Suggested Audio Candy
 Daryl Hall & John Oates “Maneater”
 Michael Sembello “Maniac”
It can be a real drag having a pussy. I’ve just last week turned twenty-one years old, have been sexually active for a five full years and have become increasingly betrayed by my own genitalia since a week before my thirteenth birthday. Back then it was so much easier, I was potty trained by three and the next ten years were plain sailing until that first egg dropped. All of a sudden, the goal posts were moved. Once a month, and for a full seven days, I would bleed heavily from the last place I would have expected it. My mother refrained from telling me about life’s little upgrades as she foolhardily believed I would get off Scott free or something. I didn’t and, as a result, my first bleed in the school showers shared distinct parallels with Carrie. Mercifully, I didn’t become a dart board for tampons but I did receive a few quizzical looks as every other girl in my class was already well prepared at the very least.
Since then, and I had a rocket for mommy as I returned home and thrust my soiled panties into her hand, my relationship with my vagina has been questionable at best. On one hand we have become firm friends, at least for three weeks every month. I like sex, even more than I like cookies and I love cookies. It isn’t an act I have partaken in as much as most girls my age as I was what you would call a late bloomer in school, as I’m sure you will have picked up already from my tampon-gate confessional. But when I engaged this muscle for the purpose of pleasure, it towed the line rather well. Getting wet has never been particularly troublesome and has led to a couple of embarrassing gushes, at inopportune moments I might add. But finally I was becoming a woman and let me tell you: girls just wanna have fun, women actually get to savor the exclusive pleasure. However, a cloud loomed in utopia every time my cycle rotated sufficiently and blood is thicker than water after all.
So you see, it’s something of a double-edged sword to me. Can’t necessarily live with it but couldn’t imagine a world without it; that seems to be the deal here and I remain upbeat, mainly thanks to a particularly rampant rabbit I know. Last week, whilst perusing myself with said bunny, I discovered my bite was far worse than my bark. That is, I bit the uppermost three inches straight off my mechanical aid and without so much as a single chomp of my teeth. I say that, what I really mean is this; not the ones in my face. That’s right, the beast has dentures. There really isn’t any way I can state that less crudely and this is my journal after all so why mince my words? My vulva isn’t a herbivore, let’s just leave it at that shall we? Not the twenty-first gift I was expecting, another fucking mouth to feed and, worse yet, more teeth to brush before bedtime. I have gotten through an entire pack of five toothbrushes the past seven days and a whole tube of paste to boot.
My first consideration was that it was over for me, at least as a sexual entity. I would have to convert to Catholicism and bolt it beneath lock and key, either that or apply signage denoting that one should enter at their own risk. I know a lot of boys through university whom think with their special purpose but I’m guessing the numbers would drop drastically if penile Russian Roulette was suggested. I can envisage the shallow thrusts, it would become a dare; can you spend the night inside the haunted vagina and survive? I’d also hazard a guess that the answer to that poser would invariably be no followed by a lap swift enough to make Forrest Gump’s beard molt. No sex is worth that kind of a risk right? As I have discovered increasingly over the past week, boys are as dumb as assholes. That testosterone stuff sure has some answering to do, such a potent love missile a young man’s brain could never hope to harness. It’s out of their hands faster than it leaves their pants, indeed the very moment their tallywhackers become light sabers in their smalls.
No wonder every lad my age loves Star Wars, Princess Leia was bang on the money, Obi-Wan Eye is precisely who she proposes; the only hope. However, much as the force may have saved Skywalker’s pale white ass in the trash compactor, same powers would struggle against such snarling gnashers, particularly should I decide to clench. I began to look at my curse almost like a super power; Spiderman could keep his web swing as I had something far more formidable than a string of adhesive. Granted, it would be harder to sell my mutation as a special power as I could hardly swing in to a fairly innocuous street mugging, pull my panties aside, and bite the handbag from the assailant’s hands, at least not without trimming a little more than just their nails. No, this was an ability I would be required to keep strictly under wraps, beneath the veil, away from those wandering hands which apparently keep on coming. Until the plutonium dildo is patented, it looked like I was going to be shit out of luck and return my vagina to factory settings. My bladder is the size of Yoda’s fanny pack so, at the very least, I’d get to converse with it on a bi-hourly basis. We could still be friends.
