Raise Plow

What a cunty week, indeed.
A cunt-lightful, cunt-centric absolute cunt fest.
From lying on your stomach because your Russian woman’s back went out,
discussing the finer points of pain management (“you have veddy good tolerance for pain”)
Speak it to me, lady. You don’t know the half of it.
I don’t like that she is not Rena, my good and trusted friend, who looks me in the eyes
while she works, talks of her lack of vacations, her son, her house she has to clean…
who hugs me every Christmas. What a job.
If my cunt had a hand maiden, would be she, telling me I wore that shirt she loves.
Pride in her work, in this Charnel House of cunt fiendishness, now also over-priced.

Only a precursor to today’s cuntly fare:
The clean, white doctor’s office, a maroon wrap robe
“Open to the front", she says – Really, cunt? (meant in the non-literal cunt way, of course.
I was going to wrap it round my arse, so he could go in from behind like everyone else seems to enjoy doing
with me without asking first.
I’d be insulted, but I kind of enjoy the pre-programmed belief in me).
and a tit fondling from a lisp-happy gay doctor who mini-semicircles around while looking off and talking about nothing much. Then the magic happens……

Quick, nearly painless (so much so one might think themselves not as quaint as they might have thought themselves), the words uttered about everything “looking fine” (I wouldn’t want that task, nor the list which determines if fine or no), and a comment about waxing recently since a noticed “redness”, forcing one in the stirrups to cringe slightly, made to feel vain, and utter “I did. I…forgot about this…appointment”. (Hard to say whether this upsets or amuses him or makes him appreciate the lengths to which I went to make it ok for him).

All done and the cunt fest complete for today, and possible for this week.
He kept looking back at me, with an almost smile, unexpected as if he almost (almost) enjoyed himself. I do believe he’ll tack up mine on a wall in his mind, and think good, fair, reasonable and positive thoughts about her.

Slightly vulnerable but mostly poked at, amble back down 8th avenue, and think that wasn’t so bad until, when stopping in at a corner store to look for something fair, one realizes the wetness has come,
And not in the way favoured. This was a foreign wetness, and too everything that is wrong, uncomfortable and not me.
Must have come a long way, I, and my cunt, all ripped up, sorted out, privatized and then let loose again. Feels like any other day.
Walking the main drag back, a sign bursts out yellow in the busy, crowded street: Raise Plow.
The laughter rises up from my cunt to the cunts around me, and says “Indeed”. Smile, rush, and cunt-ready for anything now.

M. Lucia