confession: as it unrolled in my head…
his bumper sticker read “i heart my penis”
stuck on the backside of a white
hyundai driving in front of me
until the driver turned right
flashing me his red
baseball cap and dark hair.
every man i know loves his penis
but none share a compulsion
to publicize his joy toy love
with a bumper sticker.
what makes the baseball capped fellow’s
passion for his pointy stick
different from the rest?
the newest man in my life has a well-loved penis,
the subject of a week-long debate
begun the day after he was born
whether to leave his penis uncut.
the mohel being out of town
weighted the decision
for his hippie parents and me.
confession: when i was young and dumb (read under 30, since all young people aged 29 or less are inherently dumb with the ignorance of limited life experience) i wondered if i ought to consider labiaplasty because (tmi warning) a reticent little pink box to be daintily opened mine isn’t. i’ve got a decked out mardi gras float directing you along the parade route. gratefully, i didn’t cut off the welcoming party because my labia are like the hand added to the blow job, elongating the sensual experience. that’s not to say i don’t appreciate a sealed little pink box, but if you’ve got a stuffed puffy taco like mine, that’s diggable, too. all pussies are pretty. penises….
confession: penises. the plural of penis never looks or sounds correct to me and because i’m a literary-loving bisexual woman, i assume grammatical awkwardness is an indication for me to avoid contact with plural penises whenever possible.
confession: whatever you’re sporting, pussy or penis, whatever size or shape or cut, please love your bits to bits. love your stuff privately and love your piece publicly with a bumper sticker if you’re inclined.