Lately, my favourite thing has been to slowly stroke my fingers through the hair around my cunt. I do it almost absent-mindedly, when I’m falling asleep, or in the shower, or lying on the sofa. It’s at that length where each strand feels like buttery silk. Some are straight, some curl into my skin, but all are soft. The softest parts are the slightly longer strands, sitting just above the dip between my lips.
There are some small patches of baldness, where the hairs haven’t yet recovered from years of being abruptly yanked out on a waxed strip. There are some white blonde hairs and some which are darker; together they form an almost golden fuzz. If you prise me open with your fingers, you’ll find some shorter hairs leading down inside my outer lips towards my cunt.
A little while ago my cunt looked very different. It was completely bare, devoid of hair, like a devastated forest. From my mound to my arsehole, I was smooth. There was a time when I liked it like that; I liked the feel of fingers against bare skin, I liked the feel of clear flesh sitting on someone’s mouth, I liked the feel of a tongue rimming me without interruption. I liked the sharp pain of being waxed, the feel of heat so close to my clit. I liked the idea of someone parting my thighs and sharply inhaling as they clearly see every bead of moisture coating my skin.
There was a time when I thought it looked better, but I was wrong, actually. Without the frame of soft hair, my mound looked mournful and swollen. As though its flesh had been plucked clean of feathers. It lacked an identity, a context. I’d look in the mirror and expect to see pure sex, but instead it was a bit sad.
My cunt needed hair to define it. It needed hair to pull someone’s gaze into it. It needed hair to disguise it. It needed hair to look like a cunt. It needed hair for fingers to linger in. It needed hair to create delicious friction against someone else’s hair, whether on their face or between their thighs. It needed hair to be grabbed. It needed hair to be more desirable to me, as its owner.
Instead of hating my pubes and ripping them out, they’ve been nurtured and grown.
There are still parts I’m learning to accept. I trim shorter the parts around my hole and the edges of my lips, leaving my mound to become longer and flourish. I still struggle with the sensation of hair being pushed against my clit as I’m rubbing it; it’s strange and alien. The sparser areas, those gaps of skin, they make me feel somewhat inept; like I can’t even grow my pubes properly, what a loser. My arsehole remains smooth, as it was before.
But I’ve found the feeling of someone’s coarse beard sliding against my pubes to be climactic. I’ve found myself taking photos of my cunt almost every night, as I slide into bed, just so I can look in awe at it. I now welcome the idea of someone parting my thighs and sharply inhaling as their view follows the trail of hair into me. I’ve saved an incredible amount of money on grooming. And I’m able to idly stroke the silken strands, almost absent-mindedly.