I once had a dream...
I was roller-skating through a 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.
But when I returned home from my rendezvous, I realized,
That somewhere along the way, I’d lost my vagina.
I rushed to rainforest Lost and Found
It was located in a tree trunk and manned by a native named Makuna Timberlake the Third.
Frantically, I asked, "Click clack-clack clickity click clack click?"
Makuna presented me with a box brimming with vaginas.
I rifled through the misplaced muffs desperate to find my own,
Tossing twats to and fro...
Then, it hit me...
I had no idea what my vagina looked like,
At least, not in any specific sense.
Any pussy in the pile could have been mine.
Next night, I had the same dream...
Except the moths had morphed into thirsty mosquitoes,
And my roller skates were ill-fitting wooden clogs,
And Makuna was Martha Stewart scolding me,
"I told you, 'labeling your vagina is a good thing'."
Third night—it was pterodactyls, snowshoes, and legendary serial killer Henry Lee Lucas at the Lost and Found.
I awoke knowing there was only one way to stop the nightmares--I must confront the cunt.
So, I moved to the mirror, stripped and sat astraddle...
Legs spread wide and confident...
An Indian princess riding a royal pacaderm.
And then…I looked at it.
Oh my God... I thought…
It would take Jesus, Jenna Jameson and Jacques Cousteau
To explain what I had witnessed down below,
A creature that could flourish on the ocean's floor,
Pulsing pink, lascivious lips, the ultimate predator.
I assumed it couldn’t be normal.
There had to be something debauched about my crotch.
Forlorn, 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 was lamenting aloud,
When one knowledgeable queer from the crowd,
Exclaimed, "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 there was something different and dangerous,
Looming in my loins.
All that 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.
That night, I had another dream...
White doves, spike heels, and Javier Bardeem,
At the Lost and Found.
I asked, "Have you seen my full-blown rose?"
He took out a crystal box and put it to his nose,
Then, held it out for my inspection.
I immediately recognized the fabulous, fuchsia flower.
He said, "My lady, I believe this treasure must be thine."
I swelled with pride, "Yeah, baby, that vagina is mine."
Some years later,
I am thrilled to report,
My vagina is now,
My most trusted cohort.
My confidante. My top advisor. My muse.
Whether battling writer’s block, buying a stock, choosing a cock,
I leave it to my twat to sort out what’s what.
And it never fails me.
Hell, when my snazzy is in top form,
It can predict a thunder storm.
Seriously, I can’t I believe I once deemed it,
Inferior, Indecent, Inedible,
Because, put quite simply,
My vagina is incredible.
And, so is yours.
Sharing All I KNOW about the fine art of voluptuating. here's to living the lush life.