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,