Cunt

Not exactly up to par with the Vagina Monologues piece, but the word is just so perfect that I can’t not write an ode to it. Labels, in a sense, mean nothing, but they can also mean everything. Or anything.

This also appears to be part of a slightly grandiose and ridiculous trend with me; of putting the female on a pedestal. It’s not something I really believe in… except, of course, when he is under me, calling himself my fucktoy, saying that I can do as I want with him.

I call it my cunt. C-U-N-T, cunt. Vagina sounds like a hollow vessel, a medical term for a cavity that disappears speculums and latex-gloved hands. Pussy brings to mind glitter and colors and lace. Girly. Say it: pussy. Feel your tongue curl. It’s a delicate word; delicate and tasty like silk strands of pink cotton candy; like cunnilingus.

I call it my cunt when I’m fucking you with it, as opposed to getting fucked in it. I say cunt in every sense of the word: the c and t sounds spat from the mouths of hooligans in pubs, brawling, flinging the word at each other as a sharp-spined insult; whispered by lesbians under the sheets, mouths parting gently on the vowel; shrieked from the rooftops by women, shirtless, big-mouthed, and defiant.

It will draw you in, please you and make you disintegrate. It will clutch you, put you at my mercy. It will end you, and begin you.

I call it my cunt.

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