(Source: justinancheta)
(Source: lesbooty)
I think I’m emotionally constipated because I haven’t given a shit in months
what’s that thing called where your crush likes you back
oh yes your imagination
hello 911 yes i’d like to report a murder
this bitch killed my vibe
Suburbs once embodied America’s economic boom following WWII, but they now house the fastest growing portion of the nation’s poor.
For many in the 1950’s, the American Dream meant moving to the suburbs and escaping urban bustle.
However, moving to the suburbs today might not mean the same thing, according to a new study released on Monday by the Brookings Institution. It indicates poverty in the suburbs jumped 67 percent between 2000 and 2011. In fact, by 2008, suburbs were home to the largest and fastest-growing poor population in the country.
Sex is not a goddamn performance.
Sex should feel as natural as drinking water.
It should not require confidence.
Sex should happen, because the moment is ripe.
Ripening lips, ripening labia, ripening cock, ripening pupils, ripening state of being. Ripe and augmented and brimming. Your energy goes to your pumping heart, then to every external nerve, then to theirs, on fire.
You bask, roll, play in it. You sigh, moan, laugh.
It’s not about being “good in bed.”
It’s about being happy.
One should never worry if they’re doing it “correctly.” Sex is not factual. I don’t want your cookie-cutter sex, I don’t want your meticulously crafted, calculated, fool-proof fuck. I don’t want a show. I want you. Let your instincts, urges and whims define that. It’s enough.
What do most girls like? Forget about it. Statistics are meaningless when there’s only one. Hello, here’s me. Here’s you.
Don’t worry about taking it too slow. We got time. We got infinite rhythms, combinations, possibilities. Explore each fuck. Take our time. We can do a different one later.
Don’t worry about making me come. I’m here. Right where I want to be.
I am overwhelmed by wanting; you don’t have to convince me. I want you because I like you. So don’t put on a front. Don’t taint this.
I’m frustrated—it’s just authenticity I want.
It’s originality.
It’s passion.
It’s joy.
Don’t say that something I like is ugly. Don’t compare yourself to the rest. You will live and die with and within your experiences like everyone else. If someone thinks you are amazing, they are not wrong. Their universe is as real as any other; it is forged through perception.
I don’t care if you accidentally slammed my head into the wall, if you slipped out, if my arm cracked, if the delightful pressure of your wet lips on my anything made a silly sound. There is no right way and no wrong way.
“Good in bed,” what.
You’re good in my bed. I’m pleased you’re there. I feel it suits you.
Shove your technique. Let your memory swallow it. Fuck me like you’d fuck me, fuck me like you feel.
This isn’t a test.
I’m not trying to be desperate but I got hacked this week and lost a lot of followers so please follow my blog until I reach my old followers count again! Thank you!
(Source: cahfune)
