There’s times with him where I feel like we’re both in on the most absurd, most hilarious joke ever. There’s times I glance across a room and we catch each others’ eyes and smile and just kind of understand. When I say it feels like a game, it mean to say that we’ve given ourselves our own set of rules.
Sir and I have the kind of goofy intimacy that reminds me why he’s my home base.
HOMMEMYSTERE – A QUALITY LINGERIE LABEL FOR MEN
A company that sells some very lovely looking lingerie for men.
Because if that’s what you’re comfortable, it’s good to know there’s a company out there who are happy to cater to you.
Well. Goodness. I feel quite flushed.
SO MUCH WIN.
I am 500 shades of more-than-just-okay with this.
Some linguists, such as Barrett and Tolkein, insist that “cellar door” is the one of the most beautiful phrases in the English language based on sound alone.
I’m making a motion here that kitchenrape is actually more beautiful, both in terms of phonaesthetics and semantics.
mmmm. kitchenrape.
Oh my gosh this caption is just the cutest thing to ever happen to tumblr.
Daddy and piglet. Foreva. Foreva-eva. Foreva-eva.
We start talking. Casually. Not about anything weighing too heavily on this earth. About the band that’s playing, about the band that’s yet to come.
“We’ve got a hotel room nearby,” he finally says. She smiles, punctuating the thought.
I smile and play dumb, “yeah, I’m sleeping at a friend’s."
The music really picks up. The lead singer of the opener is dancing around the stage. The crowd is swaying with him.
They’re kissing. Deeply. Lovingly. I can tell I wouldn’t just be a fixer to this relationship. They don’t need me to be able to have a good night together. They’re just so comfortable with each other. They seem so happy. It’s actually a really sexy thought, one I’ve certainly gone into detail on in this tumblr.
He looks over his shoulder at me to see I’ve been watching. She smiles and nods a head over for me to join them. But, I just start dancing. I’m really not going to give in that easy. I just keep twisting and shaking with my friends, making sure to send an occasional smile over to them.
I noticed them right away.
We had just gotten a damn good spot by the stage and my friends and I were keeping to ourselves for the time being. We had met up here, some going to school in the area and some, such as I, a short train ride away. But, even in our insularity, I saw them. And I knew for a fact that they saw me.
She winked and nudged him. He looked over his shoulder at me and smiled before leaning down to kiss her. They just looked amazing together. They were one of those couples that made sense. They weren’t blindingly attractive, but they both were blessed with some wonderful attributes and they just seemed to compliment each other so well. It was like this weird kind of symbiosis where they both got a little more attractive out of it on virtue of fitting together (and, okay, being able to just flirt with me in such perfect harmony).
The opener came on. One of my friends followed my gaze before leaning over and whispering, “you into one of them or something?” I just smiled and shrugged. I wasn’t going to leave my friends to go after these people. And, yet…
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.
