Black Pussy Matters
My pussy did not wake up last Saturday morning, put on a pointy pink pussy hat, jump on a train to downtown, to march in the Women’s March. My pussy was fucking scared. Scared that some crazy, redneck motherfucka might-could-more easily pick my Afro-power pussy out of the crowd and clearly know that I was not a Trumper. I was scared that if I took my daughter along, she would be hurt. So I let my pink pussy sisters vet that rally before I exposed me and my baby to some shit I couldn’t handle. Am I proud of that? I’m not sure. But that’s reason #1.
Reason #2, My pussy isn’t pink. All the recent hype about “pussy power” I see... y’all there is a vast difference between White girl pussy and Black woman pussy... and n’er the twain shall meet. I am a little irritated by the new flaunting of White girl pussy power. This is not about bearing the Brazilian-waxed, vaginally enhanced, “wouldn’t-you-just-love-to-fuck-me?”, man manipulating, douched and dipped, Victoria-revealing-all-her-damn-secrets pussy power on parade. My pussy is not pink! It does not wear a pink hat! And while the power of my pussy does emanate from between my ears, it is anything but a pink fad.
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