As in cat, a feline word suggesting paws and claws. Not to be confused with vagina, its clinical cousin scraped by the speculum, nor with the hunted cunt, brunt of brutes, yoke of cock and cum. Not a spousal word, not to be attached to a wife. Nor to motherhood and labor.
Savored. To be explored. A late night, low-voice, whispered word. An elicit lubricant. A pussy is a pet and the curvaceous letter S and the slick explicit hiss of the tongue elongating that letter on the mouth’s pink roof. Pussy is a temptress plosive plea and purr.
Pussy, as in fingers stroking fur. Also, moss on a forest floor; the dangerous mushrooming of pores opening to their follicles, the mistress shine of honey, the cheetah’s spots, the tiger’s eyes, the lioness’s spine. Pussy is the wet sound it makes when it is said. Pea and pee and pearl. Oooh and oh, and you. Yes.
Suggests the vulva’s purse. (A treasured clutch. It’s snatch has a clasp). Also, a pocket couched between thighs. A sweet obscenity. A satin slipper. A mystery sling. A warm wet sock. Pussy. Punch it. The clit-crowned slit beneath the mons, the sound beneath that mound. Uuuuh.
Ravine and riverhead, engorging gorge. Filthy rush. The vulgar nether mouth with its own thrush throat and set of lips. Pussy has its own magnetic language, bares its fangs, gives in to gutter talk. As in saxophones. As in fuck me with your fist. As in the slap of sweat slick skin against skin, the curling of toes, the tangling of sheets. As in the archaic grunt and gush. Pushing, pushing, pushing, push. Shudder then, and hush.
With this word we pretend that a cat can be ridden.
Image Credits: Michelle Daigle
