This is the kind of face that I’d make to provoke my tumblr girlfriend Dacry.
It is without a doubt that this is the sort of brattiness that she will absolutely make me regret displaying. And give me reason to do it more often.
Elizabeth Ward Gracen
nude
Oh, Dacry, I need to stop telling you things when you have tumblr open. So, hush, or I’m not coming to your playdate. And you’ll be sad.
My girl Ivy tells me she wants a glass of wine and someone eating her out.
I’m willing to volunteer, on the condition that she goes to the liquor store and asks them what wine goes well with pussy.
She assures me this will make her wonderfully blushy. I’m all for it.
I recently watched and enjoyed Eyes Wide Shut. It’s bad that I wish this entire montage of scenes would’ve lasted much longer. (And that they could’ve done without some of those cheesy masks and the cult shit.)
PS: Nicole Kidman’s a babe.
@Eyes Wide Shut – Stanley Kubrick
“Most people just fell in line like obedient little children, doing exactly what society expected of them at any given moment, all the while pretending that they’d actually made some sort of choice." – Tom Perrotta, Little Children.
Yes, darling, it’s going to get so much worse before it gets any better. Provided you have some patience and the sensibility to refrain from dripping onto the furniture.
Oh babe.
Confession: I sent a certain tumblr girlfriend of mine a photograph of myself of a certain variety. And I’m still kind of giggly over it. This may be the start of some sort of exhibitionism kick. Maybe.
“Dear Diary: Heather told me she teaches people "real life.” She said, real life sucks losers dry. You want to fuck with the eagles, you have to learn to fly. I said, so, you teach people how to spread their wings and fly? She said, yes. I said, you’re beautiful.“ From the film Heathers.
It’s his. And you can’t see it.
It doesn’t matter that she wishes you could. Or that she’s hoping he’ll spread his middle and ring fingers, opening her lips to you as an invitation. Or that she’s been looking at you with that same coy smile all day, letting thoughts of you taking that which he has hidden from you tumble around her mind.
You wonder if she’s wet under that hand. Part of you already knows the answer to that. You wonder what she tastes like. That you don’t know the answer to. He won’t grant you the privilege of that knowledge.
She’s surrendered herself to him this way out of her own free will. He chooses who sees her, who touches her, who tastes her, who fucks her. And he chooses who she gets to see, touch, taste and fuck. Judging by the hand going over her eyes, he can tell what you’re doing with her mind. And you can tell that you’ve clearly overstayed your welcome in there.
Happy Independence Day to my American followers.
Theirs.