, how it is situated relative to the opening, relative to a surging pounding cock.

The thought of touching it, teasing it from its hiding place, luring it from its repose, circling it, tasting it, sucking it, teasing it, using it to drive her to ecstasy, making her thrash and moan and convulse in an agony of release, having her throbbing convulsions encasing my cock and driving it to similar ecstatic release.

I could focus and meditate on this feminine miracle, this center of womanhood, this essence of femaleness, hour after hour, day after day, never bored, never losing interest, my fascination endless, my desire never waning. It is beautiful. It is wonderful. It is erotic. It is the pictorial essence of sex.