quizzical pussy

My official position on penis envy is that it’s utter tripe, the wishful thinking of flimsy-headed men who ascribe an almost numinous significance to the possession of a phallus simply because they were born with dicks and want to feel important without exerting actual effort. There’s no reason any woman anywhere should care that she lacks a penis. Doesn’t she have a vulva and a vagina, not to mention a uterus? And don’t even get me started on fallopian tubes: ancient bastions of power.

My unofficial position on penis envy is that I have it like Magic Johnson used to have AIDS.*

It isn’t that I want to be male. That doesn’t appeal to me. Although I identify with guyness in significant ways, I embrace being female. I love having all the accouterments of femininity, and there are times I’m tempted to wish I had more of a certain sort (see: boobs). In my experience, having a pussy is spectacular. Ladyparts are more versatile than a pocket knife, more surprising than the troposphere, and more fun than six roller coasters. If you don’t have a vulva of your own, see if you can borrow one for a few hours and then try to tell me they aren’t cunning little contraptions.

But still, there’s something about a penis. It’s not necessarily that I’d rather play with a penis than a pussy, because both are enticing. It’s just that they’re so… external. They’re cool in the way having a tail would be cool (not in the “I’m a furry” sense, but in the “fucking admit it: having a tail would be cool” sense). They’re a fidgeter’s dream. I can’t imagine looking down my torso, seeing a cock, and not wanting to play with it every blessed time. It’s similar, I guess, to the varying-but-never-absent urge I have to play with my tits. External sex organs are enticing “PUSH ME” buttons, right there on your body, daring you to ignore them and knowing your human frailty won’t allow it.

And then there’s the whole arousal aspect. We’re talking about an appendage that advertises its intentions like a slutty, slutty beacon: ostentatious, risky, unequivocal… all things I admire, but tend to lack when it comes to sex. A hard-on, although I can think of ways it could go embarrassingly wrong, is hypererotic because it’s so damn unapologetic.

Wetness is the best female analog I can think of. In either case, discovering arousal that I may have contributed to usually makes me feel like sort of a stud. The difference is that you have to be farther along in the petting to get tactile feedback on what you’ve accomplished with a girl. To wit, I have to already be in your pants to get the payoff. Usually. And that’s not inferior to the timeless “gun in your pocket or…” question, it’s just different. Occasionally, when faced with an either-or choice a sex enthusiast can’t help but come down with a decisive and resounding “both!”. Hence, penis envy, because it’s the option I currently lack.

Notice, please, that in my discourse here I haven’t mentioned power, or Electra, or any of the stages of psychosexual development. I also don’t think I need one in order to fuck girls, although having that option would be another perk. Sometimes a penis is just a penis: another toy it’d be fun to experiment with from the other end of the shaft. Admittedly, I totally covet the experience of having a penis, but I lament your lack of imagination if you’re male and haven’t gotten around to coveting my multiple orgasms.

*I know: he never had AIDS and still has HIV. Yes, you’re very smart. Shut up.