Check the edit.
Life’s crazy.
Month: May 2011
Have I ever mentioned what /excellent/ cupcakes I make?
StandardYUM.
Truth: The first time a guy tied me up to discipline me, this song was playing. It’s kind of my theme song now.
(EDIT: HOLY CRAP. Go to 2:55 and look at the date on the TV. So freaking eerie. I swear I didn’t plan that.)
(Source: https://www.youtube.com/)
It does save the gasoline that would fill those leaf-blowing tractors. How are you going green?
Grinding the leaves off the path.
Dear Woman with the Sexy Sleeve,
Clearly this entire dispute could have been avoided if your bottom bitch had asked nicely before taking one of your cupcakes. I can see it missing from the container. I can also see the messy girl left a little bit of frosting on the table.
I imagine you’re probably browsing the market now for a new slut. I have some wonderful references who can confirm that a) I won’t steal your cupcakes and b) I won’t make a mess. This is mostly because I will be eating said cupcakes off of you, provided you grant me permission.
As a bonus, I also am classy enough to avoid making the cupcake-muffin-vagina joke that’s begging to be made from that. But, yes, I’ll eat your muffin, too.
Thank you for your time and attention. You’ll find my resumé and references attached.
Sincerely,
Ivy
I have always liked that particular gesture. Bend her over and grab her cunt — “Mine!”.
I love the words going up and down her arms.
I have an assortment of tattoos that I keep considering getting and they’re all words and phrases. My connection to words is a bit insane. My dorm is literally covered in post-it notes covered in passages from novels and quotations from my favorite authors and poets. I just love words, the turns they take, the phrases they make, the meanings they have. And I love them so much that I want to surround myself with them, cover myself in them, never be apart from them.
this picture has taught me that i love tattoos. a lot.
In which we are mature adults.
ChatMe: How goes studying?
My bestie, A: Eh. I went to my boyfriend’s room last night and literally got nothing done.
Me: I get it. (puts up fingers in V, tongues at air)
A: No.
Me: Oops. My b. (pokes tongue into cheek while jerking invisible cock)
A: Sigh.
My terrible coffee to actual food consumed ratio yesterday has left me feeling pretty gross this morning. Oh, finals.
Continued from here.
She closed up her pocketknife and held it out to me, “so, you like knives?”
I smiled and took it from her, “yeah, I just think they’re beautiful.” I flipped it back open and looked over it. I traced my finger up the blade. It was an absolutely gorgeous pocketknife.
“Do you collect?” she asked.
I shook my head, “no, no, I don’t collect. I just admire.” I tested the tip against the pad of my thumb before adding, “this is pretty nice.” She had to know what she was doing. She had to. No one who isn’t into knives would pick one like this.
No, I told myself. I was reading too much into this. This was probably just some girl who kept a knife around for fun. Who now thought I was a freak of nature for how giddy I was getting over hers. But she had smiled. I tried to think it over, but decided it was pointless to try to analyze it any further.
I closed it and reluctantly handed it back to her. The rest of the night played out fairly normally. I dismissed the entire situation as just a case of a girl who had, by some stroke of luck, but herself a knife without realizing how nice it was. Or someone had gotten it for her. I wasn’t going to ask any more about the knife. I didn’t want to attract more attention to how much I was feeling it.
I had gravitated to a different group of girls before I determined I should head back. I made my rounds, saying goodbye before heading toward the door. I passed her in my friend’s foyer, my hand on the door to the hallway.
“Ivy,” she said as I passed. “I hope I can see you again sometime.” There was a catch in her voice. I turned. She was holding the knife.
I booked it out of there, blushing like crazy.
Last night, my friend threw a meet and greet for all of her queer ladies. It wasn’t nearly as scandalous as it sounds. But, yeah, there was a little bit of scandal.
It was a “dry” get-together and we were all just hanging around, getting to know each other, catching up with old friends, griping about finals, and passing around a bag of chips. And then they came in. Fresh from a workout together. Fresh from the showers. Just fresh.
I have a weakness for women with athletic bodies. But black women with athletic bodies? Oh, heavens me. And a whole group of them from one team. Laughing, smiling, joking. There were four of them. Three of which took on the more “butch” side of the spectrum and the fourth more “femme”. I really hate using those terms. But substitute in whatever you want there that makes you happy.
I got into talking with one of the members of the former group. She was incredibly chill, interesting, kind of flirty. She had changed from her workout clothing and was in a loose pair of jeans, a t-shirt, a flannel, and a baseball cap turned backwards. So many Ivy buttons, some that I didn’t even think existed, were being pushed.
But that big ol’ red button got slammed down when someone said they couldn’t get the packaging off of a board game across the room. Without hesitation, she reached into her pocket, whipped out a pocket knife, and flicked it open. It was larger than your average bear pocket knife.
I stared, practically hypnotized. She followed the line of my sight. And smirked.
To be continued.
(Also, do you know how hard it was to find a remotely not-white picture of a female athletic body? Jeez, tumblr.)