There is something powerful — magnificently, deeply, indescribably, and inherently powerful — about a cunt. Completely outside and apart from anything to do with birth, life, creation… any of that stuff… there is something that commands attention. Something that, if only for the smallest moment, says “Stop! See, observe, behold and wonder!” A demand to pause in admiration and joy that few other things in life truly prompt.
Not simply because I find myself aroused by the sight of a woman’s wonders; there are many things that bring the same arousal. Breasts or bare feet as much as a long, hard cock (whether it belongs to a girl or a guy!) and even someone fully clothed can all draw that same physical response, the same mental focus and emotional lust — but it’s just… different, somehow, viewing any vulva and noting a touch of awe, every time, no matter the situation and no matter how visually appealing a particular pussy may be.
Perhaps if I were straight, or a gay man, I might feel differently — I don’t know, and never will. That’s okay, and honestly I think it’s wonderful to recognize this respect, to marvel in its mystery and let it stay surprising and secret.
I’ve listened to Simon and Garfunkel sing “I Am A Rock” quite a few times lately. It’s really interesting to remember how I used to hear that song and never looked beyond the face of the words — I envied the man who was “safe” and “shielded,” who by virtue of being such a rock and an island, never felt pain and never cried. How wonderful that would be! So I truly believed, for so very long.
But over the course of a year and a half that I spent learning to care for myself, to care about myself, and to fight the depression that held me captive… I also learned to understand that the hurting and the tears aren’t something to wish away. If all you ever do is cry, if the only feeling you know is pain, it may seem sensible wanting to be rid of it forever, but you’ll never understand how incredible the good feelings are when you do find them (and you will find them!)
I learned — perhaps then, possibly later — that what so many of us call “safety” is all too often simply imprisonment. It seems safe because you don’t have to think about what might happen, or what you could feel, or what someone may do — when you’re locked up in “armor” and “protected” by the things you use for enjoyment, things you substitute for contact with people, you don’t have to make decisions or judgments or really do anything at all! And you miss out on the greatest part of being alive: Thinking. Feeling. Doing. Loving. Other people.
And at the end of that time, I was finally able to declare with conviction (and more than a few sobs choked back as my tears fell) that “I am no rock. I am not an island!” It was beautiful to me then, and I still appreciate the memory today.