pu·sil·lan·i·mous [pyoo-suh-lan-uh-muhs] adjective
1. lacking courage or resolution; cowardly; faint-hearted;timid.
2. proceeding from or indicating a cowardly spirit.
Everybody wants some pussy. Everybody wants to own some pussy.
If you don’t fit into those categories, then you are the pussy.
But what is the pussy, I hear you ask.
When we were younger that’s what we called Tom, our cat, whom we loved to snuggle up next to for our afternoon nap.
But if you went to an inner city state school, you soon learnt
That a pussycat stopped being innocent, when it came at you with flailing claws in a corridor attack
perpetrated by the foul mouthed youths who were their own dog pack – not to forget their bitches, who tailed them, spurting self-condemning words that would later maim them.
So the pussy became a term that reverted to its original definition. To show weakness, a lack of courage, a coward, who is inevitably a woman – as courage is masculine, part of the patriarchal plan of world dominance and laddish prominence.
But then we got a bit older.
Learnt about glow worms and blow jobs
Fingering and licking out.
The desired object didn’t hang about
like the agitated youthful energy of the pubescent male member.
It had to be uncovered,
The daydream of Ann Summers knickers smacking into the harsh reality of Tesco’s basics,
Ripped off with the freshly shaved pubic hair
To reveal the pussy, the final evolution of it’s transformative nature
In its bathetic glory as a pornographically idolized creature.
But I’ve stepped on the breaks.
It wasn’t a mistake, don’t mock my driving skills as being an exemplar
Of females behind the wheel – an inferior occupation when placed against the spectacle of males who speedily prevail
There is a difference between pussy and vagina.
Women of worth, born into a class system of educated conditions
We own vaginas.
They are to be romanced, courted, hyperbolically sought after
Sometimes claimed before, sometimes after, the wedding band is slipped over our fourth finger.
Vaginas are special places, where babies are made and babies are born
Hidden under lacy garments, perfume, shorn clean with the wax strips from Veet
Pussy – well that belongs to her.
Driven across the boarder, maybe no older than my cousin who’s a toddler
The pussy initially belongs to a housewife or waitress,
but once that lie is uncovered, and she’s lying their naked
the welts, the scars, the blood mixed with chili pepper
titilating that enlarging male member –
That’s all it is.
The pussy everyone wants. The pussy every young man needs to experience
as part of his journey through adolescence
It’s legally sanctified for him to seek the pussy, to publicly own to wanting the pussy
Yet we are perplexed when we see it displayed in raunchy texts, on postcards in phone booths, in the red-light districts that wouldn’t have to exist if we didn’t want them to…
Maybe, instead of obsessing, demonizing and protesting about the pussy
We should just make the act of buying it illegal?
Maybe we should cut off the demand for the pussy, and force it back into being a vagina?
Maybe that would cull the sex trafficking industry?
Maybe that would remind us, instead of hating on hoes its the bro’s who obsess about getting some finger lickin’ goodness, that need to be chastised and re-baptized in the waters of a morally conscious, righteous and just humanity?
Maybe we should just confront the fact
That the pussy is everywhere –
But just because a woman has a vagina, it doesn’t make her weak, less courageous, a coward or faint-hearted.
It’s you – the one who thinks they have a right to her genital parts that is, not only a violator and rapist, but a coward with a weak spirit.