kelsey gutierrez

[babeimgonnaleaveu]

Marlon Brando in publicity photos for A Streetcar Named Desire, 1951.

[shmoo06]

While we’re warming up here I’m gonna tell you the best story that you’ve ever heard in your life. So I met this woman, and I went home to her house with her, already a great story. x

[notmanetstype]

If a man is only as good as his word, then I want to marry a man with a vocabulary like yours. The way you say dicey and delectable and octogenarian in the same sentence — that really turns me on. The way you describe the oranges in your backyard using anarchistic and intimate in the same breath. I would follow the legato and staccato of your tongue wrapping around your diction until listening become more like dreaming and dreaming became more like kissing you. I want to jump off the cliff of your voice into the suicide of your stream of consciousness. I want to visit the place in your heart where the wrong words die. I want to map it out with a dictionary and points of brilliant light until it looks more like a star chart than a strategy for communication. I want to see where your words are born. I want to find a pattern in the astrology. I want to memorize the scripts of your seductions. I want to live in the long-winded epics of your disappointments, in the haiku of your epiphanies. I want to know all the names you’ve given your desires. I want to find my name among them, ‘cause there is nothing more wrecking sexy than the right word. I want to thank whoever told you there was no such thing as a synonym. I want to throw a party for the heartbreak that turned you into a poet. And if it is true that a man is only as good as his word then, sweet jesus, let me be there the first time you are speechless, and all your explosive wisdom becomes a burning ball of sun in your throat, and all you can bring yourself to utter is, oh god, oh god.

Mindy Nettifee 

[tampongrease]

Understanding How Depression Feels (via buzzfeed)

[roseforthethorns]

I’ve been struggling with depression since I was 8. This is 100% accurate. The worst are the days when you know you need to do something but can’t. You just can’t bring yourself to do it and it’s not your fault.

[daingertmadelyn-deactivated2025]

trying not to let the bad days get to me, but that second pie chart speaks to me

[exeggcute]

california anti-drought measures are always like “take shorter showers! consider brushing your teeth with the sink turned off” and never mention the fact that nestle is bottling all of our fucking water and selling it to people who live in areas with plenty of water

[bustysaintclair]

It’s like the Irish potato “famine” I stg

[dimaappi]

In California, residential use only accounts for 4% of total water use. Industrial use is 80%. Source:

http://www.alternet.org/environment/california-fast-running-out-water-blame-it-big-ag

[prettylittlesuffermachine-deact]

This is true of any resource. Yes turning your lights off will save you a but of money. But industry wastes far more electricity than you. Yes recycling your garbage is good. But companies, like the retail chain i work at produce far more garbage than you ever could and do not recycle it at all.

Turning natural resource and environmental crises into individual responsibility is form of class warfare so fucking insidious

Honestly just burn every company to the ground or cut them off from electricity and water systems

Tax them heavily for their usage Make recycling mandatory or theyre fined Oh im sorry am i stepping all over your precious free market I hope to choke it out

[thelady-gofuckyourself]

Word

[dustbeams]

“Part of the problem is that we’ve been victims of a campaign of systematic misdirection. Consumer culture and the capitalist mindset have taught us to substitute acts of personal consumption (or enlightenment) for organized political resistance. An Inconvenient Truth helped raise consciousness about global warming. But did you notice that all of the solutions presented had to do with personal consumption—changing light bulbs, inflating tires, driving half as much—and had nothing to do with shifting power away from corporations, or stopping the growth economy that is destroying the planet?

Or let’s talk water. We so often hear that the world is running out of water. People are dying from lack of water. Rivers are dewatered from lack of water. Because of this we need to take shorter showers. See the disconnect? Because I take showers, I’m responsible for drawing down aquifers? Well, no. More than 90 percent of the water used by humans is used by agriculture and industry. The remaining 10 percent is split between municipalities and actual living breathing individual humans….People (both human people and fish people) aren’t dying because the world is running out of water. They’re dying because the water is being stolen.” - Derrick Jensen (author & environmentalist)

[thereisajune]

standpoor we were just talking about this!

[hayleypowers]

[still-the-king]

[lasplayaslasmontanas]

[virgothepoet-deactivated2021031]

Visit Original Link

Rilo Kiley - A Better Son/Daughter

And sometimes when you’re on, you’re really fucking on. And your friends they sing along and they love you. But the lows are so extreme that the good seems fucking cheap. And teases you for weeks in its absence.

