**This humorous essay by author Heather Fowler has strong sexual content and is R Rated. If you have no interest in that…stop reading right now. Seriously. I have every intention of providing a space for women to keep it real. (For everyone, really.) This a light, frank, body-positive post. Proceed with a sense of humor please And I bow to Heather for being so bold. We had a great conversation where she brought up the fact that women aren’t allowed to really talk about their own genitalia without causing a stir. So, here ya go… ~ Jen Pastiloff, Founder of The Manifest-Station.
When the Man Talks to Me about My Lady Parts by Heather Fowler.
I can’t help it. I’m excited. Who knew I had something so great? It is with extreme enthusiasm that he engages this topic.
As for me, during this engagement, I’m agog by my own former underdeveloped awareness. I can be forgiven. We often undervalue the things right under our navels. I mean, I know I’ve taken pleasure from this anatomy variously in my past, without even recognizing how important this particular part can be. But he specifies criteria like a pussy aficionado.
He doesn’t mind when things get wet and impromptu. He is a fierce explorer. Fierce!
Now, his opinion should not be discounted because he is actually an expert in this field, belonging to a Harley gang and all. This means he’s had lots of pussy. He has enjoyed it as a meal and a la carte. I like a man who talks the walk. He squeals he has had more than one at once.
Several of them, many times. We discuss. “Tell me about your sexual past,” I say, because I am a role-bender that way, intrepid.
When I reflect deeply, I recognize that his interest in pussy is parallel to the interest of a guy who loves sports statistics. Maybe this one keeps statistics. He certainly knows about his bat.
Why did I do this? Not sure, but here’s the good part: Usually, I’d pay for analysis from this level of “expert in the field,” wherever research is needed.
But I got lucky, and with this level of lucky, I don’t have to pay. I pull the sheet up and wait. I am covering my boring breasts, which he largely ignored. I smile, trying to be innocuous. I’m about to understand my pussy, really get the lowdown, articulated from a guy’s point of view, probably for the first time. This is huge.
I tremble. I have to be humble. I look away.
I hope I don’t look too curious because, sometimes, that puts guys off. Nope. He still wants to talk about it.
“Some women just had too much,” he says. “They can’t feel a thing. Not like you. Yours is still sensitive. And you have great padding in the back.”
“Oh,” I say. “Right. Padded ass. That’s good.” But I nod, intrigued. “Go on.”
No one has ever spoken this frankly. I examine his hair, that blond stuff on his head. It is long in the way that motorbike riders enjoy, since their hedonism extends to the wind at play. Everything is play. I think about washing the sheets.
“And some women are hard down there,” he says. “Like a plank. You can bruise your hipbone on that. And sometimes you can’t go that deep. Some women have what’s like a slit, hard to push into, and other women hang loose and open all the time.” He mentions to me that a condom might have skewed his view of this pussy, my pussy, a little bit, but it was still good. He says I couldn’t possibly have experienced it like he does.
Right, I’m thinking. It must be like that freckle on one’s face that becomes rather insignificant in light of the whole face. I have a whole face. A whole body. But he is a pussy specialist.
“Would you say these things if it was bad?” I ask. “I mean, go on like this?”
“No, of course not,” he says. “Then I’d just say nothing. I’m not a total cad.” He kisses me like he thinks I’m cute.
I am not cute like he imagines. I am pondering how it would feel to experience my own pussy, from the exterior, with nerve endings, by inhabiting two bodies at once. I wish I could bodysnatch him and enjoy being both of us. I get lost in this fantasy.
“It was great, great,” he says. “And so I could just sneak in here and help you out,” he says, pulling at a tendril of hair near my face. “Like I’m the rogue character in one of your novels. I could be your bad boy. Does your pussy squirt?”
“I haven’t thought about it,” I reply, neglecting to mention that I don’t write romance novels. “I’m not down there, you know, watching. Does squirting imply a sort of specific distance? Does it involve a quantity of fluid? Maybe you can tell me.” I do like the idea of having a bad boy, especially one who so appreciates my pussy. But if I want a bad boy, I want one with mad skills, one who cannot be denied.
He smiles, petting my head, and I say, “If you gave me five or six orgasms a session, that could be worthwhile. But we’d have to be monogamous for fluid-bonding. We could build to that.” I’m thinking that’s a low bar for taking on a bad boy, if he doesn’t plan on nurturing or taking out the trash.
His face falls. Maybe he thought two or three was really big shakes.
For me, it’s not. Two or three is an introduction. Nonetheless, from this exchange, I realize I have an excellent, frequently underutilized pussy. This is a subject to ponder. How can I do better for my pussy? Why, and for how long, must my organ remain underutilized?
He asks what I think about his dick. “It’s fine,” I say. “Good.” But I have no new remarks to issue here. What does one say when one means, “Truly average. A decent size. Not too large?” but knows these comments won’t go over well. I think about saying, “Your dick is important to me insofar as it functions well when we are engaged in romantic exchanges, aided by outings and interpersonal connection, though I would not be upset if it wasn’t functioning, provided I loved you enough.”
I determine he is too bad boy to appreciate this distinction. “You have a good dick,” I conclude, going for minimalist. When he leaves that day, I think: I won’t remember it.
Later I examine my pussy as if it is not attached to me and think about other women. Do they know how great their pussies are? How underutilized? Someone should tell them.
This someone might be him. Then again—he might not know enough.
I’ll be a crusader for the femme O. Look out world, I got this.
Heather Fowler is the author of the story collections Suspended Heart (Aqueous Books, Dec. 2010), People with Holes (Pink Narcissus Press, July 2012), This Time, While We’re Awake (Aqueous Books, May 2013) andElegantly Naked In My Sexy Mental Illness (Queen’s Ferry Press, forthcoming May 2014). Fowler’s People with Holes was named a 2012 finalist for Foreword Reviews Book of the Year Award in Short Fiction. This Time, While We’re Awake was recently selected by artist Kate Protage for representation in the Ex Libris 100 Artists 100 Books exhibition this February at the 2014 AWP Conference. Fowler’s stories and poems have been published online and in print in the U.S., England, Australia, and India, and appeared in such venues as PANK, Night Train, storyglossia, Surreal South, JMWW, Prick of the Spindle, Short Story America,Feminist Studies and others, as well as having been nominated for the storySouth Million Writers Award, Sundress Publications Best of the Net, and the Pushcart Prize. She is Poetry Editor at Corium Magazine and a Fiction Editor for the international refereed journal, Journal of Post-Colonial Cultures & Societies (USA). Please visit her website: www.heatherfowlerwrites.com