Anyone that tries to tell you that
‘leggings aren’t pants’
is missing out…
The first time I messed around with a girl, it was through a pair of leggings that I eventually soaked right through. Whyexactly is right on the money with this one.
lesbian
Corona came to visit this weekend.
We got to hang out with each other and talk a little bit on Friday. Upon seeing each other again, we hugged for an inordinate amount of time. She’s doing well and, knowing what kind of a girl I am, told me not to worry about her. Which is hard, but seeing her made me so immensely happy.
On Saturday night, in the middle of a crowd of people, she kissed me. Quickly but ardently. Her hands lingered on my waist and we chuckled as I rubbed off the smudge of my makeup had rubbed off onto her.
As I went to go find someone, she gave my ass a squeeze and smirked. “Missed this.”
“Silence may be as variously shaded as speech,“ – Edith Wharton.
What is this and can I live there?
That girl down the street seriously throws some of the best slumber parties.
And if you think this is rough:
You can’t even imagine what you have to do to get invited.
Ellen Von Unwerth
(via bohemea)
With things being complicated and absurd with the Southern Gentleman and because I have realized that it has been a long time since I have been with a girl, I think it is within reason that I consider the possibilities of a Southern Belle.
Move over, SG.
“Love, I realized, is something your spine memorized,” Lorrie Moore, Anagrams.
Sometimes I get a little miffed and fist-waggy at all the “preparing her for Sir/Master/Daddy/An orgy of strangers/The Grand Poobah”. Because, sheesh, why can’t the woman in question just be preparing her partner for herself? The lady has needs of her own, I can assure you.
Not that a good threesome or hierarchy isn’t welcome, but there’s such an abundance of them that it makes me want to read one caption somewhere that details some eager girl in cute panties having some fun on her own with her little girlfriend.
Yeah, yeah, I’m picky. I’ll get off my soapbox now.
I like the moment where hair becomes a liability. Where it sticks to foreheads and temples, where it slides and clings between fingers. I like the fact that somehow we want to get barer, to shed just another hindrance until it is us at our most basic and needy.
I like the shoving of limbs that comes with that. The folding them up and the stretching them wide. Suddenly, even the most essential things have suddenly become dispensable, excessive. At one point, they were the very things we caressed, lingered on, drew from them painstaking and labored admissions of desire. And, now, like our clothes, we attempt to toss them aside.
It’s interesting to me that for how extensive foreplay and physical upkeep can be, for how much we know prolonging and lingering enhances this, our bodies creep toward a singleminded desire, removing the excess and diving forth into the necessary.
Photograph submitted by jeunefille18.
Sometimes, you just want her all at once. You realize that you’re not capable of such a thing. You bring her close but you can never quite bring her close enough. You press yourself into her with such force that you suppose that perhaps you’ll finally just fall into her.
The top layer of our cells are sloughed off. It’s a little disgusting to think about, but there’s something romantic about the idea that we leave a little bit of ourselves everywhere we go and on everything we touch. And so you can figure that part of her is on you, part of you is on her.
And you figure maybe that’s a huge part of intimacy: not being sure what’s you and what’s her anymore.