“Cunt,” she yelled, “I have a cunt.”
The scream became a song, “I have a cunt, oh, I have a cunt.”
Sometimes she stopped there but sometimes the song repeated. She sings lots of made-up songs, mostly for and about her pets.
Her cunt song is one of my favorites. Sometimes I try to respond humorously or suggestively but she sings too often for my replies to stay fresh, so mostly I agree or approve or nod or let it slide by, a performance piece to amuse us.
Feeling good, being excited, playful, or a downright dirty horny ensure she’ll sing her cunt song. I assume it means she’s happy. But although the words are lewd, she doesn’t sing from lust, mostly.
Until a few months ago, we lived with family. The loud shout of “cunt” and the hypnotic sing-song of the cunt song became an expression of freedom, when no family members were within earshot, a living proclamation that rules of politeness were no longer in force, that we and she could do whatever we wanted to do. To sing about our genitals. Freedom! Cunt!
The family is long gone but the song remains, more often if anything. I don’t know if it still has any deep meaning, aside from naughtiness, but it always makes me smile