The other night, as Lo was lying on the living room couch in her black, satin negligée, recalling for me the previous night’s sexplorations with Sylvia, she began touching herself between her legs, as she is wont to do. Somewhere in the middle of her tale she interrupted herself to ask me, “Do you think my pussy lips are pretty?” This is a question she has asked me from time to time. She’s told me before that she’s always been particularly self-conscious about the shape, and especially the size, of her vulva. She was once told very thoughtlessly by a boyfriend that she had “abnormally large” pussy lips and a “huge” clit. Ever since then she’s been overly sensitive to the point of embarrassed about her labial looks.
With me she’s felt less concerned about this because I praise her pussy so frequently, but it was a struggle at first to get her to feel comfortable naked or with her legs spread before me. Then she began posing for my shutter-fly and slowly she came out of her shell, so to speak. She even began demonstrating what she can do with her lovely lower Lola lips — pulling and stretching them, self-inflicting pain, rubbing them, stroking them, spreading them and repeatedly stabbing at them with her dildos.
She raised this question because in the course of her story she recalled how tight, pink, and almost virginal Sylvia’s lips were, in contrast with her own curvy, lush, and succulent pussy. It used to be that when she and I were intimate and I was plunging deep inside her with my Johnson, she would ask me, “Am I tight?” I would whisper, “Yes, very.” But slowly, over time, especially after catching her distending those lovely lips with her dildo, she would ask me, “Do I feel loose?” “Yes,” I would slowly exhale into her ear. “Like I just was had by two guys before you came home?” she’d ask, arousing herself with the thought. “Yes. Loose like a little whore,” I’d tell her. Now she is turned on more by being told she’s a loose little slut than that her tight puss is clutching my cock like a vice.
It had only recently come to my attention, through my conversations with Lo, to just what an extent our society has caused complexes for women regarding their body-image. Yes, I had known for some time that the Barbie ideal was pervasive — so much so that girls, white and black, studies show, wanted to look just like she. That is, of course, unfortunate.
Women vivisecting their bodies with breast implants has also been all-too-prevalent. But I had had no idea that this body-image ideal had permeated women’s psyches so deeply that women actually opt for cosmetic surgery on their natural born beauty in order to nip and tuck their vaginal visage into some picture of pussy perfection. This new cultural conformity is based upon the false premise that there is such a thing as perfection of the puss. Not true! The splendor and blessedness of the female form is that it comes in an infinite variety.
A woman’s pussy has been aptly compared to a budding or blossoming flower, a sweet fruit, the bloom of a lotus. Like a peach split down the middle, the pussy is the source of divine nectar and presents dripping, ripe, flesh for the nourishment of life and love. Whether a straight seam or a gnarly curled cluster of soft, pliant plumage, the pussy is beautiful in its boundless diversity.
Instead of telling Lo all of this, I simply buried my face in her wet and waiting lips and let her know how I felt about them by lapping up her loveliness with my tongue.
[Originally “Loose Lips Sink Ships,” from: mysexlifewithlola.com]