An Ode to Wide Pussies
On having a wide on
When I want something in my mouth, my bottom lip drops. My saliva glands tickle. I gulp the spit back, then lick my bottom lip, which is fattier, doughier than my upper lip. My lips, my tongue, my mouth prepare for what I want.
My vagina is the same.
When I’m my horniest, my vulva spreads itself, and I have an urge to spread myself further. I know my lips are parted. I can feel them thickening and dampening. I want to reach my hands back behind my butt and put my fingertips where my vulva reaches my thighs and pull myself more open.
I want a wide pussy.
I want the place between my legs to feel like a black hole with gravity so heavy nothing near can escape. I’m the gatekeeper to a pleasure-obsessed, ever-expanding horizon.
I love my wide pussy.
When I feel wide, my husband says I don’t *feel* wide. I asked him after he made a few confused faces as I described this sensation. He said, “You feel pillowous and juicy.”
When I pressed my husband about what “pillowous” meant, he said, “It’s like the inverse of anal sex.” When I pressed him about what that meant, he said, “Like the opening isn’t tight, but the inside is plumped up and constricted from blood flow.”
I said, “Like warm, firm, slippery pillows are pressing his penis in 360 degrees.”
“Sure,” he said.
Talking about wide pussies feels revolutionary in a thin-preoccupied, loose-pussy shaming society. But that’s not why I’m doing it. I’m doing it because I love a wide pussy.
We could take the obligatory nod at human creation. But that’s not why I’m writing to it either. I love my wide pussy because it feels incredible.
Having a wide on feels incredible.
Thank you, reader. I hope you feel some deep wanting this week that spreads your whole heart wide open.
If you’d like to continue reading Happy Endings, might I suggest these recent pieces:
Or these vaginal pieces:
Abigail, “wide pussy” becomes a private phenomenology of desire here, a way of describing arousal from inside the body before shame, metaphor, or cultural correction can organize it. The mouth opening at the start gives the essay its embodied logic, then Joe’s “pillowous and juicy” language turns sensation into a shared marital vocabulary. The Sheela-na-gig, Sharon Stone, and wound-of-Christ images make wideness feel comic, sacred, unruly, and fully claimed. Grateful for the audacity and control with which you let female wanting become spacious enough to name itself.
Happy Birthday, HE!