Wednesday
Sep282005
Pussy Party
Sep 28, 2005
It didn't start out a pussy party. But that's how it ended up. Drinks and conversation were flowing, the men somehow ended up huddled in the living room sipping beer and tossing around sports statistics instead of the football they wished they were throwing. The girls migrated to the kitchen and the drunk bonding began. Before I knew it, I was divulging one of my deepest, darkest secrets. Roast beef. No, not my favorite thing to eat, although it is arguably The Surge's favorite late night snack.
Wait. You're lost. Let me go back. Way back. About three years before the aforementioned Pussy Part, my friend Melissa and I had, for one reason or another, most likely due to her live-in boyfriend at the time, stumbled onto a Playboy magazine in her apartment. Naturally curious, we flipped it open and began thumbing nonchalantly through glossy photos of girls in anything but natural poses. Casually at first, we scrutinized these women, like ourselves, yet completely alien. As we flipped, our interest increased.
Womens' plumbing has about as many styles as Lindsay Lohan has purses. A lot. And I'm not talking about the styling of the er.. um.. the hair, down there. This is the actual equipment I'm referring to.
Maybe this is old news to most men, and some women, but for me it was a 'this just in' newsflash that the burgeoning popularity of the Brazilian bikini wax brought boldly and baldly to the forefront.
As I perused Playboy's pussies I was jolted by a vague memory. About two years prior, back in my college Cosmopolitan reading days, when I really believed "50 Hot New Tricks To Keep Him Coming Back" would really work, I recalled a letter published in the advice column.
The gist of the sought after information was this: the young lady wanted to know if it was normal for her inner lips to be bigger than her outer lips. Huh? By 'inner lip' does she mean the part that rubs against her teeth? Following that train of thought, outer lips must be the portion on which you apply lipstick? Maybe this girl has really big, Angelina Jolie style lips? But is that a problem? Hmmmm..
Flash to the future, our inspection of Playboy. Like a migraine at rush hour, it hit me. She was talking about down there! As I had yet to have an orgasm courtesy of oral sex, I tended to leave 'down there' pretty much to its own devices. This was before I got my wax on so the area in question was generally hidden underneath a small thicket of hair. But looking at these naked vixens, captured by the camera, allowed me a good gander. I realized what inner and outer lips meant, and it had nothing to do with mouths, unless it was the mouth of your significant other.
On many models I could see, what can only be described as inner lips, protruded like tiny tongues, from between the outer lips. Other women, were neatly packaged like a store wrapped Christmas gift. A tightly wrapped BOX, if you will, a pink bow on top, nary an inner lip to be found. These pictures bored me. This was what I had imagined a vulva should look like. Skin, with a line down the middle. A smaller version of a butt, really. It was the other pictures that drew me.
The everything-out-there girls. They had all the usual equipment, but when legs were splayed, delicate inner lips popped out and saluted the camera. Velvet pink rose petals. These must be inner lips. Makes sense. But then there were the roast beef girls. Their goodtimes simultaneously fascinated and repulsed me. The woman, legs spread, with what appeared to be roast beef peeping from outer lips. Mocha colored and wrinkled, this was not something I associated with womens' genitalia.
Melissa and I discussed each picture, each new vulva in great detail. From rose petal to roast beef, pink to coffee and cream colored, our bodies were mysterious packages, waiting to be unwrapped.
"Are you a rose petal or roast beef?" Melissa blurted.
I tilted my head to the side in deep consideration. After nearly a minute ticked by I replied, "You know, I don't know."
Each of us took a turn locking ourselves in the bathroom with Melissa's hand mirror, conducting our own pussy patrol.
"So?" She asked when I emerged, a new woman.
"It's sort of an outie and somewhere in the middle of rose petal and roast beef. It's kind of lopsided, one part sticks out more than the other because one side is rose petalish, the other is roast beefy."
"Hmmm." She carefully considered this new information.
"What about you?" I asked, hoping she was fully roast beef so I could feel better about my own strange situation.
"Outtie, but rose petal." she replied in what I imagined to be smug tones.
Thus began The Roast Beef Years. Years I couldn't orgasm from oral sex. Instead of losing myself in ecstasy I would imagine each valiant man who attempted to break me of my oral orgasm-less state as munching roast beef. Eventually marijuana and liquor helped cure me of the insecurity. Well, the drugs dulled me to the insecurity and helped me in my struggle to achieve an oral orgasm.
