"Godpussy"
Bald
beaver. Shaved silky smooth little-girl pussy. Open,
inviting labia and clitoris begging to be sucked
and stroked, fingered and fondled. Guys who can't
bare (sic) the sight of a smooth pussy probably
need to floss more;
so, they like to get all that long, stiff pubic
hair caught between their teeth as a means of much-needed
dental hygiene. Either that, or, they never go down
there. Really, don't even want to have anything
to do with it. Don't want to see it, touch it, lick
it...just stick their tiny dicks in, flail away
for a few helpless strokes and dribble some cum
into her hairy bush. The hirsute lovers want to
keep that unsightly thing buried in the jungles
of deepest darkest Africa, where they reluctantly
insert their timid soldier after coaxing him to
attention by thinking about the hairy asshole they
saw in the shower once back in high
school or college that they'd rather be fucking.
I feel sorry for these hair-ballers, so intimidated
by female genitalia that they can probably only
do it with
the lights out, after drinking a six pack, and the
television's on Jay Leno in
the background.
If
I want a thick mat of pubic hair down there, I'll
go suck off a guy, or find a willing butthole down
at the Greyhound station. But I want my silky shaved
pussy and I want it bad. I need it to live. I will
kill for it, die for it, lie for it. Is shaved pussy
just another drug to me? Hell, yes! I don't mind
admitting that when I first saw it, tasted it, fucked
it, back when I was a lad of seventeen (and computers
were huge things you only saw in spy movies) I knew
this forbidden silky fruit was what I wanted and
needed the most. I liked the way I could just see,
taste, touch everything that was going on. Where's
that little hooded penis? Why, there's that little
rascal right there. "Touch it all around and especially
on top," she says. Hey, No problem. Now I can see
exactly what the fuck is going on down there. If
I want mysteries, I'll read Raymond Chandler. If
I want sex, then I want a shaved one. I want to
witness those labia swelling up like the lips on
Louis Armstrong. I want to see her honey pot glisten
and dripping with love juice for my manfuck. I need
to behold her clitoris sticking out like a red dog's
penis, so excited to be seen and participating in
everything that's going on. Let her pull those white
cotton panties aside, the crotch already stained
with a widening wet spot, to reveal the ultra pussy--the
Kali-like cunt in my mind that looks like one finger's
too much and a thousand's never enough.
"I wanna be your dirty girl," she
says. And you slide your royal stiffness against
that slippery smooth mons de Venus, her white
marble altar...the Godpussy. Sure, I've sucked her
sometimes and my face has been rubbed raw as hers
when I kiss her hard with some serious stubble.
So what. That and more I will gladly endure for
the days when her jewel is softer than a baby's
behind. And I must tiptoe around the tender flesh
with lips and tongue, a nibble here, a finger there,
because of the shock-wave sensations rocking her
body like 220 volts of raw juice. Yeah. I want to
be plugged into that cunt-do-it, now and forevermore.
If she's going to cover it with
bush, then why bother with shaving the armpits or
the legs. Why not just let all that go to hell as
well? Why fuss with stockings or high heeled shoes
or bras or corsets? Might as well skip the perfume
or even washing her hair, let alone styling it or
combing it off her face. Why not just have sex like
cave dwellers: The fire's getting hot so I'm gonna
stick it in for a couple minutes in between slaying
saber-tooth tigers.
The vulnerability of the hairless
vagina speaks of submissiveness. And yet, in an
instant she can turn around and use that powerful
exposure to torture and tease you into a foaming-at-the
mouth frenzy. Serve the pussy, conquer the pussy,
be licked by the pussy, the hair-free honey pot
gives itself to all political power struggles and
exchanges in the bedroom, on the stage and in films
and photography. Any artist wants to work with a
bare canvas. The shaved pussy inspires creativity,
frees the imagination for all flights of fancy.
"You slide
your royal stiffness against that
slippery-smooth mons de Venus, her white
marble altar...the Godpussy."
The
hirsute lover is really a lover of bland, unimaginative,
get-in-get-out, kinda sex. The idea of role play,
fantasy or even foreplay has no place in their
grunt-twice-if-it-was-good-and-get-over-with-it
world. These hirsute devotees are a menace to
all the wildly imaginative, kinky perverts
out there who like a good story line. And if that
story line verges on pedophilia, oh fucking well.
With the God Almighty shaved pussy all things
devilish and divine are possible. Clearly, the
hirsute fanatic is simply afraid of possibilities.
They might have to stray outside of their tried
and true world for five seconds. Ooh, scary. Better
go hide in that bush.
But the rest of us lovers of the
hair-free pussy are out here in the wide-open
spaces, trying things the hair-ballers can't even
dream of. So, go run back to momma and hide behind
her bush. Me and my little girl, sex muffin, idolatress,
priestess, goddess are writing the future erotic
literature of the world...on the canvas of her
smooth pussy.
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