“Women should be obscene and not heard." – Groucho Marx.
eyefucking
“Sweetheart, what did you do?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“You know I’m going to find out.”
“Uh huh.”
“And you know you’re going to be in trouble.”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, all right, sweetheart. Just as long as you know.”
They’re always so smug before you turn on the cold water.
The night I got there, Penthouse and I messed around. It was somewhere between tired and playful, with the vaguest implication of a dynamic.
When he was close, he asked if he could finish on my chest. I consented and he looked me over with a triumphant smirk. There’s something about a man who has been dominating me getting right close to cumming that makes me super bratty.
So, when he asked me what I was going to do with his cum, I presumed he probably expected me to blush.
Instead, I smiled and shrugged. “Oh, just taste it like this.” I wiped two fingers over my bare stomach as if to pantomime gathering some of his cum and brought them to my lips, bringing my head up and down on them. My eyes flashed up to meet his and I grinned around my fingers.
I probably shouldn’t be so smug about how he came right then.
“You’ve been so spoiled baby. Are you sure you want more?”
-my sexy husband
“I love Ivy. She’s a pistol."
I spent more than five minutes with my good friend’s current manfriend last night for the first time. And sometime during the night, he turned to my friend and said this.
I’m flattered, but ugh…I’m always the pistol. Or the character.
Ever since I was a little girl I intimidated the shit out of most men. Because I was smart and I was quick and I could head them off at the pass like no other. And I’m blunt and a little boisterous sometimes and I’ve been (really flatteringly) compared to Woody Allen.
Which is super if you’re a man, it seems. But it sends your average guy running for the hills. Women are mostly good with it, but God it’s hard finding available lesbians/bi girls on this campus (they’re either too close a friend or just unbearable or in a relationship).
And so I know the payoff is I’ll hopefully find someone who can handle all the (second time using it on this blog today) chutzpah, but it’s so frustrating to make a quip and have some guy take it totally seriously or have it go over their heads or to have them just write me off as a character or, eugh, a pistol.
kitten
photo: ellen von unwerth
vanity fair 2011
Whenever I see a picture on here of a girl with that sort of look in her eyes, it’s like something inside of me says, “whatever you want."
I’m a sucker for powerful gazes.
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.
New Year’s Eve: Part 3
“Ivy, you look like a girl who can throw!” exclaimed a friend of the hostess who had I met a few times before. “Come be my partner for beer pong.”
I snorted, “you’ve got the wrong girl.” But, I was in the team spirit, so I decided to go join him. “I’ve got warn you, though,” I said as he arranged the cups, “I’ve never played beer pong before.”
Let me tell you, tumblr. I haven’t found my calling, but I did employ some old skills. Across the table, on the other team, was a hottie with a bunch of tattoos and some pink in her hair. So, we’re going to call her Pink. I think her male partner was cute, too. Whatever. Didn’t pay him too much attention.
But, I did pull the top of my dress down a little to try to distract him, but she seemed damn into it as well. So, I hammed it up, wiggled my butt, acted cute. I even saved the game through a combination of diving across a rug for the ball (hence my skinned knee) and sinking the last ball.
Not to mention Pink followed me back over to Drew and Walter, who were chatting up some freckled cutie.
Scoreeeeee.
Bright red stockings. If only there was a use for you besides wearing nothing else and eyefucking someone from a couch.
Seriously, I love the color. But what would I wear it with?
I feel like every girl ought to have a plaid flannel shirt. I love mine. It’s comfortable and it’s understatedly sexy. Obviously, the understatedness only functions if you’re kind of covering yourself a little bit more than pictured. Because sometimes sexy isn’t too showy. I don’t know. Two cents. Just needed something to attach to this photo that wasn’t “oh my goodness, that eyefuck”.
But, really, oh my goodness, that eyefuck.