JUNE 15, 2012

A Letter To My Perfect Petite Pussy

Originally published on: Gabe Berman’s site, author of Live Like a Fruit Fly

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Dear My Perfect Petite Pussy,

My first memory of you was when I was eight years old.

I hid with you in bed under the covers. You felt warm, and your soft fur tickled my fingertips. That first week of discovery was awkward, as I didn’t know exactly what to do. In time, I learned you enjoyed being gently caressed. On the occasions when you let me know you wanted more, I gave you short, quick strokes. The one time I rubbed you a bit too hard, you convulsed and spit up over my hand. What a shock that was! I remembered holding you, afraid someone would discover what I’d done. It took a little while to calm you down, but eventually I fell asleep and you seemed much better in the morning.

When Mom found out about you, I had to come clean. I showed her how sweet and cuddly you were and begged her to let me keep you.

Once she saw your beauty, she agreed you could stay under two conditions—I had to take care of you, and I had to give you a good name.

I’m much older now, but not a day goes by that I don’t think of you. In my heart, you will always be my Perfect Petite Pussy.