Yesterday we went to Walmart where you spent you birthday giftcard and money. You bought a devil costume. You said it’s “Not for Halloween, just for when I want to be a devil at home.” You also bought a Katy Perry wig and bubblegum, both the same shade of pink.
Future girlfriends: This is an acceptable purse.
“Will you hold my pur…” “Absolutely.”
I fully agree. ladies, this is your new pocket and purse alternative.
For years I’ve tried imagining something like this… but to see it… I need this.
Tomb Raider fashion line
shoutout to every girl ever for being hot as h*ck and making me hate myself
did u just censor e in the word heck
You’re d*rn right I did I’m trying to get into Heaven
If you can balance an education, a part time job, a social life, watching multiple tv series at once, seeing your family and your eyebrows look good, you’re on some witchcraft for sure.
(Me) “Look baby, I’m not the only one.” -shows picture of girls talking about how they’re always horny when they’re on their period- (Joe) “Yeah but you’re always horny so that doesn’t count.”
But just then my knees give under me,
my head feels weak and suddenly,
it’s clear to see it’s not them but me
who’s lost my self-identity
as I hide behind these books I read
while scribbling my poetry
like art could save a wretch like me,
with some ideal ideology
that no one could hope to achieve,
and I’m never real, it’s just a sketch of me,
and everything I’ve made is trite and cheap
and a waste
Sex is not a goddamn performance. Sex should feel as natural as drinking water. It should not require confidence.
Sex should happen, because the moment is ripe. Ripening lips, ripening labia, ripening cock, ripening pupils, ripening state of being. Ripe and augmented and brimming. Your energy goes to your pumping heart, then to every external nerve, then to theirs, on fire.
You bask, roll, play in it. You sigh, moan, laugh. It’s not about being “good in bed.” It’s about being happy.
One should never worry if they’re doing it “correctly.” Sex is not factual. I don’t want your cookie-cutter sex, I don’t want your meticulously crafted, calculated, fool-proof fuck. I don’t want a show. I want you. Let your instincts, urges and whims define that. It’s enough.
What do most girls like? Forget about it. Statistics are meaningless when there’s only one. Hello, here’s me. Here’s you. Don’t worry about taking it too slow. We got time. We got infinite rhythms, combinations, possibilities. Explore each fuck. Take our time. We can do a different one later.
Don’t worry about making me come. I’m here. Right where I want to be. I am overwhelmed by wanting; you don’t have to convince me. I want you because I like you. So don’t put on a front. Don’t taint this.
I’m frustrated—it’s just authenticity I want. It’s originality. It’s passion. It’s joy. Don’t say that something I like is ugly. Don’t compare yourself to the rest. You will live and die with and within your experiences like everyone else. If someone thinks you are amazing, they are not wrong. Their universe is as real as any other; it is forged through perception.
I don’t care if you accidentally slammed my head into the wall, if you slipped out, if my arm cracked, if the delightful pressure of your wet lips on my anything made a silly sound. There is no right way and no wrong way.
“Good in bed,” what. You’re good in my bed. I’m pleased you’re there. I feel it suits you. Shove your technique. Let your memory swallow it. Fuck me like you’d fuck me, fuck me like you feel. This isn’t a test.
I hold my breath as he turns the last knife in his hand. I see a glint in his eyes as he pulls his arm back and lets the knife fly. It comes straight at me, spinning, blade over handle. My body goes rigid. This time, when it hits the board, my ear stings, and blood tickles my skin. I touch my ear. He nicked it. And judging by the look he gives me, he did it on purpose.
“I would love to see if the rest of you are as daring as she is,” says Eric…
You’re still going to get criticized, so you might as well do whatever the fuck you want.
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