Dear Dacry,
It’s almost too perfect.
<3, Ivy
PS: Could you imagine if my boobs were that big? Seriously.
breast
“Whether you sniff it smoke it eat it or shove it up your ass the result is the same: addiction,“ William S. Burroughs, Naked Lunch
Pictures like this make me hate myself for disliking honey. Seriously.
How sexy is this? A ton. And how much can I do in this situation? Not much. I’d try to lean in and lick it off and I’d probably just wind up making a face and doing that little clicky-tongue thing people do when they can’t handle how sweet something is.
But, ugh, those breasts, those lips, the imagery of the honey all over her like that. It’s almost too much to handle.
We’ll just pretend it’s maple syrup. On vanilla skin.
I love being held in such a way that I’m practically made to feel small.
Fantasy currently keeping Ivy tossing in the night:
I meet them at a party. Or maybe out for coffee. Maybe on the train. We exchange pleasantries. They’re artists. Or they’re suffering through the constant rat race of academia. Or they in some sort of reputable position that they put on the second they leave their home and toss right off once they come back to descend back into the perversion that society has so confusingly frowned upon.
We see something in each other. We’re all not sure just what. They’re mature, beautiful, interesting. I feel so young in comparison, so naive and untamed. They’ve fine-tuned their sexuality to a more refined standard, they understand how to control their energy in a way that I cannot. They seem so in love with each other, so infatuated with each other, so connected.
I just want be along with them. I want my own Henry and June without the drama of a crumbling relationship. I just want to learn. I want to be under their wings. I want her to do my makeup and pick out my clothes. I want her to show me all the places she goes. I want her to show me herself in such a way that I can only hope to glean her best qualities over time as he watches with a satisfied smile as their girl grows with them.
We arrange to go for a walk, get a cup of tea, take a drive. She wears something so conservative that it’s nearly scandalous, he keeps it simple. I suddenly feel so ostentatious and childish, like I’ve been going through my mother’s closet and I’ve stumbled out into public in shoes six sizes too big and lipstick smeared on my chin. But they still see something in me, it seems, some little glimmer of something that they could make me into. I want to be changed.
I want them to come in like a hurricane and blow my roof off. I want them to take me places, to introduce me to people. I want to be their girl, their project, their source of some sort of amusement at how reckless I am and how much restraint I lack.
And the day when I’m finally in the situation when I have him nude and her breast presented to me, I want to feel as if I’ve earned it.