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Playdate with Popcorn, Part 1 

I was all nervous about texting Popcorn after we messed around, but Penthouse insisted she would want to. And, lo and behold, when I picked up my phone she had already texted me thanking me for letting her see me leashed.

Except, I was way too anxious about texting her still and Penthouse had to sit there, play with my hair, calm me down, and then text her for me. Really. Because I’m bashful and apparently still in middle school. But he was a very good sport of listening to me get all nervous and then giddy and then everywhere in between.

But, the plans to get together later that evening were made and things were looking peachy.

kitty-en-classe:

Under your skin, 1966

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Continued from here.

The Southern Gentleman has a theory about the types of men I’m into. Basically, they fall into one of two categories: a) charismatic Aryans and b) what he calls “effete feminists” but is honestly just cause-oriented hipster-types.

I told him I was going to see Penthouse and before I left he proceeded to ask me, “so, which type is he?”

“You’re a jerk,” I replied.

“Feminist it is, then.”

Thus, when Penthouse texted SG from my phone, he decided to include the fact that he straddled the two categories.

And then proceeded to solicit advice.

“What’s he saying?” I asked.

Penthouse smirked, “he’s saying to feign indifference.” He yanked on the rope, pulling my crotchrope tighter, and I gasped. “But I think I like this better.”

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That guy from my frat actually just asked me if I’ve ever heard of Feminist Ryan Gosling. Seriously?

So, I had no issue bullying him a little. Because I think it’s been too long since I bullied him. And because I think he deserves it.

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Just thought I’d share this with you all. Because, gosh, I don’t know, it’s somehow relevant.

Essentially, later on that day, as my friends and I were driving around hungover and looking for brunch, I explained to SG where my liquor confidence had come from. Mostly, a lot of liquid. But, also the addition of a new liquid (solid? soquid? I used to know this. Oh, solutions.) to my repertoire.

Which led to this exchange.

All the while, my friend was blasting “No Church in the Wild” and those certain lyrics were coursing through the car as we texted like this. I’ve always felt that song was somehow, a little bit, off. And, yet, in that moment, even if it was cheesily and stupidly appropriate, the song seemed to be right on track.

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I had a text exchange with the Southern Gentleman, who likes to pretend our little fiasco didn’t happen and tries to talk to me normally. Which, ugh, I don’t know. Maybe that’s a good thing. He tried to uncomfortably sext me about three weeks ago and I was literally disgusted.

Recently, I made an okcupid account since there isn’t much else to do around here and I have what should be a really great date coming up with what seems like an awesome, smart, sane guy. But, when SG asked me if I was seeing anyone while he was texting me today, I responded with: “no, the only relationship I’m in is with my numerous vices.”

“I hope to be one of those vices,” he texted right back.

I rolled my eyes and texted: “I bet you do.”

SG replied with: “Look at you, all coy.”

It’s funny how guys can sometimes confuse coyness and ambivalence.

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Meet Switch, Part Ten

By the time we finished, the sun was rising. Switch removed his belt from my wrists, pulled me back against him and we fell asleep curled up with each other. There was something sort of sweet about the way he held me.

We slept only about three hours, we both had things to do or places to be in the morning. We wound up lingering in bed another hour before having to rush off. 

I got a text later that day from him expressing that he’d like to see me again and asking what I was doing Friday night. It took some restraint to not just be cheesy and reply “you?”. 

But, uh, yeah. 

More Sex, Less Class

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SG: You should get your little ass over here. I want to see you bend over.
Me: I wish. I have class in like 10.
SG: Where are you?
Me: The library.
SG: I think you should touch yourself. Because your cunt needs to be fucked and I can’t do it from here.
Me: Oh yeah?
SG: Get over here. I want to destroy you.
Me: I have class.
SG: If it were up to me, you’d just be tied to my bed all day, legs spread. And a couple of times a day I’d come over and use you.
Me: I like that.
SG: I bet you do, slut.
Me: Except for the part where my muscles atrophy from lack of movement but fuck science this is dirty talk.
SG: This is why you need more sex and less class.

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Text this morning from that guy in my frat: “I don’t think I’m going to formals.”

Honestly, someone had better have died. Because otherwise his chances with me just did. And seriously I just turned somebody else down yesterday. This feels like high school.

SERIOUSLY THIS IS NOT HOW YOU WOO A WOMAN. FOLLOWERS, TAKE NOTES. 

Clearly 21 is the age of the beefhead.