sexy

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Continued from here.

She closed up her pocketknife and held it out to me, “so, you like knives?”

I smiled and took it from her, “yeah, I just think they’re beautiful.” I flipped it back open and looked over it. I traced my finger up the blade. It was an absolutely gorgeous pocketknife. 

“Do you collect?” she asked.

I shook my head, “no, no, I don’t collect. I just admire.” I tested the tip against the pad of my thumb before adding, “this is pretty nice.” She had to know what she was doing. She had to. No one who isn’t into knives would pick one like this. 

No, I told myself. I was reading too much into this. This was probably just some girl who kept a knife around for fun. Who now thought I was a freak of nature for how giddy I was getting over hers. But she had smiled. I tried to think it over, but decided it was pointless to try to analyze it any further.

I closed it and reluctantly handed it back to her. The rest of the night played out fairly normally. I dismissed the entire situation as just a case of a girl who had, by some stroke of luck, but herself a knife without realizing how nice it was. Or someone had gotten it for her. I wasn’t going to ask any more about the knife. I didn’t want to attract more attention to how much I was feeling it. 

I had gravitated to a different group of girls before I determined I should head back. I made my rounds, saying goodbye before heading toward the door. I passed her in my friend’s foyer, my hand on the door to the hallway. 

“Ivy,” she said as I passed. “I hope I can see you again sometime.” There was a catch in her voice. I turned. She was holding the knife. 

I booked it out of there, blushing like crazy.

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Last night, my friend threw a meet and greet for all of her queer ladies. It wasn’t nearly as scandalous as it sounds. But, yeah, there was a little bit of scandal.

It was a “dry” get-together and we were all just hanging around, getting to know each other, catching up with old friends, griping about finals, and passing around a bag of chips. And then they came in. Fresh from a workout together. Fresh from the showers. Just fresh.

I have a weakness for women with athletic bodies. But black women with athletic bodies? Oh, heavens me. And a whole group of them from one team. Laughing, smiling, joking. There were four of them. Three of which took on the more “butch” side of the spectrum and the fourth more “femme”. I really hate using those terms. But substitute in whatever you want there that makes you happy.

I got into talking with one of the members of the former group. She was incredibly chill, interesting, kind of flirty.  She had changed from her workout clothing and was in a loose pair of jeans, a t-shirt, a flannel, and a baseball cap turned backwards. So many Ivy buttons, some that I didn’t even think existed, were being pushed.

But that big ol’ red button got slammed down when someone said they couldn’t get the packaging off of a board game across the room. Without hesitation, she reached into her pocket, whipped out a pocket knife, and flicked it open. It was larger than your average bear pocket knife.

I stared, practically hypnotized. She followed the line of my sight. And smirked. 

To be continued.

(Also, do you know how hard it was to find a remotely not-white picture of a female athletic body? Jeez, tumblr.)

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I did a little investigation and my super-sleuth abilities lead me to find out that her name is Janelle Fishman. And all the photos we have been fawning over, Heart, and some we’ve even reblogged that don’t include Janelle, belong to a giant work of photographic genius by Ellen von Unwerth called Revenge. 

And, get this! They’re not vintage at all. They were taken in 2002-3. That’s talent. 

PS: Revenge is deviously sexy. The work itself. And the overarching concept.

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I just don’t even know what to say besides the fact that I absolutely want to belong to her.

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What was it about silence speaking louder than words? Can we apply that to muffled cries underneath a hand? Either way, the commentary here speaks volumes. 

trilbygrey:

“Mmm hmmm mmnf mumf gumf.”

As loud as you want sweetheart.

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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.

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Reason #4056 why I’m running away to join the circus. 

trilbygrey:

“What’s your name dear?”

“Verity, Sir.”

“Lovely. And can we have another volunteer from the audience to come into the ring and fuck the lovely Verity?”

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I must admit I had to consult google on this Poison Ivy gal. But, hey, any publicity is good publicity. <3 

PS: She’s a fox.

PPS: Currently rattling around my head? Nananananana Nanananana Nanananana BATMAN.

bobquantum:

psychedelibob:

Poison Ivy

I knew I’d seen Ivy before. Good job HDLH reminded me.

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Only Stoya can make God a three-syllable word.