Sometimes, I get ridiculous and wish I looked like this.
The hair, the body, the lips, the breasts, the nose.
Be gone, unhealthy thoughts. You are serving no one.
body
“She was afraid, and the afraid, she realized, sought opportunities for bravery in love,“ – Lorrie Moore, Like Life.
Submitted by a follower.
Standard
read this while looking at the picture or after reading or a little of both
look at the texture of the water, it looks like a pool, now move your eyes to her shoulders, the sun is shining off of them, they’re warm, then move your eyes to her hair, it’s wet, she’s been drying in the sun, notice the sun ray over her head, it’s bright out, it must be shortly after noon, the moments are going by lazily, but time’s passing fast for her and it wont be long before evening, remember doing this, remember how your skin felt after swimming in clean water and drying in the sun on soft fabric or concrete, your skin felt sleeker than usual, imagine how her’s feels, in that exact moment in time, when the camera took that picture, imagine being there next to her, not noticing her, just feeling these things, remembering them, imagining these things, and remember, the eyes only suggest a picture, the brain paints it.
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Thank you, tastepreferences, for this photograph and your words. I love that feeling you’ve described so well. Though, confessedly, I don’t think I would be able to not notice her were I next to her.
<3, Ivy
Oh, tumblr, I just can’t make myself sleep. I hate this feeling.
After I’m played with, I go right to a mirror. I like to hunt for bruises, for burst capillaries, for scratches. I think certain kinds bruises look gorgeous, the way the color manifests itself on the skin. I’ve always thought hickeys looked like fireworks. I like the feeling of being marked and being in some way possessed through this.
I carry myself differently when I’m bruised. I usually make a concerted effort to cover them, but I still recognize they’re there. They make me hyperaware of my body. They make me feel gorgeous and unique.
Jack and Jitters, Part 2
(Note: What is to follow here depicts some consensual nonconsent. In no way was I ever actually not consenting to what was going on this evening, nor was I coerced into these acts by physical force. While certain acts depicted can be completely considered to be illegal and wrong in a very different context, SG and I are two consenting adults with a mutual understanding about the dynamic of our relationship and the fact that I could have terminated these actions anytime I wanted. While alcohol was involved, I was coherent and completely aware of the situation, not to mention I had the equivalent of what you’d rub around a baby’s mouth when it has a toothache. Seriously. Sober, safe, sane. Consensual.)
I was feeling a little bit bratty by the time I pulled the nightgown over my head. I wasn’t entirely thrilled with the fact that he’d made me go through the formality, so I decided I wasn’t going to make anything too easy for him either.
I took the glass out of his hand and took a sip. Then another. I set it back down on my bedside table. He reached for my hand, I took a step back and cocked a brow, lowered my head, raised my eyes. He reached out again, this time grabbing my arm, and swung me over to the bed.
SG has a sort of favorite way he likes to hold me where I’m bent over backwards on the side of the bed. The bed is on risers that put the mattress about a yard off the ground, so really just my shoulder-blades and up touch it. This time, he pushed me hard and I pushed back. He tried to pin my arms down, I struggled against his grasp. The second he reached down to pull the nightgown up, I used my free hand to try to shove his away. He gathered both hands above my head under one of his and proceeded to try to use a sheet to tie my wrists. Obviously, that’s just way too much fabric.
“My stockings are in the second drawer from the top,” I said, briefly breaking character. He smiled through his, reached in and grabbed a pair of black stockings. He secured my wrists together impossibly. Freaking Eagle Scouts.
He held onto the ends of the stockings with one hand, yanking my arms up further across the mattress to the point that I was forced onto my toes. He reached down between my legs and his fingers brushed over my lips and I closed my legs. “No,” I breathed. (Once again, dear readers: safe, sane, consensual, sober.)
“What did you just say?” He shoved my legs apart, holding one open and trapping the other between his.
“No,” I groaned again and tried to close my legs. He reached down and smacked my cunt. Hard, sharply. I cried out.
It’s strange. I wanted him and because I wanted him I wanted to refuse him. I know it doesn’t entirely make sense. But it’s like every time I said “no” and every time I refused him, I was bringing more of him out and into this. And the more of that part of him came out, the more of that part of me came out. It’s carnal. It’s completely and totally animalistic.
And it was also a demonstration. It was a trust fall. And as he pulled the stockings harder, pulling my body taut and arching my back more dramatically, I knew he’d catch me.
Oh, hi, new best friend.
Perfection.
Sometimes, I get completely absorbed in it. I set ridiculous standards for myself academically, personally, physically. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid.
To some degree, it’s really helped me along with my life thus far. It’s put me ahead, it’s kept me up to a certain standard in a variety of aspects of my life. But, sometimes, I just get way too fixated with it.
Lately, I’ve been trying to be more lenient with myself. We’ll see.
One of my friends wants to paint me. She’s been asking for the past two years, and, the other night – while a little boozy – I consented.
I have to admit, I’m a little nervous. Also, I don’t know how she wants me to sit, what she wants me to wear, etc. But, I’m a ton excited.
http://fotografie.dennisclaes.com/images/zoom/QNZTBN/evianneke_dscf8668.jpg
That tickle would be delicious.
My body is honest.
I went for that massage today from the guy I went to high school with. He left the room when I undressed and got under two white sheets on his massage table. When he got back, there was a lot of chuckling and shifting as he tried to make my position just so without exposing me. I was, at first, relaxed. But, when he started, I began to get anxious.
I’m never totally sure of my level of comfort with my body. Sometimes, I’m willing to show it all, run around naked, the whole nine yards. Others, I just sit there picking the poor thing apart and deeming it unworthy of public consumption.
So, today, I started to apologize for it. For the little bit of peach fuzz on the back of my thighs, for the callouses on the bottoms of my feet from two months in the third world, for this kink and that crack. And, while he assured me that my body was perfectly acceptable and fit and that he had massaged people weighing over 250 pounds so I was just fine, I just could not help but feel reluctant about sharing my body like this in the first place.
But my body had no reluctance about me. He repeated back to me the things that it was telling him. That I liked to run. That I kept my stress between my shoulder-blades. That I sometimes got lazy and didn’t stretch after exercise. It was unapologetic, uncensored. It told the good and the bad, sang praises of me despite all the times I had put it down. He was just the messenger. My body was talking to me. And it was being so terribly, beautifully honest.
At one point, I was on my stomach and he pulled my leg back. He was surprised to see when my heel touched the back of my head. It was as if my body were saying, “now look what I can do.” And when he had to push the muscles around my shoulder-blade around for how tense I’d allowed them to get, it was as if my body were urging, “now look what you can do.”
My body is honest. It’s been trying to talk to me. I’ve been too busy to hear it, but I think it’s about time that I start listening.
And maybe being honest with it, too.