The Huffington Post: “60 Stunning Photos Of Women Protesting Around The World”
Go girls go
<3
Tag: women
The Huffington Post: “60 Stunning Photos Of Women Protesting Around The World”
Go girls go
<3
Ladies in History: Jackie Ormes | Badass Lady Creatives
Ladies in History: Jackie Ormes | Badass Lady Creatives
Happiness
I had a dream in which I slept with a woman who I’ve never met. I discovered her years ago and her writing immediately got to me. Very visceral experiences, sad and tragic, but there was a strength there as well. There is such a strength in her writing. Not an unfamiliar story for me, to be drawn to a woman like her, but she also expressed an interest in my writing. It was a thrill for someone whose work I admired to like my stuff as well. In this way I developed a shy Internet affection toward her. The kind of affection expressed in clicking little hearts and stars.
But affection developed on the Internet has burned me. I feared going through it again, and bringing unnecessary drama into someone’s life. As much as I hate it, I seem to nurture that sort of bullshit. Goes back to before any of this Internet stuff. I wasn’t up for it again, in any case.
My heart is racing like it hasn’t in years. The dream was simple. We talked, we flirted, then we slept together. It’s the happiest I’ve been since I don’t want to know when. Haven’t felt a tenderness like I felt in that dream for a while. Just the possibility that I could be with someone with whom I could be natural, free. Happy. That word is rare in my vocabulary. Don’t even think it. It felt dangerously good. The kind of thing that becomes a fantasy. An unreal escape.
I wonder sometimes if that’s the worst thing. A pleasant fantasy. Of tenderness, lust, what have you. I’m like to agree with the opinion that it’s unhealthy, but who’s to say what happens in a dream? It’s a free zone of sorts. If happiness and beauty happen, then they happen. Appreciate the presence while it lasts.
Happiness
I had a dream in which I slept with a woman who I’ve never met. I discovered her years ago and her writing immediately got to me. Very visceral experiences, sad and tragic, but there was a strength there as well. There is such a strength in her writing. Not an unfamiliar story for me, to be drawn to a woman like her, but she also expressed an interest in my writing. It was a thrill for someone whose work I admired to like my stuff as well. In this way I developed a shy Internet affection toward her. The kind of affection expressed in clicking little hearts and stars.
But affection developed on the Internet has burned me. I feared going through it again, and bringing unnecessary drama into someone’s life. As much as I hate it, I seem to nurture that sort of bullshit. Goes back to before any of this Internet stuff. I wasn’t up for it again, in any case.
My heart is racing like it hasn’t in years. The dream was simple. We talked, we flirted, then we slept together. It’s the happiest I’ve been since I don’t want to know when. Haven’t felt a tenderness like I felt in that dream for a while. Just the possibility that I could be with someone with whom I could be natural, free. Happy. That word is rare in my vocabulary. Don’t even think it. It felt dangerously good. The kind of thing that becomes a fantasy. An unreal escape.
I wonder sometimes if that’s the worst thing. A pleasant fantasy. Of tenderness, lust, what have you. I’m like to agree with the opinion that it’s unhealthy, but who’s to say what happens in a dream? It’s a free zone of sorts. If happiness and beauty happen, then they happen. Appreciate the presence while it lasts.
Kgal Posted
I bought myself a bottle of wine to go with you.
The weather is cool and crisp – perfect for cuddling up with a good story and a glass of merlot.
Cheers.
I’ve been in a frenzy of expulsion. It feels like I’m riding down a steep grade on the way to a gas station/motel. I can see rolling golden hills and a couple of cars in the parking lot. The lot is sitting in the rain shadow of the mountains.