[kelseygutierrez]

tectonic shift

You once told me that our love could move mountains. I always thought that was just an expression. No one gets through these walls, I laughed, tapping on my temple. You assured me that it was only a matter of time —  that I had yet to experience          the severity of your words,          the magnitude of your motions. 

Every time you leaned in close and brushed the hair from my eyes,  I felt my bones shifting beneath my skin. I cried out, frightened by the discovery  of these newfound fault lines —   my body may have buckled in your presence,  but it threw seismic tantrums when its wasn’t. 

The last time you pressed yourself  between my thighs, I could feel you           for miles. I knew you were the epicenter of it all,  a tremor so strong it broke down every wall and upturned  the very foundation on which I stood. 

I breathe deeply, feeling the familiar scrape of concrete dust within my lungs and know I will never stop feeling the aftershocks of your corrosive affection. I wonder what I will tell the children that won’t be yours when they ask me why my hands won’t stop shaking.

[kelseygutierrez]

good omens

Certain poets may have sexless intelligence, the advantage of years of practice –           cheap,            slow,            plasticky,           ideal.

In the deep somewhere, he was covered in other people, in the world.

One of the others dribbled miso soup – they were beginning to shift position.

Now covered, she began to join them. The radio was on – she wasn’t really listening.

[kelseygutierrez]

xxl

I hate that the only reason I hate my body is because that is what I have been taught to do since the first time I drew breath.

I am a kind and relatively intelligent person, but because of chemical reactions in utero I was assigned this shape of curves and rolls and imperfections that I am told are only good for the witch hunt of women’s magazines that fetishize the sound of a growling stomach, and the deep, stitch-ripping pockets of the weight loss industry. Self-loathing is that magazine you receive on your doorstep every month (but do not remember subscribing to) that features mirrors instead of cover models.

To the push-up-suck-in crowd, I am a pair of breasts to be very-barely covered and thrust toward the heavens To the cosmetic surgery and “juicing saved my life!” division,  I am the perfect “before” photo model, To the ever imaginative  “there’s nothing actually wrong but let’s start some shit” sect,  I am the harbinger of falsified medical conditions like  cellulite and nervous illness and premenstrual syndrome.

I hate that without three layers of foundation, a hearty spackling of concealer, charcoal eyeliner, and a healthy streak of rose across my cheeks, I am asked if I am tired, if I’m feeling okay today. I have been socialized into accepting  the natural flaws of a male face, while going extreme makeover on my own. I hate that my body makes 77 cents to his dollar,  and if they knew I was Hispanic it would go down to 55.

I hate that we have been conditioned to believe that the way to soothe someone’s worry is to tell them that they are beautiful, because that never actually makes anyone feel better when they are standing naked in a Target dressing room, attempting to morph and flex and contort their bodies to find the most flattering way to stand.

[kelseygutierrez]

the family of man

“Sarah, right?”

You stopped dead in your tracks and turned around towards a voice you did not recognize.

That was your first mistake.

I took a quick glance into my day planner, making sure I had this right. Sarah Robinson, age 23, subway station off of Broadway and 17th Street, 9:25:00 PM.  Affirming that you were the one I was here for, I slipped my planner into my inside coat pocket. You were standing on the yellow boarding line for the subway; the station was practically empty. I could see you tremble as you glanced around, searching for a face to go with the voice. This would be too easy.

I sauntered into your peripheral vision and you stared at me, seeing what you wanted to see rather than what was really in front of you. You saw a clean-shaven, fair skinned, dark haired man wearing an expensive navy overcoat when you should have seen your worst nightmare.

We all make mistakes.

I advanced to the soundtrack of the subway cars streaming past. I smiled at you briefly, exposing thirty-two pearly white teeth. It is quite possible that there is nothing more deceiving than the human smile. It can allow us to hide hatred. Fear. Rejection. A single smile can mask one’s true emotions from the world. The best p art about a smile? It can make you seem a hell of a lot more good natured that you actually are.

By the change of your posture, I could tell that you believed the latter.

Excellent.

“Sarah,” I repeated.

You pulled your peacoat tighter as you replied, “Have we met?”

Of course not.

“Yes,” I said, feigning awkwardness. “Well, not formally. You’re a flight attendant for International Airlines, right?”

