Hello in there people of the world! What’s going on? What’s in and what’s out? Wondering why I’m asking these questions? Matter- of- factly, I don’t have the seeing sight of the outside world. I am stuck here and being kept between the flawless legs of my female master. I need an outright answer why I am situated in a dark, suffocating, hot, sexy and sometimes wet place. Am I that extremely ugly that they don’t want me to be seen? (Although there are people who shamelessly reveal me.) Shame on you gals! I don’t like the way they do that because it pictures more of lust than of art. I want to be seen in an artistically-non- eccentric way…. A way that others would admire me without being green minded. I say, “I’ve got me in gear albeit I am barenaked, he! he! he!” But of course the admiration will depend on my size, shape, color, texture and even smell.
Firstly, who coined my name? I want to thank that aesthetic- oriented at the same time biologically- conscious person. What is the sensual object between your legs? Aren’t you curious why you were given such a flowering organ instead of the other one? Do you appreciate and enjoy me in your life?
I am a sheath like covering canal where many perceived me as a girl- toy image. Nope, I am an armor plated organ and a self respecting God’s creation. I am simply irresistible but deliberately chaste. I serve as the stimuli and my twin heart is the respondent and I am the prey and my twin hearts is the predator. Every month, I call for general assembly and my filthy monthly process flirts my clitoris. My so – called bleeding time is the commemoration of my menarche where my red blob of tissue is the great proof of my womanhood. The suspension of my cells in liquid tells that my hormones are functioning well. My female master wears clothes for a good aura and legally howls at the moon having a temporary lunacy due to premenstrual syndrome. She actually is eager to enroll in Anatomy 101 class to know more about my structure and genetic makeup and relate more about the ants in the skirts.
I possess an off- hand charisma which swoons many electrically- elastic male’s behind. My male counterpart finds time to exercise his dating muscle because I am the object of his affection. But it’s okay because that’s part of my femininity and feminism. We are the metaphorical representation of the birds and the bees. I feel like being chased by sperm cells and I am proud of being a judge of that survival of the fittest contest. I am above all else the example of an enjoyable and prolific life. Oopps…. That is a heavy stroke! Yes, I can be a life angel and I can carry such to- die for perception.
I am a little peevish and downtrodden sometimes because others don’t regard me as a sacred temple. I would describe myself as hoax- personified with the malicious and mischievous deception about me. Don’t you know the functions I perform in this world full of impressions and misconceptions do you? It is through me where the red precious blood flows out. It is because of me that the offspring in a mother’s womb came out to see the light.
And hey, it is through me that the emerging sexual urge of a frankfurter- like organ of copulation have found expression. Sometimes, I am deflowered by weeds. I have that genital sexuality and another batch of flirting hormones reveal that I am just a boy- material. Ejaculation…. Orgasm…. I am just a frankfurter’s haven. I am the functional unbridled biblical pleasure giver. The old established belief that I am the highest point of illusory contact within contact frustrates me. Oh! One of my worst pet peeve is my male counterpart’s excessive dose of testosterone.
It’s apparent that I am pleasurable than pleasure…. relieving than relief and I am the stellar of the stellars but I am not raised up. Some frankfurter- like organ display too much tents in the pants. They look at those perfectly shaved underarms, richly- firm cleavage, equally curvaceous hips, and amazingly- sculpted legs rather than focus on the totality of a woman. Also, I become the model for developing the touchy- feely skill…. And it really sucks to be a dick because I am not naked from the waist down.
They feed their sexual appetite to the point of demoralizing the sanctity of my sexuality. I turn out to be the prime seductress and the connotation of “I’ve got the balls” is being labeled to me. Some men drink in the beauty of my scene and produce ink in their veins. Their eyes dance with a symphony of eroticism as I become the glamour puss! Not everything goes as they breathe their longitudinal fiber against my narrow wall. I don’t exactly have the sassy-ding-a-ling label that I am the vitamin E (ecstasy) provider and I offer sexciting experience. I am definitely not men’s playthings and organic dental floss.
Okay, sex is normal or should I say, an integral part of one’s life but don’t abuse this gift. Don’t be after for the tell- tale signs of bedroom business. Men cannot contain their erection through me all the time. As the saying goes “Behind man’s success is a woman” is not identical to “The success of a man’s behind is a woman.” Don’t be in love with the image I possess…. Don’t be in love with the idea of being in seventh heaven when you interact with me. I can speak to you my vaginal phenomenon but I can’t give you my vaginal encounter. My vaginal contraction is exclusive and reserved for the mighty hunter reproductive cell. I am vagina and I am wired both to think and feel. My cellular building blocks of thinking mind and feeling heart is a symbol of God’s procreation society.
Never ever interchange procreation into recreation, it’s a shame. If that’s the case, it is full of meaning of meaningless sex. My XX chromosome component is an eggcelent beauty incarnate. My beauty is evolutionary as I drop men’s lingerie and make their mouths salivating and watery. I am a drop dead gorgeous and impressionable party animal temptress. My frolicsome nature is the cause for that wide – eyed wanderous pause for me.
Wait…. My beauty is not madness when transparency is but a fraud. I am a conventionalized feminine mystery together with my whole new dimension of guilty pleasure. As long as I am virginal and haven’t reached my female climactic period, I enjoy my eclectic driven girlishness.
I have a sort of rebirth because I am frighteningly bold and inspiringly modest. I am not terrorizing the ethical behavior is because I just show up declaiming my individuality. Truth to tell, I hired a voice therapist so that not only all eyes but also all ears on me. I even increase the decibel of my voice yet with bedroom tone so that people will feast their ears on me. Yes! I try to speak with a conversational tone and get the nerve saying these seemingly condescending statements with my freaky bent absurdist character. This inner monologue I dare share is by any standard candid without being tactless and assertive without being aggressive. But for now, I support my female master’s vow to be unexplored and unscrewed until she ties the knot. Uh…. Ah…. Ummh…. At this point, what more can be said of my feminine existence? Ssshh…. I want to give myself a beauty treat. I don’t want to go under a hymen reconstruction where my hymen is glued together to my vaginal tissue for virginity restoration. I don’t want my partner to undergo penis enlargement procedure for the erectile dysfunction prevention.
A clean organ is a sexy organ for me. As long as we are both pure, we can make a mystical experience in the right time, right place, right circumstances and right shield. As long as I am here, I self- consciously believe that I am a clean-favored God’s creation because I am still a virgin. I pray to St. Agnes, the virgin saint to fashion my female master as a sacred and chaste young lady until she gets the license of “merging cells kingdom.” Whatever! Beware…. It is high voltage!!!
Turning Point 