The Cartographer of Pussy

Once in Europe, a friend asked me to look at her pussy. She thought it was deformed. In fact, she had an appointment with a 'beauty surgeon" to have her inner labia removed, to make her pussy look more like she thought everyone else's Pussy looked.

Clearly she has not looked at as many Pussies as I have.

After a show and tell involving 12 ladies with wildly unique and mesmerizingly beautiful Pussys, my friend canceled her appointment for a clitorectomy and vulvoplasty. A small victory for Pussy worldwide, perhaps, but a major victory for my friend. She discovered her Pussy was beautiful.

Betty Dodson ( see her webpage ) taught me alot about Pussy, although at the time I was mostly interested in the Pussy of the grrl I was interested in.

Her name really was Lola, although she preferred to be call Truth. She was living in a communal house with her Squeeze and her two kids, and THIS GUY that I liked. I had hitchhiked across the county to give him a blow job, but he was freaked by my commitment to his semen, so I bunked in with Squeeze and Truth. Slept with Truth in the middle to keep it respectable.

Slept with Squeeze and Truth, innocently, like cousins sharing a bed. Like cousins sharing a bed, we carefully avoided touching, just an accidental butt to thigh as we turned over. And turned over, restless in our sleep, turned over again. And turned over again, then my hand brushed her side close to her breast, ripe, and ripely forbidden. Squeeze was snoringly oblivious to us, when I tentatively reached to cup her breast in my hand. The breast of Truth nestled in my hand. I was deeply thrilled, like a 10 year old discovering Pleasure.

Me on my left side, my right arm flung over her waist and my right hand caressing her breast. Her breast heavy and sullen with the milk for her youngest, and I toying with it, found my fingers swimming in a deluge of her.

I nuzzled her, her nipples moist, my lips moist, licking, and biting, and then I was sucking. Sucking and swallowing and being fed by this mother-womb'un. Fed in a ritualistic holy and purely sexual (what else could one call it but it's own name?) encounter, breath to breast, milk on tongue, nipple deep in my mouth. Her milk pouring down my throat and I fell in love. In love with this womb'un named Lola, but called Truth.

Truth stroked my hair and made little whimpering noises. Her sounds woke up Squeeze, and when he began to stroke her Pussy, i became very shy, serious. After all Squeeze was her man. He had a dick. He would be able to finish what i had started.

I was 19. It was a long time ago. I think I got up to make pancakes or something equally ridiculous. When I wandered back to the bedroom to serve them coffee, Squeeze was on top of Truth in a sort of missionary position and they were both whimpering. Neither noticed the coffee or me.

After I left that house in Americus, Kansas, I was determined to learn everything I could about Pussy. I wanted to be able to give Pleasure to Pussy, to 'finish what i started.' I dedicated myself to the exploration of Pussy. I aspired to become The Cartographer of Pussy.

Not such an easy task, I soon discovered. When I finally found myself eye-to-eye with Pussy, I became energetically tongue-tied. Unable to remember what to do, I hummed. And hummed, and hummed, etc. A human vibrator. The womb'un attached to Pussy thanked me later, "It was so beautiful."

Damnation. I really wanted to rock her world.
Beautiful, I reasoned, was for pussies.



aside: THIS GUY never overcame his reluctance to cum in my mouth and that was the last time I saw him. He now wears khakis to work every day and sells sofas to up and coming faculty at KU. Many years later, I named my first dog after him. The story entertained guests for 14 years.

The Poet and The Princess

The Poet has a delicious ass. I like to spank The Poet until his bottom is red and warm.
Then we fuck, locking eyes; his crazy with wildness of desire and mine lost in pleasure. Remembering that makes me wet.

The Poet writes me poetry (who would have guessed?) and it is tender and holy and romantic. I respond with sexy thoughts and he literally blushes.

I once bit him so hard that he asked me to stop. I guess blood streaming down over his nipples and chest was his boundary.


Aside: People I know talk a lot about boundaries. I’ve attended entire workshops on boundaries. (Negotiating Boundaries with Your Lover, BDSM and Boundaries, etc) To me it is really simple-if you do something that you later regret, you’ve probably crossed your boundaries. It would be really cool to know your boundaries before you let your boyfriend take photographs of you licking your boyfriend’s dog’s balls, but hey nobody’s perfect.


The Princess is very flirty but she doesn't play very often. That is her boundary. She once danced over me stark nakkid as I lay on the floor with The Poet. I could see her pussy as she moved to the music. Remembering that makes me wet, too.

The Poet and The Princess live together. (Tres romantic, n'est-ce pas?) They like to throw outrageous parties, and I like to go and be outraged.

Once at a party at The Poet and The Princess's house a guy I don't know very well (aka, He Who Needs) wanted to have a serious navel-examining conversation with me in the Temple Space, amidst sweaty, writhing bodies. That did not make me wet and I said no thank you.

That was me exercising my boundaries.