Today I Am…

One thing about being a sexblogger is that through the veil of anonymity one can have email exchanges, chats and conversations that bypass all the normal causes of embarrassment. The pseudonym, the distance and the ephemerality of online interaction makes a certain truthfulness possible.

More than a year ago “Kitty” emailed me. She had some interesting questions about feminine appearance, including breasts, bums and the relative attractiveness of the various shapes of labia. In the email exchange that followed it quickly became apparent that she was asking because she was reinventing her own body.

One of her reasons for writing to me in the first place was a post that I published on another blog over four years ago with a bit of whimsical speculation about genitalia. She was speculating too, but on a radically different level.

Now her speculation has finally become flesh. To mark the date and to wish Kitty well, I reposted the entry below on my blog. Originally it was an invitation to contribute to a series of guest posts on another, now-defunct blog, titled “Pussyblogging Friday”. I may have suggested the invite myself, come to think of it. Here’s the result:

A Y-chromosome is no excuse for not having a pussy. Yes, I know, the mirror doesn’t lie. Nevertheless, it’s a feeble, literal-minded gesture to unzip and with trembling fingers point to a full-grown cock nesting comfortably on a bed of balls and pubes.

Hello! There you are, my snake, my drill, my hammer… The vocabulary of insecure boys is brimful of power drills and lethal weapons lurking beneath every bulging crotch.

What is pussy-like about this lovely, smooth-skinned cock, this beast that has so often sparked up at the mere fragrance of its female counterpart?

Let’s unzip and take a look. Growing erect, free of his denim prison he unfurls, hardens, rises to the stroking teasing of a finger. Hard and agonizingly sensitive, he’s a funny monster—ven in the passionate folds of a tightly clenching vagina he sometimes becomes overstimulated, the moist ecstasy tipping over into pain for a moment. Even there, while I stroke this hard boner, she’s in there. Right there under my skin curled around every cell in my body, the sturdy X embracing her spindly brother Y.

Likewise, a pair of tits is no excuse not to have a cock.

I have never been with a woman who didn’t have a bit of the cock about her. Which woman doesn’t have a cock? Doesn’t even the most virginal virgin sometimes feel the urge to penetrate, to sink into the wet depths, to be an invading phallus with her fingers, her hand, and to become that mirror organ that already has a place made for it inside her? Some women have bigger cocks than others, but they all have one, whether or not they can find them. It only takes a bit of patience.

And how do we find our inner cocks and pussies? We get help. Vulnerable, curious and hungry we spread our mouths, legs, fingers and arms open to each other, inviting and getting invited. Entering and being entered. The specific gender combination is utterly irrelevant; only the game matters. The play of appetites consuming each other.

I found my pussy playing a game like that. She’s right there. Growling, purring, from below the pit of my stomach to the deepest whorls of the cerebellum, she is me.

I don’t want one; I have one. Wanna see?