September 28, 2007
My Big Needy Clit


cydytame158.jpg Times like this my clit feels as big as a longshoreman’s fist. (Writing that sentence, I wonder why in this age of “postal carriers” and “firefighters,” of “chairpersons” and “Congresspersons,” we continue to use words like “longshoreman,” “gunman,” and “manpower.” Are there no female longshorepeople? No lone women in towers training their sites and focusing their rage on passersby? No sense of anonymous hordes of women working untold hours? For the first two questions, the answer is probably not many. The last one, however, receives in response a resounding yes, so you have to wonder why the term “manpower” lingers. But I digress,)

Days like this my clit feels as big as a longshoreman’s fist. It’s not. I’ve checked. It’s tinier than the head of a baby bird, though just as hungry. That chaotic image-clit, fist, baby bird-may provide too much information, a phrase we of the relentlessly informed use to denote those bits and pieces of intelligence so intimate we feel beset. Stop! We protest, holding our hands up palms out like a French traffic cop. Too much.

And yet, I persist, because my clit does. It beat beat beats with the precision of a wind-up clock, of a metronome, of a heart. (Note that now my clit has moved from fist to hand to baby bird to timekeepers to organ. Organ to organ, the comparison nearly collapses upon itself. Like saying my liver feels like my duodenum, or my pituitary gland feels like my spleen, except that as I can’t feel my liver, my duodenum, my gland or my spleen, I can’t make the comparison).

It’s hard to tell if my clit is interrupting my train of thought, or if my train of thought is arresting the juggernaut of my clit. The mind does quiet battle with the body, not because it wants to, but because it can.

And yet the clit demands. It reverberates, it swells. It attains epic proportions. It feels bigger than a bread basket (it remains smaller than a lima bean). And it’s not just my needy, greedy clit that clans a small claxon through my fevered body, but it’s also the pussy as a whole. It seems giant and ravenous, like my petite housecat has, irradiated or mutated an mutinous, grown the size of a small tiger or lion (or tiglon, just because I’m feeling extra exotic). My pussy seems wild and untamed and pacing quiet paths on its big cat’s paws in anxious patience for meat.


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