The Soapy Vulva Monologue
The light in the copse was dappled as the early spring sun shone bright and hard through the leaves of the thick-trunked oaks of the wood. Its rays flashed on the pale skin of my penis as I pummelled it with my manly fist; ah, my penis, like the sunlight, bright and hard, like the mighty oaks, thick-trunked and, uh, wood.
Ah, penis! Penis, penis, penis! That correct, scientific word. How wonderful it felt in my mouth!
Open and propped against a protuberant root were the last unstuck pages of an aging Gentleman’s Relish and there a French maid presented her fine hindquarters to my gaze as though she wished her vulva to be soaped, or indeed, the secret place between her buttocks.
I was seventeen and knew that soon the horizons of my erotic world would expand beyond those increasingly cracked and brittle pages. I had explored and accomplished all the arts of Onan. But now I was becoming a man. The sap was rising in me even as it rose at the march of spring through the stems and stalks of the green willow, nearby banks of which were often in my contemplation.
Yes, I was becoming a man. Had I not the bar of soap that would stand proof of my earnest to she, the lady o’er whose breasts and in whose bathwater I should have the great quickening of my coming of age?
Yes, I had it. I had that bar of soap. I had, yes!