The narrative I try to construct is of ferocity and stubborn resolution. I write of conquests who are as few and far between as the rains (there’s the weather, again) and disclose little of their personalities, as if the nature of their being is irrelevant. They revolve around me as floating bodies drawn in to an immeasurable gravity which is granted only by the confidence I receive via their attention. Even now, thinking of what to disclose, I only want to discuss the ease with which I brought The Wife (my new archetype of infidelity) to orgasm by taking her labia in my hands and gently kneading back and forth, telling her how gorgeous she was in slightly less than drunk fashion. I want to write of physical attributes, of the tremendous release I felt when I was inside her, but not of moral implications. She was not a mother, as her and her husband had decided it was not a good time to raise a child. The financial burdens are many, she’d said. She worked as an HR coordinator and discussed a man who quit by sending an incendiary email to the whole company. Troublesome people. It went on like that until I got close and told her it must be stressful. That she was entitled to some joy and satisfaction. I always harp on satisfaction. That life is just, just so damn short. I wanted to enjoy it, as I told it. I took her freckled hand and told her I would leave soon for my motel, and she’d have a better night with me than in some shitty bar. Not a false word or hesitation. My voice already thinking ahead to her sweater on the floor and her hair in my hand. A miracle in the light of reasonable day, but a certainty under the rainslick twilight.
We did spend the entire night together. She cried, and I held her, which my mind urged me to quickly stop. The tenderness would be confusing, although the question is for whom. It was not a peaceful sleep. After I’d taken her to her car and returned to gather my things, I lifted her pillow. It smelled of our sweat and her perfume. I never asked what it was.
It’s been a while since the last time I was with a prostitute. She was a full figured hour glass in a tight dress and more makeup than necessary. Her amazing breasts hung over the fabric of her strapless dress as I rolled it down past her ribs and hips. She had the areolas of a madonna statue, and it drove me to focus on her upper body. She had small moles all along her shoulders. She asked me if it hurt when she rubbed her hands over the tags amidst the hair on my neck and shoulders, but I assured her she could continue. Time passed in this way. I wanted to get to it, but delayed the gratification for as long as possible. She mentioned it to me after nearly an hour. When I told her over the phone that I was inconsistent in my behavior—could be rough or unusual—she said it was my time, but no hitting or scratching. She expressed this forcefully in what I could only assume was a show of experience. I reminded her of it. My time, remember? I directed her for three hours. My dick was aching. When I finally fucked her it was to end it as expected, though I had hardly anything left in me. I keep thinking she was the model for my dream.
In a forum discussion about one night stands, someone wrote that it only works if neither party expects anything. If it’s sex for the sake of enjoyment. I thought this was a reasonable idea, but that I could not be that man. There will always be strings—memories trudged up to make the most of the experience.
Kgal Posted
I bought myself a bottle of wine to go with you.
The weather is cool and crisp – perfect for cuddling up with a good story and a glass of merlot.
Cheers.
I’ve been in a frenzy of expulsion. It feels like I’m riding down a steep grade on the way to a gas station/motel. I can see rolling golden hills and a couple of cars in the parking lot. The lot is sitting in the rain shadow of the mountains.
The narrative I try to construct is of ferocity and stubborn resolution. I write of conquests who are as few and far between as the rains (there’s the weather, again) and disclose little of their personalities, as if the nature of their being is irrelevant. They revolve around me as floating bodies drawn in to an immeasurable gravity which is granted only by the confidence I receive via their attention. Even now, thinking of what to disclose, I only want to discuss the ease with which I brought The Wife (my new archetype of infidelity) to orgasm by taking her labia in my hands and gently kneading back and forth, telling her how gorgeous she was in slightly less than drunk fashion. I want to write of physical attributes, of the tremendous release I felt when I was inside her, but not of moral implications. She was not a mother, as her and her husband had decided it was not a good time to raise a child. The financial burdens are many, she’d said. She worked as an HR coordinator and discussed a man who quit by sending an incendiary email to the whole company. Troublesome people. It went on like that until I got close and told her it must be stressful. That she was entitled to some joy and satisfaction. I always harp on satisfaction. That life is just, just so damn short. I wanted to enjoy it, as I told it. I took her freckled hand and told her I would leave soon for my motel, and she’d have a better night with me than in some shitty bar. Not a false word or hesitation. My voice already thinking ahead to her sweater on the floor and her hair in my hand. A miracle in the light of reasonable day, but a certainty under the rainslick twilight.
We did spend the entire night together. She cried, and I held her, which my mind urged me to quickly stop. The tenderness would be confusing, although the question is for whom. It was not a peaceful sleep. After I’d taken her to her car and returned to gather my things, I lifted her pillow. It smelled of our sweat and her perfume. I never asked what it was.