So, aided, once again, by my liquor lover, I confessed my roast beef vs. rose petal theory to my girl gang, and the pussy party began. Genuinely intrigued, the girls began to shout out sentences that would sound strange to ears other than ours.
"I'm a rose petal!" Heidi shouted. The boys, across the room, clueless, bellies full of beer ignored us, probably assuming we were discussing floral arrangements for Natalie's impending wedding.
"I'm a total innie.." Jenny whispered.
"Lucky!" I griped.
"Which do boys like?" Holly inquired.
"I would guess innies." Alison responded. "They're so tidy."
"Outie rose petals aren't so bad!" Melissa chimed in.
"I think I'm a roast beef!" another friend moaned. "You know, I'm not sure what I am, I've never looked that close." Sarah said.
Curiosity overcame us and we all trooped upstairs to Natalie's bathroom for the Pussy Party finale. The boys, used to us bathrooming in large groups, barely glanced up as we giggled our way out of the room.
Holly went first. She hiked up her skirt and gave us a peek.
"ROSE PETAL!" We all shouted
"What about me?" Sarah inquired.
"Innie-"
"But it's a bit roast beef, look!" Natalie pointed.
"Oooh.." Sarah moaned in mortification.
"That's how I look!" I shouted and whipped down my pants. I looked up to see Natalie's face screwed up in laughter. The wheezing, shoulders shaking, hiccuping kind that makes everyone nearby laugh even if they don't know whats so funny.
"Is it that bad?" I giggle.
"N-n-noooo!" She howls then points at our reflection in the mirror. "Look at us!"
There we were, seven of us, faces flush from booze and laughter, various stages of undress, in our 'you show me yours, I'll show you mine' poses.
An hour later we were still talking and giggling. Some of us collapsed in a heap on the floor, the toilet and Sarah and Alison were using the tub as a couch.
It took us a moment to hear the boys pounding on the door.
"What IS going on in there!?"
We composed ourselves, smoothed our hair, and one by one emerged from our private pussy party, said our goodbyes, roast beef and rose petal discoveries glistening conpiratorially in our eyes.
"Bye girls!" And so I've learned to be proud of my little bit of roast beef. After all, I'd rather eat roast beef than a rose petal, and The Surge wholeheartedly agrees.
Wait. You're lost. Let me go back. Way back. About three years before the aforementioned Pussy Part, my friend Melissa and I had, for one reason or another, most likely due to her live-in boyfriend at the time, stumbled onto a Playboy magazine in her apartment. Naturally curious, we flipped it open and began thumbing nonchalantly through glossy photos of girls in anything but natural poses. Casually at first, we scrutinized these women, like ourselves, yet completely alien. As we flipped, our interest increased.
Womens' plumbing has about as many styles as Lindsay Lohan has purses. A lot. And I'm not talking about the styling of the er.. um.. the hair, down there. This is the actual equipment I'm referring to.
Maybe this is old news to most men, and some women, but for me it was a 'this just in' newsflash that the burgeoning popularity of the Brazilian bikini wax brought boldly and baldly to the forefront.
As I perused Playboy's pussies I was jolted by a vague memory. About two years prior, back in my college Cosmopolitan reading days, when I really believed "50 Hot New Tricks To Keep Him Coming Back" would really work, I recalled a letter published in the advice column.
The gist of the sought after information was this: the young lady wanted to know if it was normal for her inner lips to be bigger than her outer lips. Huh? By 'inner lip' does she mean the part that rubs against her teeth? Following that train of thought, outer lips must be the portion on which you apply lipstick? Maybe this girl has really big, Angelina Jolie style lips? But is that a problem? Hmmmm..
Flash to the future, our inspection of Playboy. Like a migraine at rush hour, it hit me. She was talking about down there! As I had yet to have an orgasm courtesy of oral sex, I tended to leave 'down there' pretty much to its own devices. This was before I got my wax on so the area in question was generally hidden underneath a small thicket of hair. But looking at these naked vixens, captured by the camera, allowed me a good gander. I realized what inner and outer lips meant, and it had nothing to do with mouths, unless it was the mouth of your significant other.
