POC not wanting to date white people because of a history of colonization and systematic powers of oppression, fear of or weariness over casual and blatant racism, and/or the lack of a shared culture is NOT that same as white people not wanting to date POC because of caricatures that they created, stereotypes that they mock and replicate, and their own racism–whether they think they’re racist or not.
In short: POC are not and cannot be racist for not wanting to date white people. Whereas white people are just plain racist.
How about we just date people were attracted to?
White people don’t have to date POC if they’re not attracted to them. POC don’t have to date white people if they’re not attracted to them.
How about you unfollow me rn immediately or not add your dumb ass no one asked you commentary to posts that aren’t for you
Month: June 2015
He snatched whoopi’s eyebrows clean off
(Source: http://peruviandeepwave.tumblr.com/)
Being a girl in this world is honestly so strange like do u know how much we miss out on because we are scared? How much of the night We don’t get to see because walking around alone is too dangerous? Do u notice the way girls walk at night, and does your heart hurt when U see them quicken their pace and lower their gaze when men walk past? Mine does
still think men are evil and selfish and insane though don’t get it twisted
Wunderkinds are Bullshit
For every Alexander Wang, who launched his first clothing collection at age 23, there’s a Rick Owens (debuted at 32), Donna Karan (debuted at 37) and Yohji Yamamoto (debuted at 38).
For every Orson Welles, who made Citizen Kane when he was 25, there’s Ang Lee, whose first film was released at 38, and Katheryn Bigelow, who made clunkers until she won an Oscar for The Hurt Locker at 57. (Though I’d argue her first hit was the masterful Keanu Reeves/Patrick Swayze surf heist film Point Break).
Kristen Wiig studied art and took an acting class to fulfill a requirement. She dropped out and didn’t join Saturday Night Live until 2005, at the age of 32.
Mark Twain wrote Huckleberry Finn at age 49.
I can play this game forever.
Many of you reading might be in jobs you don’t like. Itching to break free from the grind to become independent Artists. Some of you might feel like it’s too late. It’s not.
We are fascinated by wunderkinds because it’s not normal. They stick out. Wunderkinds are rare by design. We fantasize about being a wunderkind because it means less time and work to be successful.
Obsessing over being a wunderkind is as effective as making “win the lottery” your business plan. It’s also pointless if you’re past the age of 25 like me.
There’s a better strategy on the road to success. That’s working smart combined with a bit of time.
For every one wunderkind who wins the success lottery, we have a thousand older, equally successful artists.
To try to become a young success, time is your enemy.
To try to become a success in general, time is an ally.the realest thing I’ve seen on tumblr in a minute.
Ohhhh I needed to read this so bad. Finally, a feel-better post not dripping in meaningless abstraction.
THIS IS GOOD POST YOU ARE GOOD PERSON
These two girls went in
their camera man though
(Source: http://atira-patrice.tumblr.com/)
Catharsis
StandardI’ve been sensitive – sad, even – for the past couple days. Yesterday I laid on the couch all day, barely moving, watching movies intended to make me cry. Today he took the day off for other reasons, and we ended up having a really incredible scene together.
I’d been messing with him: wiggling my fingers in front of his eyes while he tried to use the computer. Trying to get his attention even though I’d forgotten what I wanted to say to him. Being my Cute Girlfriend self.
So when I laid down on the ground and put my feet in the air – trying my best to touch his face obnoxiously – he pressed his foot between my legs.
There are a few things that instantly put me into a submissive headspace. Apparently I’ll need to add being stepped on to that list. He pressed down firmly, exploring with the pad of his foot to find the places that made me react the most. I stopped being able to form coherent words when he pressed harder.
“Oh, so you like that, little girl?” Ugh. “Is that all it takes?”
When I flipped over to attempt escape, he stepped on my back to keep me still, then pressed the top of his foot between my legs and pushed again. I was done for.
“I have to go do work,” I said.
“Get on all fours,” he responded.
He won. He pulled down my leggings and fingered me at a fast clip while I moaned unintelligibly. He pushed the wet finger into my mouth and made me clean it up.
At this point, I started getting fussy. My fussy, bratty side only happens with him, and I think it’s because I feel overwhelmed not just by what’s happening, but also by my real, non-sex life, of which he is a big part. Whatever the case, he is getting increasingly good at dealing with me when I’m unreasonable.
He took a moment to check in, standing me up against his chest and holding me close.
“What do you want right now? We don’t have to do anything.”
I was quiet, but I knew what I wanted. I’d wanted it for days. “Will you fuck me doggy style?”
“Of course.” A pause, then back to being Daddy. “Doggies are naked, though, aren’t they?”
I stripped hungrily and got back on my hands and knees. In the meantime, he managed not only to get naked but also to find a belt. “Doggies get punished sometimes, too,” he said.
He warmed up my ass and my shoulders nicely. After a couple mean strikes to the outsides of my thighs, he grabbed me by my hair and used it to lead me, crawling clumsily, to our bedroom.
He sat down on the edge of our bed with me between his legs. “Get it nice and wet,” he commanded. I pulled him deep into the back of my throat, where I knew I could make things really sloppy. I love the feeling of thick drool as it sloshes around each thrust. (Perhaps gross, but that’s me. I’m a gross individual.)
He closed his eyes and laid back for a bit, moaning occasionally, and it wasn’t long before he had me on the bed, back on all fours. The first thrust was good; the second one was better; and so on. Harder, faster. With fingers pressed deep into the meat of my hips. I came once, then a second time while his balls slapped my clit. Perfect.
He pulled the belt taut around my neck for a little while – third orgasm – but I wasn’t in the mood for the fear it engendered. Instead, I flipped over for missionary and came again with my knees near my ears.
“Will you slap me, please?” He would. He held my head still with one hand and slapped me over and over again with his left hand. Then his right. Then his left again. And on the second pass with his right hand, his aim got a slight hint of recklessness, of being too far gone to care. It was delicious. I started to cry.
“Don’t stop,” I said.
“I won’t,” thrusting away. I came again with tears falling down my cheeks.
“Choke me.” He found the veins in my neck with his thumbs and pressed down. Things got hazy, but his face was close to mine, focused in the blur. I orgasmed again. Hard.
“Did you come?” I asked him, confused when he kept thrusting.
“No, but you’re really wet.” Holy shit. So now we know: choking makes me so wet it feels like someone else has jizzed inside me. Casual observations of the extent of my perversions.
“Choking you makes me want to come, so I’m going to have you come a few more times before I do it again.” He was as good as his word, gripping the flesh of my chest for leverage until his nails dug into my skin.
When he did decide to choke me again, it hurt. He dug his fingers into my neck for what felt like a long time, and I started to be afraid I’d blackout before he finished. Then I stopped being worried about it, as my body went limp. I was pretty far gone when he did eventually, actually come inside me.
We’ve been playing together for a long time, and our dynamic is always changing, but playing with someone who knows me and my feelings really well leads to incredible moments of learning and comfort and vulnerability. Woosah.