Alright, it’s confession time. As if my last tidbit wasn’t sufficient mastication material, I have to come clean about a certain indiscretion which occurred last night under a blanket of stars. His name was Chet which, in itself, was enough of a reason to gnaw the gristle. He managed to smooth talk me to the clearing which overlooks my entire town, deep in the forest above my house. I fell for his routine like a putz or, more accurately, akin to a twenty-one year-old girl with six Bacardi Breezers and a shot of tequila under her pelt. I have to hand it to Chet, he was more hotty than notty. Blonde hair, blue eyes, silver tongue and tasty wheels; four components to a successful seduction after a little judgement-impairing alcohol. It’s worth bearing in mind also that I masturbated DAILY, without fail, thrice on weekends and bank holidays throughout my adolescence. Seven days fasting since my rabbit discovered a fate worse than myxomatosis had taken its toll on my resolve and he wore his erection on his sleeve from the moment I agreed to our rendezvous.
In my own twisted logic, it seemed fairly innocent. If he managed more than three strokes then he would surely not be a true Chet. This date rapist was just asking for a spin on the wheel of misfortune and, at least, I would learn a little more about my vagina’s etiquette in the process. I figured it could not hurt to try, a little mean as mine wasn’t the carrot being dangled, and allowed Chet to sprint through second base and straight for the eye of the tiger. As he entered the jaws of my beast, I froze on the spot, and there was my answer. Remaining limber would have spared Chet his sorry life last night but I guess it was kind of his fault when you look at it objectively. Should he have made me comfortable, other than by laying a picnic blanket over his hood, then he may have stood a hope in hell of retracting more than the nub which he drew back in agony. Poor little fella was hardly meal ticket, more appetizer, hence my turnstiles dropped on one of his testicles also; not that they would have been much use to him anymore.
I did what any young girl who didn’t want the world knowing that her pussy is carnivorous would do in my position, I hurled his body into the bushes, concealed him with as much foliage as I could gather, and made off into the night before the first bite could be digested. On the plus side, how could they ever locate proof when my stool movements are so regular? I’d simply flush the evidence, zip the murder weapon back into my denims, and carry on as though nothing had happened. Did I feel bad for Chet? How could you not with a name like Chet? But I wasn’t about to let it spoil my summer. If anything, it excited me that I would always be on hand to act as my vagina’s accomplice. Nobody would ever suspect her of such vicious acts as she just sits there looking off-pretty after all. It appeared the perfect crime, I would spend the remainder of my adult life rounding up all the Chets and teaching them the restraint they needed. Think of all the STI’s I could prevent, in that respect, I was akin to a genital Wonder Woman. Speaking of which I have a cape in my closet which I wore for a fancy dress last month although I guess I shouldn’t draw attention to myself just yet. For now I shall simply keep it on the lay low.
All of this was well and good until about an hour ago. Randy, another name just asking for a clitoral clampdown, asked me to a somewhat prestigious pool party next week at Jodie Fisher’s. Despite his mantle, I actually find him kinda cute. He’s awkward and I find that rather an attractive quality. If I’m honest, it was he who lit the fire in my loins way back in high school. There just seemed to be a certain something about him, he was less sleazy than most of other boys his age and I never would have considered him actually propositioning me, especially given that Jodie hates my guts and he circumnavigates the same social circle. What should I do? I’m asking although not because an answer will turn back time and allow me to say no to Randy. It’s signed, sealed, and about to be delivered in a penis shaped package which my mailbox may well not be able to cover the postage for. I guess I will find out in due course, will true love save the day or is Randy about to drop a little weight in his pants? Until then, I’d better grab some applicators from the local chemist as bleeds have suddenly become far more unpredictable.
Truly, Clearly, Really, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014