this bizarre “gentlemanly” vibe these kinky men strive for but totally miss because they don’t understand that wearing a few pieces of clashing formal wear in inappropriate contexts can’t compensate for godawful personal grooming choices and the overwhelming stench of “I will explain lovecraft to you” which follows them everywhere they go
Is this a question? I don’t know how we define a lot here – or why that’s a metric. It’s not something you can do too much of like eating or drinking. So why call attention to it?
I’ve also dated a bunch of white people and I’ve yet to receive a message about that. In fact, the number of white people I’ve been with may be a bit higher. I’m not going to sit around here and make a roster and give you a demographic report of my sexual history.
I think it’s inappropriate and terrible when people say they don’t see race, but I also think it’s inappropriate and terrible to make this kind of comment. As if you’re a concerned relative, “you eat a lot of pizza. You drink a lot of wine, don’t you?”
Yeah, I have both current partners and exes that are POC. I’ve had flings with and crushes on people who aren’t white.
And yes, race matters. It’s important to see race and to put a whole heaping dose of intersectionality into your politics.
But also shut the fuck up.
My amazing kink-positive therapist told me I need to get on orchestrating my crazy group sex fantasy.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“In the course of this conversation, it’s the only thing you’ve said you definitively want for yourself” she replied. “Also, come on, you love planning.”
“You know you look like you’re going to cry when you’re about to cum,” Leo told me after we’d had sex Saturday night. “I always think that with you. It’s your tell.”
I’ve been seeing Leo – that guy Pup and I had that incredible threesome with over the summer – since right after the election. (Call it a means of coping?)
I like him a lot. We have good chemistry. He’s covered in tattoos but he can pull off a suit. He’s got a serious grown-up job in a field that he’s been in for ten years but has one of those mountain man beards. I like people who can occupy dualities like that.
Our date on Saturday was a little bizarre. He’d called my bluff about saying I’d be a good workout buddy, so Saturday afternoon found me in Pup’s car, getting dropped off at Leo’s gym with my overnight bag. We worked out together, showered, and went out for pizza and beer. Maybe that’s counter-intuitive to the workout, but whatever.
After an attempt to incredibly belatedly catch up on House of Cards was cut short by us just making out on his couch, we ended up in bed. I was wearing one of his t-shirts and a pair of panties with the intention of sleeping in them after, lying between his legs, my back against his chest and stomach. Leo had one arm around my waist, the other draped across my torso. He’d recently got one of those handheld, cordless hitachis and was teasing me with it, intermittently turning it up a little too high to have a laugh when I whined and tried to squirm away from it.
He slid out from under me to slip his fingers inside me, easing more in before sliding them out to replace them with his cock. He’d made a comment earlier in the week that he might be too exhausted from his week to have sex when we got together. And, naturally, I gave him hell for it as he pulled my legs up and hooked them over his shoulders. I liked the way my bare skin looked against Leo’s, his chestpiece framed by my thighs. His skin darker, inked.
“I knew you were going to fuck me tonight,” I taunted. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to help yourself.”
“You’re such a brat, Ivy,” he murmured.
“I know,” I replied between moans. “What are you going to do about it?”
Leo reached over and grabbed the hitachi, setting it back on my clit as his thrusts grew more vigorous. My shoulder slapped against his headboard. My body shook. I came. Then came again.
I haven’t! I just haven’t posted very much lately. I like tumblr and I’m grateful that people care, but it can feel a little like an obligation sometimes.
A must-read: In 2004, the Bush administration granted press briefing access to a right-wing shill with a fake name who they could call on to bail Bush out when he got asked a tough question. But Trump doesn’t want just one shill—he wants a room full.
Stellar eyefucks to start the week.
Gagged kisses are the best kisses. Trust.
You know how greedy I get.