what do you see

“What do you see?” I asked my spouse.

We were both nakedly post-sex cuddling, and I’d asked my spouse to hold my legs up.  I have decades of problems with my lymph, so sometimes I ask the lymph to drain back toward my center where it can be processed and moved out.

My spouse was on his knees between my legs holding them up, and looking down into my cunt, which he had just fucked and ejaculated into.

“I see cum,” he answered me.

“Wow,” I said.  “You see cum dripping out?  Like all porn-y?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Is it pretty?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Is it white-ish?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

cleanup

“Will you wipe it up?” I asked.

I reached for some bedside toilet paper, and he let go of my right leg as I handed toilet paper to him.

“Please wipe from front to back,” I said.  “This is the front.”  I touched my cunt.

He wiped my vulva, and he looked very thoughtful.

“Thank you,” I said.  “That will make it easier for me to walk.  I can walk without the cum oozing out everywhere.”

He stared down at my cunt some more.

“Is it still pretty?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Is it all withered and sadly used up looking?” I asked.

I imagined my pinkish-reddish cunt no longer plump with excitement-blood rushed to the area to facilitate my erection and wet warmth.

“No, looks beautiful,” he said.

“Does it look powerful and strong still?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

what do you see

When you look at your vulva or a loved one’s vulva, what do you see?  It must be internalized misogyny that makes me think of cunts as messy.  Not that only ladies can have cunts, but the ladies I’ve known are rather cunted.

I think of dicks as simple, especially circumcised dicks: dryish, straightforward poking out things that get hard and want to hump then invade spaces.  I think of vulvas as wet, mysterious, layered, variable, with different possible fluids inside or dripping out, and more strongly scented.

This is life–this is ok.  But yeah, life can be messy too.

I was taught shame as a child, that my body was bad and dirty.  So it’s a lifelong process to forget that and heal.  I forget and remember, forget and remember in an uncomfortable way.

Glad to do that whole process.  Then one day I will die, incomplete and still hurting.  But crossed to the other side and no longer hurting, I hope–shedding the body and slithering free like a happy snake.