No, for once, this isn’t about how you don’t know what to do with it. This isn’t about how you keep it zipped tight inside my jeans, aching to be let loose like when you lick along the seams of it and set me free. This isn’t about how you stroke your fingers across it once, twice, three times, calling this fair payment for the half hour I worked my raw hand against your body to the breathy rhythm of your “don’t stop now”s.
This is about how my pussy isn’t broken. My pussy won’t spread herself open for you, won’t even deign herself to try, but it’s not a fatal flaw. My pussy’s at the prime of her life, pulsing with wet and heat and wanting. My pussy doesn’t need all this estrogen cream, all these dilators and all your sympathy. She saves her wet heat for the days when she wants me to come hard with your dick in my mouth and one finger creeping inside her; and the other days, she makes my pleasure silky-smooth and nebulous when your tongue writes her love letters and your fingertips trace the spot that makes my hips buck.
My pussy doesn’t mean I’m stuck in limbo, doomed to die a virgin who never knew pleasure. Me, I like fucking. I like you on your hands and knees, waiting for me to lick the salty sweat of your ass and circle its outline until your moans are so loud my ears ring. I pushed inside, once, and felt you wet and tight around my finger as my pussy grew slick, eager, ecstatic.
But you told me, “stop,” and I pulled out of you and said goodbye.
Maybe neither of us were built for fucking, and that’s okay.
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