WET ASS PUSSY
I didn’t come from cunnilingus until I was 25 years old.
My pussy spent nine long years partaking in clumsy tongue pokings and proddings and pelvic grindings and inevitable just-stick-it-in-already’s — cue the melancholic strings. Luckily, I orgasm easily from penetrative sex, so I never really knew what I missing. And holy fuck, the things my pussy was missing.
On that fateful New Year’s Eve of 2015, my eyes (and nether lips) opened to a whole new way of fucking. My suitor, “Dollar Bill” Dan, led me to the upstairs bedroom of his halfway remodeled shotgun house. We met earlier in the evening at a New Orleans warehouse party, bonding over our strawberry tinged hair and lack of boundaries. There was a gaping hole in his bedroom wall and cold pitter patters of rain tickled my cheeks. He cranked the industrial space heater to gazillion and we flung our layers to the floor.
As a young teenager, I would often dream of the perfect French kiss, standing in the rain, dripping wet with romance and potentially, Ryan Gosling’s jizz. The Notebook did a helluva number on 14-year-old McNasty, y’all. But I had it all wrong — the French kiss I should have been lusting after was nestled between my own two thighs with a messy mop of hair slowly bobbing up and down, side to side, like a bumble bee slurping sweet, sweet nectar.
“Dollar Bill” Dan French kissed my cunt gently and with affection, with intention. It was something I had been missing with my previous partners; their mouth meanderings usually felt rushed and erratic, a quick pit stop on the way to the final destination. But with “Dollar Bill” Dan, there was a slow and methodical labor to his lickings which gave way to perfectly pressured sucking on and around my clit.
“Your pussy tastes like flowers,” he told me.
I giggle-moaned and thought about Georgia O’Keeffe while the wind blew in some raindrops, landing now on my butt cheeks and giving early morning dew a new meaning. I shivered from the cold, maybe pleasure, but probably the cold and he pulled my pussy closer, lifting my lower body off the bed. My cum-to-Jesus moment happened when he started subtly shrugging his shoulders. It was perhaps the first and only time perpetual shrugging has gotten me anywhere in life. But fuck, this time, it definitely got me there and I never wanted to leave.
A funny thing happens when you get good head. Previous standards lower and the wet and gushy stuff reigns supreme over all else. See, it didn’t matter if I was fucking on top of a fleece-lined sleeping bag in a holey-ass house next to an industrial grade space heater with a dude who would later send me a black and white pic of his boner resting on a desk beside a dollar bill (phew). It didn’t matter because he had made the inside of my thighs his home, a holy house, blasphemous only because my big oral “O” had taken nine long years to finally arrive.
I realize now that the magical ingredients for the sweet and savory cunnilingus performed that night had less to do with “Dollar Bill” Dan and more to do with my own patience, confidence, and letting the fuck go. Or maybe I’m just a sucker for floral pussy compliments (*shrugs my way to an orgasm while thinking about Georgia O’Keeffe’s Red Canna*). Perhaps in the spirit of a new year, I decided to relax and let good things come my way — to exhale previous notions of how I should feel when getting eaten out and just let an experienced tongue ride while the worry slips away.
There are still days, nights, and early mornings when the only macaroni in a pot is, truly, a box of Annie’s white cheddar, but I now know to settle in, remember that my pussy tastes like a mother fucking flower, and communicate my desires. And if you were still wondering, my unwavering desire will always be a 2004-Gosling-style French kiss with my clit (from this day forward known as Rachel McAdams), a patient mouth drowning in juices, quietly and romantically whispering — it wasn’t over… it still isn’t over — forever and ever amen.
Good things cum to those who wait, y’all.