On many models I could see, what can only be described as inner lips, protruded like tiny tongues, from between the outer lips. Other women, were neatly packaged like a store wrapped Christmas gift. A tightly wrapped BOX, if you will, a pink bow on top, nary an inner lip to be found. These pictures bored me. This was what I had imagined a vulva should look like. Skin, with a line down the middle. A smaller version of a butt, really. It was the other pictures that drew me.
The everything-out-there girls. They had all the usual equipment, but when legs were splayed, delicate inner lips popped out and saluted the camera. Velvet pink rose petals. These must be inner lips. Makes sense. But then there were the roast beef girls. Their goodtimes simultaneously fascinated and repulsed me. The woman, legs spread, with what appeared to be roast beef peeping from outer lips. Mocha colored and wrinkled, this was not something I associated with womens' genitalia.
Melissa and I discussed each picture, each new vulva in great detail. From rose petal to roast beef, pink to coffee and cream colored, our bodies were mysterious packages, waiting to be unwrapped.
"Are you a rose petal or roast beef?" Melissa blurted.
I tilted my head to the side in deep consideration. After nearly a minute ticked by I replied, "You know, I don't know."
Each of us took a turn locking ourselves in the bathroom with Melissa's hand mirror, conducting our own pussy patrol.
"So?" She asked when I emerged, a new woman.
"It's sort of an outie and somewhere in the middle of rose petal and roast beef. It's kind of lopsided, one part sticks out more than the other because one side is rose petalish, the other is roast beefy."
"Hmmm." She carefully considered this new information.
"What about you?" I asked, hoping she was fully roast beef so I could feel better about my own strange situation.
"Outtie, but rose petal." she replied in what I imagined to be smug tones.
Thus began The Roast Beef Years. Years I couldn't orgasm from oral sex. Instead of losing myself in ecstasy I would imagine each valiant man who attempted to break me of my oral orgasm-less state as munching roast beef. Eventually marijuana and liquor helped cure me of the insecurity. Well, the drugs dulled me to the insecurity and helped me in my struggle to achieve an oral orgasm.
So, aided, once again, by my liquor lover, I confessed my roast beef vs. rose petal theory to my girl gang, and the pussy party began. Genuinely intrigued, the girls began to shout out sentences that would sound strange to ears other than ours.
"I'm a rose petal!" Heidi shouted. The boys, across the room, clueless, bellies full of beer ignored us, probably assuming we were discussing floral arrangements for Natalie's impending wedding.
"I'm a total innie.." Jenny whispered.
"Lucky!" I griped.
"Which do boys like?" Holly inquired.
"I would guess innies." Alison responded. "They're so tidy."
"Outie rose petals aren't so bad!" Melissa chimed in.
"I think I'm a roast beef!" another friend moaned. "You know, I'm not sure what I am, I've never looked that close." Sarah said.
Curiosity overcame us and we all trooped upstairs to Natalie's bathroom for the Pussy Party finale. The boys, used to us bathrooming in large groups, barely glanced up as we giggled our way out of the room.
Holly went first. She hiked up her skirt and gave us a peek.
"ROSE PETAL!" We all shouted
"What about me?" Sarah inquired.
"Innie-"
"But it's a bit roast beef, look!" Natalie pointed.
"Oooh.." Sarah moaned in mortification.
"That's how I look!" I shouted and whipped down my pants. I looked up to see Natalie's face screwed up in laughter. The wheezing, shoulders shaking, hiccuping kind that makes everyone nearby laugh even if they don't know whats so funny.
"Is it that bad?" I giggle.
"N-n-noooo!" She howls then points at our reflection in the mirror. "Look at us!"
There we were, seven of us, faces flush from booze and laughter, various stages of undress, in our 'you show me yours, I'll show you mine' poses.
An hour later we were still talking and giggling. Some of us collapsed in a heap on the floor, the toilet and Sarah and Alison were using the tub as a couch.
It took us a moment to hear the boys pounding on the door.
"What IS going on in there!?"
We composed ourselves, smoothed our hair, and one by one emerged from our private pussy party, said our goodbyes, roast beef and rose petal discoveries glistening conpiratorially in our eyes.
"Bye girls!" And so I've learned to be proud of my little bit of roast beef. After all, I'd rather eat roast beef than a rose petal, and The Surge wholeheartedly agrees.
Reader Comments (41)
Yeah pussy parties are the best! The guys always are talking about viagra without prescription , sports and sex, and sometimes that is so boring .