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Full Blown Rose
I am roller-skating through the rainforest in a red satin ball gown,
Escorted by mammoth-moths with peacock-patterned wings,
Swooping and looping to the whir-whir-whirring of my wheels.
When I return home from my rendezvous, I realize,
that somewhere along the way, I lost my vagina.
I rush to rainforest Lost and Found
It is located in a tree trunk and manned by a native named Makuna Timberlake the Third.
I frantically ask, "Click clack-clack clickity click clack click?"
Makuna presents me with a box brimming with vaginas.
I rifle through the misplaced muffs desperate to find my own,
Tossing twats to and fro...
Then, it hits me...
I have no idea what my vagina looks like,
At least, not in any specific sense.
Any pussy in the pile could be mine.
I wake. I scream. I rush to my Navajo Dream Dictionary...no vagina entry.
I meditate. I masturbate. I medicate with Maker's Mark.
But that night I have the same dream...
Except the moths have morphed into thirsty mosquitoes,
And my roller skates are ill-fitting wooden clogs,
And Makuna is Martha Stewart scolding me,
"I told you, 'labeling your vagina is a good thing'."
Third night--pterodactyls, snowshoes, and Henry Lee Lucas at the Lost and Found.
I awake knowing that in order to stop the nightmares, I must confront the cunt.
I move to the mirror, strip and sit astraddle...legs spread wide and confident...
An Indian princess riding a royal pacaderm.
I lower my gaze...
Fear speedy and greedy grips me...
And not top of the roller-coaster, anticipated, exhilarated fear,
But primal, pitch-black crawl space filled with cave crickets fear.
Not that I think that I have crickets living in my vagina...
Surely I would have heard them singing,
Or one of my legion of lovers would have mentioned it...
I must look. I cannot look. I must look. I cannot look. I must look. I cannot look.
Oh my God...
It will take Jesus, Jenna Jameson and Jacques Cousteau
to explain what I have witnessed down below,
a creature that could flourish on the ocean's floor,
Pulsing pink, lascivious lips, the ultimate predator.
Surely that's not normal.
There must be something debauched about my crotch.
For lorn, I turned to porn,
to find a match for my snatch.
After more than my share,
of contrast and compare,
I found there was none.
Mine looked nothing like the pierced, plucked, delicate daisies that grew between their thin thighs.
That night over dinner I'm lamenting aloud,
when one knowledgeable queer from the crowd,
exclaims, "What you have, my dear, is a full-blown rose.
In some cultures that would keep you drowning in beaus.
However, many in polite society find them...well...for lack of a better term...nasty,
Have you ever considered labioplasty?"
For months, I crossed-my legs tight with all my might,
Certain that every stranger was aware that there was something different and dangerous looming in my loins.
All summer I refused to go near the water,
For fear of the slaughter,
that might occur if the monster broke free from my bikini.
What is someone was bitten by my kitten....and it was rabid?
To cause a further diversion,
I grew my pussy's coat from Domestic Shorthair to Persian.
It was exhausting shielding the world from my vagina.
Come fall, I had no more energy to be appalled,
So I said, "To hell with it," and shaved the damn thing bald.
Me thinks, it's now a Sphinx.
That night, I had another dream...
White doves, spike heels, and Javier Bardem.
I ask, "Have you seen my full-blown rose?"
He takes out a crystal box and holds it to his nose,
Then sighs and invites my inspection.
I immediately recognize the fabulous, fuchsia flower.
He says, "My lady, I believe this treasure must be thine."
I swell with pride, "Yeah, that vagina is mine."
the bourbonistA, Promoting Debauchery and stamping out political-correctness one blog at a time.