I like and am simultaneously completely intimidated by the prospect of being shared between two men. I know it’s super silly to be like “damn that’s a lot of penis”. But, really, damn. That’s a lot of penis.
I guess it’s totally the same as a man and a woman in terms of having two people to pay attention to. But I guess I am just vaguely overwhelmed at the prospect of how much penis that is.
This 2 am penis anxiety brought to you by the people at thinkivykink.
I like when it begins with absentminded brushes of fingertips, the drawing of my leg against yours like frustrated tectonics, the wry grins over planned accidents.
I like when you touch my leg under the table or your hand lands on my thigh and I adjust myself so you can repeat the mistake. I’m a multiple offender of being over eager, but you’re a willing accessory.
I like when we both sort of quietly and politely pretend we don’t want it. There’s a word in some strange language for it, the way we both wait for the other to bring it up. But we both speak a strange dialect of badly constructed euphemism, peppered with the occasional outburst of something not for the dinner tables, but maybe for the bedrooms or that phoneless island community we create when it’s just us and our poor attempts at subtlety.
I just want to push her hair back from her face and bite those lips.
Aw, hush.
Now why the fuck am I still awake?
He tapes her up that way to ensure she’s available.
But he leaves her that way to ensure she’s patient.
This is actually some of my favorite stuff right here.
I’m small in stature and I like having someone’s arm across me like that, emphasizing how holdable and moveable I can be. I feel held, possessed. I like the strength behind being pulled into someone that way, even if it is gently.
That spot on my neck is my sweet spot, especially from the back. I melt. I absolutely melt. I give over to it so quickly that I barely even put up any attempt at a fight or a last effort to maintain some sort of dignity or composure. I literally can’t help it sometimes.
And together? Well, I guess you can imagine.
Please don’t try to reason with me.
I make absolutely outlandish requests. I know that. Sometimes I’ll ask you to do things that are totally and completely not okay. I’ll make demands of you that I know I don’t actually want of things that I can’t actually handle. When you take me to certain places i my head, I know I blurt out things I don’t entirely mean, I call myself words I don’t particularly associate with myself, I make offers that I’d hope you’d never actually take.
I understand how fragile it can make me. I don’t envy your position. I know I create little paradoxes for you, challenges, catch-22s that overcomplicate what began as such a simple little game. And I know I throw wrenches into perfectly functioning machines just to watch the gears stop and quiver and break because I am strange and impulsive and unrelenting.
And I’m not asking you to do it right all the time or to know all the answers. Consider this a warning, albeit a little late in the game. But, please, don’t try to reason with me. Because you of all people know that I am completely and utterly unreasonable.
remind me don’t assume I know
Because, honestly, the promise of getting fingered by Marky Mark is the only thing that’s going to get me on one of those things.
See, I completely disagree.
Good girls go bad because it’s fun. Good girls go bad because the dichotomy between good and bad is absolutely stupid and there’s no girl who is totally and completely one or the other. Good girls go bad because it’s the right climate to and they have the authority to go any which way they want regardless of the men in their lives.
Bad boys who don’t treat girls – “good” or “bad” or otherwise – with respect can go fuck themselves. But to say girls go “bad” because of boys? Well, that’s just bad. I think we deserve a little more credit.
