If you ask a man what he looks for when he meets a vagina, besides a great sense of humor of course, he will probably suggest many of the same delusional qualities he wants in his total fantasy female package. Easy on the eye, morning, noon, and night; perfumed to perfection; tantalizing to the taste buds; demure blushing rose bud one day; insatiable quivering tigress purring, “Sic ‘em Rex” the next.
Now before you give up on us and go surfing for a re-enforced steel chastity belt on e-Bay, consider the positive. In the real world, we’re just so excited about meeting a new vagina; her physical attributes play second fiddle to her physical presence.
The wonderful truth is, we enjoy that every woman is unique and that we never know what we’ll get. You didn’t really think Forrest was gushing over just any box of chocolates did you? The assortment of innies and outties; bearded and bald; bitter and balmy; juicy, loosey, arid and airtight is part of what makes diving for hidden treasure so exciting. Each man has his personal favorite.
Being a traveler by nature, I love visiting exotic, sultry hideaways, but none more so than Equatorial Vulva (Capital city Clitoria, population 1). After stemming my Downunder enthusiasm for the place (and remembering that, “Crickey, it’s a big one!” isn’t a polite term of greeting in this part of the world), I thought I’d offer a few pondering on lower floor hairstyles, because in recent years you’ve spoilt us naughty boys with so much choice.
Personally, I’m a fan of minimalism when it comes to pubic art. I just feel more confident, comfortable and ravenous if I can see what’s on my plate. It’s not that I won’t eat a side salad, but I love something neatly trimmed, waxed, or with a little garnish for presentation on the specials board. It’s a surefire way to have me offering my compliments to the chef all night.
This is not to say that I’m anti-bush. In fact, I think this discussing politics here would be as inappropriate as discussing fairy tales. On the other hand, if do I happen upon some thick woods in the nether region, and can’t spot the apple for the trees, there is an overwhelming urge to call out “Are you alone in there Little Red Riding Hood?”
It can be equally disconcerting in the dark. Don’t get me wrong; lights out can be very exciting as the other senses become heightened. However, I remember one particular night enjoying this beautiful woman’s soft, smooth, scented skin, delighting in her quivering moans, as I kissed over her stomach, hips, until “Oh my God, you have a Yeti hiding between your thighs!” Needless to say, it was my last confirmed sighting in that neck of the woods.
From the lush, tropical, one-of-your-vines-is-strangling-my-tonsils jungles of the Amazon, we move to the soft, naked, swollen dunes of Copacabana and ask “What the hell is it with men and Brazilian badgers?” Some women feel that it’s an unleashed young girl fetish.
