A Quirky Erotica Series
"NOTES
FROM A DIRTY YOUNG WOMAN: Hair"
by Aimee Herman
Read the entire series here
As the temperature rises, cotton becomes less cumbersome, claiming minimal amounts of skin. Women wear tank tops and tube tops and shorts that show shape of favorite genital. Men remove their tops to parade their dedication to crunches or lack there of. Bras are often left in their drawers; breasts become long distance runners, stealing glances from those that choose to look, while nipples exhale their hardest breaths to create an exquisite shape like longest finger pointing.
Closets exchange wardrobes, while bathrooms reveal necessary summer accessories: suntan lotion/sunscreen, various scents of deodorant to mask the real scent of one’s sweat, and of course, the multi-bladed, with or without aloe strip, slender handle or wide-grasped razor.
When I started growing hair in all my favorite nooks, I could not wait to shave it all away. I am not sure why. We wait and wait for something to come, and then we waste no time removing the evidence.
If I Wear this Hat by Peter Vlcek available at Obsession Art
Women walk with toes and heels alternating their pressure against pavement and grass, as their smooth skin glistens in the sun. Every pore is paraded and celebrated; hair would be too much of a distraction. Right?
I stopped shaving my hair off when I realized what it offered: more to play with, pull on, suck on. If I looked the way that magazines and media told me to, then my curves would turn into straight and malnourished lines; my face would appear more clown-like and stationary; and my cunt would look like a pre-pubescent twelve-year old girl’s than a highly experienced and insatiable woman with jungle pussy.
My hairless vagina was uncomplicated like a bowl of chicken soup; it offered comfort and warmth and a medicinal quality to those that scooped it up, swallowing giant mouthfuls. Yet, it lacked spice and intricacy. There is a reason people enjoy eating with chopsticks: They force us to slow down while eating, to enjoy the meal much longer.
My vagina is a pair of chopsticks now; its hairy flesh allows it to feel more like a delicacy than a fast-food option selected quickly from a drive-through.
Enough with the food metaphors…allow me to be a bit more graphic.
Imagine a moon-smeared sky with enough booze in your system to make you feel all warm and toasty, and yet still able to concentrate on the important elements of the evening. You are in a bar or a bathroom or an alley with enough lighting to find a zipper or a theater or a backseat of a taxi or on a couch. You are a man or a woman or fine mixture of both; it does not matter.
There is a woman beside you or beneath you or pressed up against a hard surface. Your well-washed fingers are exchanging shape from flaccid and un-enthused to ten, fervent erections. She is looking beautiful tonight: a vision in red or blue or denim or see-through leather. Her hair is long, straddling her shoulders, or short and spiky saluting the sky.
You creep your hands beneath her skirt or between unzipped portion of pants. She is not wearing underwear because she enjoys the sensation of hard fabric against her cunt or because she prefers to make it easier on you or because it is laundry day.
Before you feel the shape of her, you gather strands of her hair between each finger. You recognize the softness, untangled length of curls. You hope to find one long hair amidst the tiny commas, to swing on or rest against like a skinny hammock. There is something extremely sexy in the complication of pubic hair; it creates a slow motion of madness and elongates foreplay.
Who.Doesn’t.Love.Foreplay?
On your knees, your tongue pulls open her curtain of hair, hiding the award-winning star of the show: her vagina. Suddenly, you find yourself distracted. Your teeth want to get involved. They pull at her curls, tugging at their length. She moans and curves her body toward you. Her hair smells of a four-mile run without breaks in between. It smells of Bergamot and lemon rind. It is salty and extremely spicy. You wonder if you are going to need a bib or thick, linen napkin for this meal. You realize it is going to be extremely messy and suddenly, you are grateful that you skipped breakfast.
A tiny hair gets caught between two teeth and you almost pick it out. Almost. You decide to leave it there for later—when she is gone—and you need more than just her smell and taste to offer stimulation toward a late night tug or flick on your own genitals. You like that she has something to leave behind in your mouth: a parting gift before she parts (literally and figuratively).
And now the show is ready to begin. Furry curtains have been pulled to the side with strong tongue and eager spit. Her clit is throbbing and changing in color and texture. It is growing, gaining in height and width. Just like you. Your tongue, raised with manners, wipes its taste buds against her welcome-mat thighs and then slowly walks inside of her cunt. Her walls are smooth and empty: no photographs hung up. She is insisting on a deep penetration of everything you have. She wants to feel your tonsils dangle against her hood; feel your wrist cling to her lips, as the rest of your fist proves how much she can take in.
It is like she is giving birth to your limb, your face, your mouth. She is making sounds you have never heard before and it becomes your favorite song. Her highly trained vaginal muscles latch onto you like a handcuff or water-logged restraint. She is ready to burst.
Suddenly, she comes with the speed of a tsunami. You have never been with a woman who could ejaculate before; they all just delicately came like a sneeze that barely makes a sound. This woman is an anomaly; and you are forever ruined and saved at the same time. Her ejaculate is an Olympic hurdle jumper, gaining height and distance with each intense eruption.
You look around for a straw to sip her, then decide to forego aforementioned manners and lap her up like a dog or desperately dry human trapped in a desert and suddenly lost inside a giant ocean.
Are you with me?
I am not claiming that a hairy cunt can produce the most awe-inspiring orgasms ever conceived or exclaimed by a human being.
No, wait. I am.
Originally published June 2010