я открыла одну тему, другу и аж сморщилась. розовые и голубые цвета в игрушках, гендерные амбиции, и хороша ли шутка если она хороша, но — сексистская (сколько "с" в слове-то!)?
месяц назад мы в классе смотрели несколько эпизодов из Vagina Monologues. я вам скажу, эта тётенька нашла такую клёвую нишу! она молодец-молодец-молодец. рекомендую как girl-night entertainment.
один из вариантов, как некоторые могут помнить, был именно предложением написать свой вульво-монолог.
ну что, я решила, что это самое лёгкое, пожалуй. всё равно это было так давно, что почти неправда, а то, что правда — всё к лучшему. это первый пост в очень узком кругу.
The Bryant Park in early April is full of little winds and whispers. People are scattered on the backless benches like sparrows with their feathers high around their necks, trying to peck their lunch and pretending to read their papers. Just as well it is not summer, when laziness is a good enough reason to be bored and look around, staring onto strangers and their affairs.
— Let me pet you, let me stroke you and caress you, please?
— I have not washed myself! Please do not touch me!
— If I could lick you I would have licked you dry! Can I simply just touch you? Please!
— No, don't! I am a human being, you know, I use bathrooms, I sweat, I pee and I can't be clean anytime you'd like to touch me!
— You are insane! I don't care for your being clean or washed! I crave you!
— Can we just kiss? Here, why don't I sit on your lap — close my fly please, let go!
— I can't. I cannot let go. Here, see, I am licking my finger after touching you, look at me, look at my lips, kiss me now, yes, kiss me now.
— Ugh, why would you do that?! Why would anyone do that!
— Stop screaming and kiss me. And I will kiss you. Now. Better?
— Better, yes. Can I zip up now?
— No, don't. I will touch and lick, and kiss you, and touch you and kiss you again.
— The meeting starts in 45 minutes.
— Yes, the meeting. Why, are you in it?
— Yes, I am delivering the latest run on the server. Can you stop please?
— I can't. I want to be drunk with you.
— How would it taste any good? Seriously. I can send you a pair of my used underwear.
— Please do. Don't be surprised when I will be found dead over the weekend.
— You make me laugh. Can I zip up now?
— No laugh, I will smell your underwear instead of breathing, and eventually die of lack of oxygen.
— Serves you right. Stop it! It hurts!
— I am sorry. Here, better?
— No, no better. It's cold and I am uncomfortable. And hungry.
— I am very sorry. I wish we wouldn't have to go anywhere. I wish we would sit here forever and it will get dark, and you would let me just kiss you down there.
— Down where, my knees? Or my toes? Would you kiss my toes, I'd love that!
— No toes. Your lower lips. Or your clit.
— My clit? What is clit?
— Here it is, feel it?
— Feel it. Yes. Not so hard please. So how come you like the taste?
— It's sweet.
— Ewe. "Sweet".
— No one has told you that you're sweet?
— In many ways but that one, yes!
— You are sweet. Sweet, sweet, sweet! Your husband never told you that?
— My husband? No, not my husband. He likes to play a little boy if anything. Little boys don't lick their women's clits, do they?
— Depends on the clits, you know. I wish I were your boy.
— Nah, I like you as my manager. Really, I do.
— Can I be your lover?
— Can I be excused from the meeting?
— I won't be able to sit with a straight face in it.
— Sure, you are excused. Here, touch me.
— What? Here? Now?
— Yes, now. Touch me. See how hard I am?
— I am really hungry. Can we go back?
— I can't. I can't walk like that.
— Too late, you have to walk. Here, see, I am zipped and my bra is fastened, and my hair is ok, and I am getting off your lap.
— Please don't. Please.
— Nope. My clit is safe now. And far from your hands.
— Too far. And too far from my cock.
— Yes, too far. Get up; we must be going back soon. Need to eat too, before the meeting.
— Are you coming?
— Yes, I am coming, I can't miss it, and my promotion depends on the server launch.
— Would you send me your underwear?
— Yes, with my husband's autograph on it.
— What model do you wear? Do you wear thongs?
— Yes, my tongue from your clit to your hole.
— What? Stop it. What's tongue underwear?
— Tee. O. eigH. eN. Gee. A piece of thin fabric from your bush down under your vagina up into your cheeks.
— Cheeks?! Oh, butt cheeks. You Americans.
— Yes, we Americans! Can I squeeze your cheeks?
— Yes, here, right here, and I can kiss you too.
— No, right here and here.
— Hands off! You are getting hard again.
— I never stopped. Am all-hard behind you.
— And in front of me. And around me.
— And on top of you.
— In your dreams.
— In my dreams. Can I be on top of you in my dreams?
— In your dreams yes. Here, can we get some soup here? I am thirsty, too.
— I am thirsty for you.
— Enough, will you stop?
— Will you send me your underwear?
— No, it was a joke. Besides, I don't wear thongs. Must be uncomfortable.
— Imagine it's my tongue right there. Can I buy you underwear?
— No. No one buys me underwear.
— Even your husband?!
— Even my husband. He is the last person on Earth to buy me underwear.
— Poor kid.
— I am no kid. Kids don't make managers hard.
— He is a poor kid.
— He is not. He is a fine gentleman, and you could buy me a cup of soup.
— Sure thing, he is. Here, I will grab the spoons; over there is a table.
— Sit next to me, not across, I don't trust you.
— So.. Can I buy you underwear?
— Yes, please. Bring it to the next meeting, will ya?
— Sure, I will call it a test prototype. Silk, lace?
— Cotton, please.
— Pink, rose, black?
— Skin color, please.
— Skin color.. What color is your vagina?
— I dunno. Pink? Red?
— Light purple my dear, like a fully bloomed August rose. Full of dew and fragrance.
— Trying to eat here.
— I am not even hungry. Can I touch you?
— On my back please, how about massaging my shoulder? My right shoulder please. No slipping under the arms, it's ticklish! Hey!
— Sorry about the splash. I will pay for the dry cleaning. I am sorry.
— That's ok. Really. Ok. Here, hand me a napkin or two. I will take a cab to work, see you at the meeting.
The Bryant Park is in full bloom of August roses. It is always August in the park for me, even when the ice rink is teeming with the winter crowd, looking sharp on skates. I am forever the object of affection in that park, a guardian of a desired touch and a holder of a sweet taste. The taste of my vagina I never knew was sweet until told so by my very first lover, after I have been married for years.