Pink usually washes me out, but I don’t care. I want all of this.
stockings
If you really want out, just find the door and you can leave.
Seriously. Just go over to the door, it’s not even locked.
No hassle at all.
I’ll give you a few minutes to decide.
And if I find you’re still here, I’ll assume you’ve decided to stay.
There’s a point right when my bush starts to grow back from a wax that it feels a little bit like a buzzcut.
And during that time, I feel just a little bit tougher than usual.
Because I’m sort of the lamest person ever.
It can be so hard sometimes just to focus on your own thoughts. It’s in these moments of quiet contemplation and enforced solitude, of a self-awareness brought on by the presence of foreign sensation, that the amount of stimulus that exists surprisingly can drive you into a moment with yourself and your thoughts.
and what happened when you showed that stranger yourself?
Like a frozen computer, all my buttons are getting pushed right now.
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.
I get into this terrible habit of slut-shaming myself when things don’t go exactly my way with guys.
Which is super healthy, right?
That guy from my frat says this weekend is super busy for him. And instead of taking this at face value and being like, “totally, okay, cool, he’s just got a lot on his plate for finals next week” I jump right to, “he doesn’t want to go with me because he thinks I’m trash.”
I don’t know why I go there, but it’s a really strange insecurity of mine. My knee-jerk reaction for a while now has literally just become, “[person in question] thinks I’m a whore and has lost interest”. In my defense, it’s been drilled into my head since like age eight by the patriarchy that if I get around too much I don’t deserve affection. (And you’re not fucking helping either, Taylor Swift, you backwards man-stealing puritan, seriously just because someone’s less pure and nerdysexy and blonde than you are doesn’t mean they deserve a boyfriend).
Sexually open women deserve this stuff just as much as women who make the choice to abstain. I’ve just got to silence the stupid critics in my head.
She’d been horrible. Incorrigible, careless, bratty.
The easy thing to do would just be to punish her, to smack that stockinged ass until she wailed and apologized. But the effects of that sort of correction were fast becoming short-lived. ‘Sorry’ didn’t seem to extend beyond the moment of forgiveness. She made the same comments, the same coy quips, the same little acts of insubordination intentionally designed to provoke.
And so the best thing to do is to leave her that way. To make her wait, to forbid her from easing the angles of her back and knees, to let her cry and learn to become patient when suddenly things are no longer about her. A surefire way to reform a brat is to deny her attention to the point that contact becomes so rare and cherished that she will not do anything to provoke further action. Waiting has a profound and sobering effect on perspective.
She has a set of rules to follow regarding how to sit in chairs. Perhaps they’re a little particular, but most are in the interest of posture, others aesthetic.
When she’s caught, she’ll insist that she’s sitting up straight. She will tell you how this shows her off better, how it makes prominent the lacing of her corset or the thin fabric over her rear.
And it will all make perfect sense, but so will the added punishment of the top of the back of the chair digging into her stomach as she’s pulled up, bent over it and dealt with properly.
Sometimes, things just feel a little more difficult. Feelings catch up with you. Sometimes, I feel like I’m not moving anywhere, if not just backwards. It just, I don’t know, stinks.
And it’s hard when most people in my life can’t relate or don’t understand. And I don’t want to have to sit there and say, “this feels bad because of this."
And it’s even harder when the people who do understand have some sort of stake in it. Or it’s just tempting to let other people fix the problem. Or overwrite the problem with other people.
Sigh. I don’t know, tumblr. I guess I just have a lot of feelings tonight.