There are too many ads for free pussies (photoshopped for maximum cuteness with a byline written by somebody’s sobbing daughter, who get shipped off to good homes, presumably), but this ain’t one of ’em.
This ad is for you rubberneckers, the drive-bys that wonder about that pussy beside the road (‘is she all right, oh let’s stop darling and see what the name says on her collar’, the kind lady’s thought fleets and her husband is too busy thinking about his own pussy that ain’t in the passenger seat telling him where to go and how to get it done, some quiet pussy who dares to fuck with the lights on, lets him come and go as he pleases it’s all the same) to let you know she’s gonna be all right, just leave her alone.
This is a word of advice, an advice column in cyberspace for all you curious about my pussy, mind your business I say, Keep Out, Condemned by Order of the Mayor, I’ll say whatever I have to say to keep you away from my property, my shy little pussy that peeps outside every now and then hides in the weeds crouched behind a Volvo with rotted tires and tired black paint, tired and hungry but not waiting for you, looka how she runs when you try to take her home. Leave the pussy alone, man, she’s not right for you.
She’s had enough of eating what you feed her, tearing off her claws instead of letting her make her own way, teaching her what’s proper in your lap, by your table, in your bed, and thou shalt not reproduce, foul pussy, you are too mean and this house is uninhabitable for little ones that need more love, you are all that I can handle, so go sleep on the sill in the sun and dream of chasing mice that live in the red barns of New Jersey like a good pussy. There are no bad pussies in this home, he says firmly, squeezing her neck, and she squints and purrs, hates and loves, and forgets her missing knuckles for a little while.
There was that one time when the door opened and she ran out from between his legs, she gunned across the road with demon speed, a flash of gray, because she’s an old gray pussy now but she wants to go to her grave starving and alone, a sack of bones happy beside a red barn in New Jersey where the swallows fly. Pussies can’t fly, can they?
Oh yes they can, my darling Scalpel Claw, and they can dream.