My vagina
I like to touch myself at night, and I make strange dreams about my vagina. In that state between sleep and wake, my vagina takes strange forms and personalities. Every night different, every night representing my state of mind, my feelings, the mood I am in. Of course, my vagina, my physical vagina, is quite boring and everyday the same, but my ethereal vagina, oh that is another matter. It is an ever changing tightly packed knot of myself, me summarized, me revealed to myself, me reduced to a point in my body, its origin.
My vagina is my barometer. It is the center of my being. I like to look at it in my bath, as I imagine my body emerging from it like giant arms and branches. This is why my vagina dreams are so important to me, and I try to note down my vagina dream stories. They then inhabit my day, as I cherish the funny or gruesome stories my vagina went through during the night. They make me laugh sometime, or they seriously disturb me as I wonder how I came to imagine it that way or another.
This night, my vagina was an array of tubes, grey, green, yellow, red, an intricate network of flexible pipes, slightly greasy, into which my hand was plunging, going through its different levels, trying to make up a structure into that boggling mess.
Another night it was a volcano, a fresh scented conic mound, a baby bushy mountain, very sweet to the touch, long asleep, with at its top a long closed slit. I could feel as I was circling it with my fingers as the mound became instable, the ground more humid as if lava slowly was covering it. I could feel it as it was trying to hold itself down, until it came to a blow of lava and destruction.
My vagina can be a large smiling sharply toothed mouth, borne onto the body of a tiny fluffy beast. It is then a very active preying little cute animal, who can’t resist jumping up on people, circling their feet, trying to awaken their senses and get some love through their caresses. It is a very hungry, very tender animal, but with a fluctuating mood and it knows how to play hard to get.
There also are days when my vagina is a dirty bloody place; my hands get glued to it as I try to wash it down thoroughly. It secretes its own dejections, sick animal, and prurient wound, plagued with blister. Those are the night I get panicked; I can’t seem to take care of my vagina and don’t understand what it is going through. I am disgusted but also very worried, as I know I can’t live with a sick vagina. This makes for very awkward days as I try to conceal my little retching vagina, afraid people will discover how badly wounded my baby looks.
Most of the time though, my vagina is very well taken care off, very pretty and happy, carefully trimmed. The more I take care of it and give it the attention it deserves, the happier I am during the day. I love my vagina. It is my best companion. We tell each other everything, and I listen to its advice, follow its impulses, and take care of its wounds. I have great respect for my vagina. It is me to the power a gazillion, it is me concentrated into a point of intense energy.
Right now, my vagina is trying to hide, tightly closed into my body, very shy as it is exposed to the world. It is a little angry I am writing about it in such an open manner, but like me, it is a bit of an exhibitionist, and if you are kind, I am sure it will stop hiding and wave at you with a cheerful face.
Say hello and something sweet to my vagina. I know some of you may feel a bit awkward commenting here, but don’t be shy. Let’s hear the vaginas talk. Penises can introduce themselves too.
(cross-post to feminazis)