It’s been a while since the last time I was with a prostitute. She was a full figured hour glass in a tight dress and more makeup than necessary. Her amazing breasts hung over the fabric of her strapless dress as I rolled it down past her ribs and hips. She had the areolas of a madonna statue, and it drove me to focus on her upper body. She had small moles all along her shoulders. She asked me if it hurt when she rubbed her hands over the tags amidst the hair on my neck and shoulders, but I assured her she could continue. Time passed in this way. I wanted to get to it, but delayed the gratification for as long as possible. She mentioned it to me after nearly an hour. When I told her over the phone that I was inconsistent in my behavior—could be rough or unusual—she said it was my time, but no hitting or scratching. She expressed this forcefully in what I could only assume was a show of experience. I reminded her of it. My time, remember? I directed her for three hours. My dick was aching. When I finally fucked her it was to end it as expected, though I had hardly anything left in me. I keep thinking she was the model for my dream.
In a forum discussion about one night stands, someone wrote that it only works if neither party expects anything. If it’s sex for the sake of enjoyment. I thought this was a reasonable idea, but that I could not be that man. There will always be strings—memories trudged up to make the most of the experience.
Been reading all your blogs every month or so. Usually the last page or two. It makes me happy when any of you succeed or find some measure of fulfillment in your lives. When things’re bad I want to pick you up by the armpits and tell you to it’s not as bad as all that. You’re alive and capable. What’re you complaining about? Get to work.
I don’t think I’ll ever break away from allowing others to influence my emotions that way. If I cared to look into my types ‘n such I could probably explain why, but the analyses give me a headache. If someone wrote a story of a character for each type I might gain a better understanding. It’d make for an interesting book, but only if the stories weren’t overt. In stories, unlike in the rest of life, you shouldn’t be overt. Be complex. Explain without explaining. “And the lesson was…” is the worst thing you could do.
I do things to get women to kiss me and bend over and plead. I have a look, even, which is news to me. Sometimes I’m just not sure what to say to someone I’d like to get to know a little better at a slower pace. We’re sitting at Starbucks and the country music’s playing and we talk about work as a makeup counter girl at Sears and as a grown man playing video games for a living and then. And then.
Which is to say I’m 30 next month and the opposite sex still mystifies me on certain levels. Which is to say sometimes I’ve got nothing to say except lines that get women to kiss me and bend over and plead.
“Have you attained a heightened state of awareness? From yoga?”
A polite laugh.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so, no.”
“I hear it’s somethin’ else. Like weightlessness. Like your mind is just released from this mortal coil. I’m jealous, you know.”
“Jealous? Of what?”
“That you can do yoga. That you can focus your mind and body like that. You’ll reach goals most people won’t ever get to, I bet. I can’t do it. No way. My mind’s a mess.”
Been reading all your blogs every month or so. Usually the last page or two. It makes me happy when any of you succeed or find some measure of fulfillment in your lives. When things’re bad I want to pick you up by the armpits and tell you to it’s not as bad as all that. You’re alive and capable. What’re you complaining about? Get to work.
I don’t think I’ll ever break away from allowing others to influence my emotions that way. If I cared to look into my types ‘n such I could probably explain why, but the analyses give me a headache. If someone wrote a story of a character for each type I might gain a better understanding. It’d make for an interesting book, but only if the stories weren’t overt. In stories, unlike in the rest of life, you shouldn’t be overt. Be complex. Explain without explaining. “And the lesson was…” is the worst thing you could do.
I do things to get women to kiss me and bend over and plead. I have a look, even, which is news to me. Sometimes I’m just not sure what to say to someone I’d like to get to know a little better at a slower pace. We’re sitting at Starbucks and the country music’s playing and we talk about work as a makeup counter girl at Sears and as a grown man playing video games for a living and then. And then.
Which is to say I’m 30 next month and the opposite sex still mystifies me on certain levels. Which is to say sometimes I’ve got nothing to say except lines that get women to kiss me and bend over and plead.
“Have you attained a heightened state of awareness? From yoga?”
A polite laugh.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so, no.”
“I hear it’s somethin’ else. Like weightlessness. Like your mind is just released from this mortal coil. I’m jealous, you know.”
“Jealous? Of what?”
“That you can do yoga. That you can focus your mind and body like that. You’ll reach goals most people won’t ever get to, I bet. I can’t do it. No way. My mind’s a mess.”