I like flowers.
They invoke feelings and thoughts of beauty and life; two aspects that wax and wane, not unlike the moon.
I find floral prints quite charming but I’m pragmatic enough to acknowledge that too much may be overkill and just plain tacky.
Anyway, don’t you find it amazing whenever flora resembles parts of the human body? Sliced carrots look like eyes, walnuts look like tiny-little brains, cucumbers make excellent phallic symbols and flowers look like __________ (fill in the gap, and don’t you dare say pancreas).
Yes, I’m talking about our lovely lower lady lips. The flower works of an American feminist-artist, a Georgia O’Keefe, really capture the striking similarity between the two.
For all intents and purposes, a rosebud is lips that are hidden, tacked inside. A rose-in-bloom is just as it sounds; lips that are open, visible. Both, delicate beauties.
I’m a rose-in-bloom. Sometimes I sit my panty-less self spread-eagle and position a hand-held mirror strategically. The reflection turns me on. Narcissism, maybe. I’m sure I’m not the only one gets aroused by the reflection of my own intimates.
So there was once I was with a guy who likened it to the entrails of a slaughtered animal. He meant it as a joke. I laughed along, mirthlessly. Needless to say, I dried up down there like a rose bush transplanted onto the Sahara miles away from the Nile.
Then I met a wonderful guy who was literally enthralled by my petals. He used such expressions as an exquisite lotus, a bountiful harvest. At times, he would just sit back and gaze admiringly as one would look at a stunning and rare piece of art. Needless to say, I wetted up down there like a cactus transplanted onto the Congo Forest in the rainy season. And he quenched his thirst.
So what are you? A rosebud or a rose-in-bloom?