The Rise of the Shaved Generation
Every night, before I go to bed, I kneel and pray to the Great God of Fuck. I thank him for clit piercings, tits, fallen Catholic girls, cum sluts, suppressed gag reflexes, witchy girls and, above all, shaved pussies.
Shaved pussies are new to the mainstream. Porn made the switch in the 90’s, after two decades of clever trimming (still a childish passion amongst the less secure starlets) and, now, in this new millennium, ordinary women have taken up the banner. What was rare and exciting in a girlfriend is now the standard. The bare old puss parading around, ready for the world. Even the stubble phase is exciting. Just seeing the old girl out there and waiting drags the patient observer deeper into the fray than would the old mass of tangled monkey hair. In my youth, I so dreaded eating a woman out. Now, the path is clear. Ride forth. Tongue, boy, tongue. Return with nothing stuck in your teeth. (Hopefully.) Take air without breathing through the mass of delicate curls. The only unshaven pussy I enjoyed was this redheaded bitch in 1993. Emily. That patch of red hair was a pleasure mainly because I was checking off a box on my mental goals list. Redhead: Done. When someone talks about doing a redhead, I think about ramming my cock into that patch of fur and…
I’m sorry. I’m getting a little crazy. This is what it’s like, though, as I pray. A feverish pitch as I clasp my hands together and stare tearfully up towards the Great God of Fuck’s Fucking Heaven and thank him for shaved pussies. It’s not about making a woman more like a child. It’s not like, ha ha, the best thing about eight year olds is slicking their hair back in the shower so they look six. No, it’s about getting to know the vagina. See? It’s a feminist thing. I love becoming involved in meaningless and emotionally abusive relationships with women who shave their pussies because I respect the vagina. I respect it soooo much. Oh god.
Plowing fields, parting hedges, splitting muffs… It sounds so much like work, doesn’t it? When I’m with a woman, I don’t want to plow a field. The mere fact that sex is on the plate for the evening means that I’m exhausted. I’ve stumbled through dates and dinners and kisses and foreplay and tours of lives and remembering the names of pets all to cum in some woman when, truthfully, my hand knows the better course, alone in my own bedroom.
Shave the girl and there are no more fields to plow. No muffs to split. The new Shaved Generation says ride my slip’n’slide, marvel at my vaginal jewelry, let’s pretend I’m a little girl and you’re a big, bad priest. Games. Decoration. The Shaved Generation doesn’t want to work, they want to show off their twisted, horrific, meaty flower of womanism and put it in everyone’s face; mine, men around the world, my lesbian ex-girlfriend who secretly pines for fat cock twenty-nine times a day.
Oh, and isn’t beautiful, Dear God of Fuck? I rock back and forth, speaking in tongues, my prayer sessions going longer and longer. Isn’t it beautiful, the Great Shaved Pussy? The virgin mother of the Great God of Fuck’s Throbbing Son. Isn’t it so lovely, those legs spreading, those lips devouring? Uncovered, smooth or stubbly, it’s like going home. It calls. You want to crawl inside like that Michael Jackson Video “Leave Me Alone.” You want to ride the roller coasters and go carts past all the wild monkeys and pictures of Liz Taylor. Swim in the salty seas, through tunnels and chambers, deep into the dark heart of Woman. “This is my body,” says the Great God of Fuck, gasping, clenching, eyes rolled white, sweat-staining the sheets, “do this in memory of me.” Between the legs, lips to lips, spread wide. “This is my blood – ”
When I’m done with my prayers, I lay my head against the comforter and I thank the Great God of Fuck once more for shaven pussies and the soft realm of woman. I pray that he will send me one of his minions and will control her mind and her heart from failing and freaking out and eventually skinning my cat when I don’t return her frail and wicked love.