Five dayyyys.
pizza
Channeling this today.
Come at me.
“In 1921, early suffragettes often donned a bathing suit and ate pizza in large groups to annoy men…it was a custom at the time”
This is me, according to my Daddy.
The pizza out here is sad and soggy and disappointing.
I’m pizzasick. I miss the pizza I grew up with.
But in less than a month, I get to go home for a little bit, see my man and eat some real goddamn pizza.
Topanga Lawrence: Best role model for girls since 1993
When I was little, I wanted to grow up to be her. I think I’ve succeeded.
Under cover
© Camilla Storgaard
I thought she had pizza on her face when I first scrolled past this.
Where is my brain.
1. I def saw pizza as well, to the surprise of no one.
2. I rubbed and teased my clit so much yesterday afternoon that it’s legitimately sore today. Whoops.
Sitting on Craftsmate’s couch, eating his roommate’s leftover mac and cheese (except then this popped up on my dash and I got mad food envy) out of a pot, working on a paper I’ve been putting off and off and off.
Send me nice stuff, night owls.
<3, Ivy
So, I got what isn’t on-paper a job offer but is essentially a job offer.
Doing something wonderful and challenging.
With a starting salary that is unexpectedly good for somebody with my degree and academic interests. (Which isn’t, like, what is persuading me to go.)
In the coming weeks, I’ve been invited to check the place out, meet some potential coworkers and see if this is right for me.
After feeling really anxious about my future for the past few weeks, I’m going to go have a slice of pizza and just revel in this.
Easing out the Kinks, Part Three
Penthouse was grinning that cat that ate the canary smile when we left his apartment. Underneath my coat and sweater, my nipples were clamped and connected by a short chain that was tucked into my bra. I felt it whenever I moved and even when I was still: a nagging sting that made it impossible to focus on anything else.
“You know what little girls do?” He teased, “they skip. Why don’t you just skip to the pizzeria?”
I shot him a glare, but he just laughed.
When he had sat down to lunch, he looked me over and said, “you must be warm. Why don’t you take off your coat?” Under my coat, I was wearing a thin sweater and unlined bra. Literally nothing would be left to the imagination if I were to do that, so I kept it on and huffed while he laughed every time I hesitated before gingerly moving to take another bite of pizza.
Throughout the course of the meal, Penthouse would teasingly tell me to adjust my posture and I would try to hold in a wince as I straightened my back, applying more strain on my nipples. He made excuses to get me to look behind me, causing my sore nipples to rub against the fabric of my clothing.
For as quietly humiliating and excruciating the experience was, I could feel myself growing wet. And though I whined softly on the way back to his apartment about wanting them off, it was impossible to deny that I was enjoying myself despite everything. This detail was perhaps the most humiliating aspect of the entire ordeal.