It was a dreary day. Grey clouds hung over
my love life the city of Denver. There was nothing exciting to see.
My head was on reasonably straight, I was making good choices in life. I was in good health.
Yet I was walking in a dismal haze wondering what it felt like to be astounded. Being non-toxic was dull. I had spent my first few months of singularity immersed in politics, diving full body into the social commentary of my black comrades, devouring podcasts that break down the psychology of every white supremacist, and reading untold history written by Pan-African literary giants. I had renewed myself with each library book check-out. My locs were growing rapidly, and my vagina seemed to drip heavy magical fluids that ran free whenever I so much as breathed. I was in rare form. I was a regal black girl action-figure taking down idiots one quote and professionally coated sarcastic comment at a time.
Yet this action-figure was human, sexually frustrated, and lacking romantic vigor.
As days moved around my clandestine desires became too much to carry. Sneaking away to touch myself became a daily objective, along with buffering through PornHub videos, and creating a new account on dating app’s. My new season of life was being chipped away by a creeping craving for emotions that transcended my anger with Fox news pundits, and exceeded the tears of joy that I shed for Sex and the City’s Carrie and Samantha. I needed something that would clean my brains compartment windows, and shine light into places that had become simple walls retaining information. What I wanted was some kind of holy-ghost romance, something that would cause my vagina walls to spasm so radically that I would remember I was no action-figure, but a woman.
A friend invited me out for drinks and
the opportunity to solicit my vagina in a non-prostitute sort of way with civilized people mingling.
I got cute, as I’m accustomed to.
I entered the venue, it was dimly lit, as all seductive scenes should be, folks grooved all around me. I scanned the room, ugh, ostensible. There would be no connections made or promising fuck-ations it seemed. There was no one that appealed to me, most of the men were too short. Others were too corny. Badly dressed. Or shy. Sometimes shy was a good thing, but mostly it was an indication of their career ambitions and fucking: two things that are important to a woman approaching 30.
Finding my platonic friend-boy, we greeted in standard fashion. Then I saw his friend. A friend that I had met a few times before. A friend who had never really appealed to me, but tonight, he was cute, and I was pressed.
Needless to say I spent a good portion of my night making flirty eyes and talking him up; lasciviousness became the interior design of our conversation. I wrangled up his frustrations with the grip of my antiquated methods of seduction; small glimpses of thigh and soft laughter, which promised us a release.
As the night progressed we found comfort in discussing the sexual death of our past lovers. We had killed many contenders with good libido. Our grand escapades became our discourses focal point. We talked of good forms to be in during intercourse and critiqued past
I was enjoying myself.
Eager to move the night along, we made our way to his car.
I was so desperate to soothe the salaciousness that found home in my pussy walls that it didn’t dawn on me that I had neglected grooming, until I was in the front seat of his whip and he was fingering his way through my sweaty thighs in efforts to find my vaginal hole. He struggled to adventure through my fortress of pubes and that is when I realized that I had big foot lurking in my damn draws, I forgot to fucking shave.
I feigned for his patience as I tried to come to terms with the Chia pet that was chilling atop my pussy bone.
This felt like punishment. I was finally mentally ready to be fucked. I had served my time in refinery. I had found myself by drinking good tea and meditating.
I had condoms.
But I’ll be damned if I didn’t also have an 80’s afro hanging from my pussy lips, blocking the gateway to heaven. Man, why didn’t the ancestors urge me to squirt some Nair on the way out the door? Why had thou forsaken me? Why wasn’t there AAA for pussy? This was an emergency! A crisis!
So I’m sitting in the front seat trying to act like this wasn’t happening…
All the shit I talked to him earlier and now I was moving like a virgin.
Okay God, I gotchu. Fasho.
Maybe this wasn’t my time.
We returned to our seated position, he remained poised, but I am certain he was like; damn sis, what is that about?
Maybe I was just paranoid.
Or maybe I was just got damned HAIRY.
I continued talking casually, but on the inside my ass was tripin.
Now, some brothas is on the freedom train and can appreciate a healthy haired vagina. I wasn’t sure if he was one of those progressive types, but my concern was more so that I didn’t like it. I like a low fade, but this thing was long enough to put Iverson braids on. My hairy vagina wasn’t supposed to be out. I didn’t expect to feel so compelled by anyone that I would be doing a solo rendition of Beauty and the Beast .
I don’t know why I didn’t think to maintenance my punani when putting on panties often looked like this sista struggling to put on headphones…(image below)
I have limits and I can admit, as long as I was the only one who had to look at my vagina, I was willing to surpass those limits. But someone else wanted to look and I had dropped the ball.
My laziness and complacency left me insecure.
There would be no pussy eating tonight. Nobody likes hair in their food. Nobody likes bad hygiene and through the nights dancing and fun I was certain my hair wasn’t the most savory tasting. I mean can we be honest here ladies? We can drink a gallon of cranberry juice everyday, but hair locked in closed corners on moist nights ain’t going to taste like a vineyard.
I made a vow from then on to never be caught slippin’ and concluded to closing my legs along with my ambitions for the night.
It was a dreary night.