“La Chatte à moitié moite”

The story of the half-wet pussy transpired on a cruise ship sailing around Tahiti and the Marquesas Islands before the pandemic. It was a good time, indeed, notwithstanding the pussy already a marvel by itself and wet, albeit only half all around the circumference and, of course, inside where it is always warm and nice. Very nice, methinks, now that I visualize the scene. I will never forget it, and soon, you will not either when you read all about it in the upcoming paragraphs full of the right words. No! The true words of the half-wet pussy. It all occurred in French. It is true that it sounded better in some parts. But when I sensed that English was going down, I recited some shameless Shakespeare, and Molière was put to bed, both literally and figuratively, which seemed to be the same, at least at the time.

I should go back somewhat. Who the hell am I? Patrick, M, or one of the narrators. Who is keeping count? There were three but there may be a fourth. This has become an issue now in every prose and story — methinks this is prose — since there are perhaps too many voices for a short read. The problematic one is, of course, M. But he is so loving and lovable, most who know him would agree, I suppose. I cannot be M since I mentioned him as I did. Patrick is on a long sabbatical since a couple of days now. He is catching up on all the sci-fi he missed writing all these bits. Some of them may be good. The odds were low but they seem to be about the same now that some time had elapsed. Relativity is not a nice concept. There is nothing absolute. And this is life. Back to the main topic, I must.

I am Jenny. Still the only female narrator. They cancelled the fourth narrator thinking that they could get Goddess Athena as a special one. Oh, they have ideas. Sometimes they converge into one. It is fun, then. Everything is smooth sailing until the dreaded find-an-image and the search for whichever one as long as it is abstract, or a cat, or a tree. What a beautiful and neglected creature! I hate the word, wood. I even prefer plastic to wood. Wood is tree meat. Call it as it is! It is vegan meat. It is filled with nutrients and medicines, but it is a plant, and they do not suffer, or as much. They suffer a lot. Some of them shriek from fear or something else. Many have developed poisons and toxins to reduce the number of predators. We always remain their worst one. No contest! Trees are Earth’s lungs and she has been smoking crap for a long time. Earth is very ill and the smart animals do not really care. We need AI as soon as possible. I am suddenly writing like the AI narrator. And before I was writing like the wood narrator. What is going on? Who am I?

Who cares! Just tell the freaking story of the half-wet pussy!

OK! Whoever you are. It started on this cruise ship. She was from Papeete, Tahiti, and he was from the Moon, poetically, of course, but it is a special moon since it is also inhabited by Ancient Greece, still alive and flourishing with all the gods and goddesses above and wherever they need to be, even Goddess Athena, my wife. Sorry, but that is another story. We sometimes mix them unintentionally. Let us see! Yes! Back to the half-wet pussy. It sounds sexier in French. It is like organic butter on a keto croissant in a time of famine. Can you imagine the play on words in the title, La Chatte à moitié moite. La chatte, the pussy, is a given and not the point. It is rare, though, that the pussy is not the point. But à moitié moite is OMG. The first part, à moitié, is half, and moite, is wet. It seems to offer a perfect correspondence. Except that at the beginning of moitié and moite, there is the word and the sound, moi, me. It is wonderful in French, by chance, it seems. It is almost like a déjà vu.

What a strange state of affairs to have a half-wet pussy! But who determines what a half-wet pussy looks or feels like? Who establishes the half? Wet is wet, but what is half-wet? A glass half-empty or half-full? History is required for that. Historical data! It is easy to compare between several states of wetness. There is wet, very wet, and not wet enough. Half-wet could mean wet but it is not over. When there is no history, facing a pussy for the first time, one can only compare with other pussies. That is never a good idea since each pussy is unique. It has a special distinctive print. The half-wet pussy in question spoke French, another confounding factor. Shakespeare, as you know, helped with that. To Be or Not to Be always works, and if not, there is the killer, Now is the winter of our discontent, especially when it is. Winter is such a breeze of misunderstanding.

A half-wet pussy is an eager pussy waiting for some confirmation. A visual evidence seems best, but there are those who prefer scent and taste, or the always winning, touch. It feels good when I touch you. Everything we do before has to lead to and reach the stage of touch. If not, it is a tease that may augment the level of wetness on all sides, within and without. It is almost mystical. We touch pussy and for some time we think that we have touched immortality. Maybe we do each time a pussy touches us. Immortality may touch us in mysterious ways. Pussy is the only way I can feel whatever is meant by immortality. It even makes sense for most of those who are interested in pussy and consciousness. Pussy is a unique receptor. Why not call it immortality? It is the tangible meaning of life.

When he touched her Tahitian pussy, it felt half-wet on account of the ocean in the background, stealing some of the show but certainly not all of it. Perhaps only half. The other half of the pussy’s wetness was in the air, and he could smell and taste it, and almost touch it when he put both his mind and heart into it.