I have this fairly interesting complex in terms of considering myself mature. I go through phases where I think I’m very mature, but in retrospect I realize I may have been acting very childish and as more of a caricature of maturity. Then I start thinking myself immature, until someone points out my maturity. It goes back and forth.
black and white
Theirs.
My gosh, why doesn’t anyone really dress this way anymore? Ava Gardner, you are divine.
I have an interesting relationship with danger. I like to push myself to a place of uncertainty. There’s almost something calming about total surrender to the unknown.
Texts with the Southern Gentleman:
Me: I have that George Michael song stuck in my head and I can’t get it out for the life for me.
SG: Which one?
Me: Um. The one that goes do da do do, do da do do, do da do do do, do do do do do do do doooo.
SG: It’s really sad that I know exactly what you’re talking about.
Some days, he hangs her up that way. Arms pulled taut, feet arched practically vertically, toes just grazing the cold floor. He’ll check the tightness of the ropes, pull out any give, tug the knots away from her prying fingers, and just go about his business on the other side of the room.
Perhaps he’ll appreciate her for a moment if he passes by, but he doesn’t touch her. He’ll chuckle to himself as she strains to lower the balls of her feet. He’ll smile at her moans, her grunts, her muffled pleas for attention. And when the room takes on the faint smell of her neediness, he’ll try his hardest not to add to her mortification by uttering a teasing comment or two in passing. He’ll try, but more than a few will slip out, raising the blush in her cheeks.
And, finally, when he has found the time to attend to her, he’ll pull her to him and take what’s his.
“They were happy and radiantly innocent. They were both incapable of the conception that love is sin.” – Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged.