I'd Rather Be Showering.
I’d Rather Be Showering.
By Beth Cortez-Neavel
Seriously.
I just left the shower
to say
I love my pussy.
And that
all I wanted to do was take
one
slow
shower.
Cleanse my body.
My thoughts.
My soul.
But
all I didÂ
was stick my hand in the fast
hot jets,
draw it out again
and sigh with  intense   exasperation.
Because:
you,
my insufferable muse,
decided that I would
march
right back to my room
and type how much I love
my hairy,
pink and
dirty
little centerpiece.
How sweet it is,
my unwrapped little box.
How I just  adore  my tight slippery cunt.
How I am ashamed that
sometimes
I want to shave it bare,
So that
I look
all shivery
small
and smooth.
And that
sometimes
I pretend it is a jungle
because I’m too tired to care
what little beasties
may be hiding in my folds.
And how
sometimes
most-times
I tenderly trim it
as I think about the
softness
the wetness
the safe dark
within
and the love that
pours out of it.
Vagina,
dear vagina:
Â
how much
you inspire me.
How much
you get me into trouble.
So:
I sit here in my towel
hunched over screen
writing about how much
I fucking love you.
And how much
I really
really
would rather be taking a shower.
I wish I felt this way about my penis. I like you, little guy, but not as much as she likes her jayjay.
This is just about the best thing I’ve ever read on the topic. Almost as good as being there.
“this gets (me) hot and bothered and wishing (I was) a woman”
I feel like showering as well. This poem reminded me of the first time I met a bachelor. When I was twelve, a man moved onto my street who painted his own car and caught bees in open beer bottles. He had a glazed wooden board on his garage wall. Under the thick polyurethane was an image cut from a calendar. The image was of a bare breasted Thai woman washing herself under a waterfall. I came to his garage pretending to be interested in his car and his goofy friend who always seemed to have just been stung on his lip. Really it was to look at this image. Something about it brought me back to his garage. One day he saw me looking at the image. He took it down without stopping his discussion about carburetors versus fuel injectors. I never visited him again.
Women should own more imagery like this. It would make them more appealing to twelve year old boys than cars. Imagine the world we would have. Junkyards full of cars that have no hope of ever being painted and sober friends with clear cases of cold-sore.
Bring your worst, Chicagoan psychic.
Nice, but I am slightly disturbed that you described your vulvic area as “dirty.”
It may be a play…like such a dirty thing to have done and now she must shower…relishing others with her genders wanton naughty bits has left her like Pig-pen of the Peanuts…dirty and not denying it.
Sometimes it just gets dirty. Hence: I’d rather be taking a shower.
I’m glad to stand corrected.
Once I was told to sit down and shut up.
That just hurts my feelers.
It took a lot of guts to write something so personal and honest, and share with everyone. I always been a fan of Sharon Old’s poetry which is deep in erotic overtones. ..and i enjoyed reading this. thx. Sometimes one’s greatest source of happiness is oneself.
test
i read some sarcasm in this, but it’s probably just me.
No sarcasm. All love!
The woman’s body (especially when YOU are the woman’s body) is beautiful, amazing, mysterious, OUT THERE, and messy-gross sometimes.
But it’s like, awesome, dude.