As a creative millennial, there’s nothing I enjoy more than thinking nothing and fucking everything. There’s nothing I enjoy more than expanding my pussy in tandem with my horizons. I like to find myself in other people, by putting them into my body and calling it experience.
I want to get fucked like an artist. I want to have my vag dogged down by the biggest cock I can find. I want to be blown out like the candles at the holocaust museum. I want to be stretched to my limits like a sweaty, diabetic sock around an edematous foot. I want my pussy to hang loose and bloody, like a parachute that deployed wrong and sucked it’s wearer through a jet engine. I want it to pop like an overfilled water balloon. I want it to pop like someone smacked a tube of Pillsbury Grands against a counter top.
I want to be folded over like a playing card table at the end of boys’ night – covered in beer and spit and cigarette burns. I want my pussy to be cursed at, and used as a sounding wall to vent about failed marriages. I want to be casually abused and put away in the work shed. I want to get fucked so someone doesn’t beat their kids. I want to get fucked so someone can keep their job.
I want to get fucked so hard my perineum tears. I want it sewn back up, and then I want to get fucked so hard that I hear the stitches pop like shower curtain rings as I collapse in the tub.
I want my pussy walls to shred like a semi tread and fly out of my body at sixty miles per hour. I want it to smash through the window of a minivan and decapitate a mother and her kids. I want my pussy on the local news. I want there to be outrage. I want there to be mourning. I want little white crosses on the side of the road so that every time I drive by, I can remind myself that I got fucked so hard I killed a family.
I want to fill my pussy with bees. I want a thousand stingers pressed into my walls at the same time. I want to go into anaphylactic shock, and slip into a coma. I want the bees to set up camp in my swollen pussy. I want them to fill it with wax and cause alarm when some neighborhood kids are hospitalized after playing too close to it. I want the parents to petition city hall to do something about my problematic pussy. I want city hall to hire an exterminator. I want the exterminator to gas my pussy, and scoop out all the dead bees and honey. I want them to seal it off, and hide it from future children and future bees. I want stories of my bee pussy to become apocryphal legend. I want my pussy to be summer camp lore. Something the kids speak of before lights out, to scare each other.
I want an STD. I want all of the STDs. I want one of those sex-education-cautionary-example disaster pussies. I want my pussy to look like a haggard, variegated mess of spots and fur. I want my pussy to look like all 101 Dalmatians beaten to death at once. I want Cruella De Vil to inquire about my pussy, ask how it’s coming along, and eventually conspire to kidnap my pussy so she may wear it as a coat.
I want my STD pussy to look like a big bowl of Pho, muddled with too much Sriracha and hoisin sauce, over flavored and contaminated. I want to show it off to my white friends and tell them they’re pronouncing it wrong. I want to spill it all over the table and tip poorly. I want to take what’s left of my pussy to go, forget it at the back of the fridge, and let it rot next to the vegetables that I buy but don’t eat.
I want to get fucked so hard that my uterus prolapses, pokes its head out of my crotch like Porky Pig, and tells folks that’s all.
I want to define myself with my pussy, eschew meaningful experience, practice yoga, and fold myself into my pussy. I want to live in there, among my decisions and my rationalizations, complimenting myself for my creativity while wasting my life. I want to get fucked like an artist.