“Oh!” You exclaimed, surprised, turning your face to the right. You leaned back and cocked an eyebrow. Were you on a flight of mine?”

This line of questioning was to be expected. You wanted to make sure I was a savory character, that I could be trusted.

It was a good effort, honestly.

“Flight 4716 – nonstop from Los Angeles to New York?”

“That was yesterday’s flight.” You recounted skeptically.

“Row 14, aisle seat. Asked for sparkling water and two extra pillows?” I said, once again retrieving the smile that had put many a person in your same situation at easy.

“Oh, okay,” You replied. “I actually only serve rows 18 through 26.”

“Yes, I noticed,” I said. “The other flight attendants were talking about you.”

“What do you mean talking about me?” You asked, drawing back a little.

I waved both hands in front of me, stepping closer to you and masterfully closing the gap you had created.

“No, no,” I said. “I meant to say that they were talking about feeling sorry for you. Something about you being ill on the flight?” It took you a moment, but then a smile crossed your face.

“Yes,” you almost laughed to yourself. You touched the bottom of your mousy brown bob, angled right below your ear. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Sure.” I responded, well aware of what you were going to tell me. You got closer to me, looking side to side before leaning in and whispering.

“I’m actually afraid of flying.”

Okay, so maybe I wasn’t well aware. It’s not often that we’re caught by surprise in my line of work. In fact, it’s damn near unheard of. I could feel my supervisor’s cold stare on the back of my neck already. There’s not a single thing I don’t calculate before picking up a new case. I measure my target’s gait so as to know exactly how long it will be until they make it from point A to point B. I give my full and undivided attention to the meal someone ate six hours ago to predict every trip to the restroom. I have to be able to know everything about everyone at any given time, or I’ve failed. You were deathly afraid of flying, and in the face of failure, I was deadly. I had to finish this job as quickly as possible.

“You don’t say?” I said, feigning amusement.

“No, it’s true!” You replied, matching my level of laughter. “Heights make me sick to my stomach!”

“Then why do you do it, Sarah?”

“Well I,” You paused. “Wait. I didn’t catch your name.”

Let the games begin.

“Possibly because I did not disclose it to you,” I said.

You backed away a step, then two, furrowing your eyebrows. You swallowed hard and ran a hand through your short, unremarkable hair. You were getting scared. I could practically taste it on my tongue.

I stepped closer to you while you countered my movement by stepping further back. You were now a good foot or so away from the subway  ledge, which had been stained from years of passengers carelessly wiping their dirty soles on the tile. Tonight, your dirty soul would follow suit.

I leaned in close to you, my mouth about three inches from your right ear. I checked my watch – 9:23 – right on time.

“Did you know that in some countries women who kill their children are executed?”

I could feel you draw air in for a gasp. You pulled back but I wrapped my arms around you and got two firm fistfuls of your wool coat.

“I know all about you, Sarah,” I said, and I could feel you shaking, looking around you frantically for someone, anyone to save you.

Today was not going to be your lucky day.

“I know what you’ve done. You know it, too.”

You bit your lip to hold back a whimper as you grabbed a handful of my overcoat, trying to push me away. I could hear the sound of an oncoming subway car, speeding its way to our very ledge.

“There’s only one way out of this tonight, Sarah,” You shook your head hysterically, not wanting to hear the news.

Why, this is the best part!

“I’m not going to kill you,” I paused. I pressed my body into yours and let my lips hover over your ear. “But I should.”

Your tears were freely flowing, your face contorted with fear. “In fact, you’re going to kill yourself.”

Five.

“This is entirely up to you, of course. I can’t force you to do anything.” Your hold on my coat got tighter, pulling the fabric down either side of my neck. The horns were getting louder and louder down the tunnel.

Four.

“You took a life that wasn’t yours to take. You tried to play God. Do you think you’re God, Sarah?” You shook your head maniacally, once again, your sobs now louder than ever.

“Do you even believe in God?” You threw your head from side to side as if your life depended on it.

Well, it did.

Three.

“This is your last chance at redemption, Sarah. You’ve committed crimes and felt no remorse. You’ve sat back and had your fun while you ended the possibility for another to have the same chance one day.”

Two.

“It’s all up to you, killer.” I let go of you and backed away, hands spread at the level of my face. You stared for a second, distraught, before closing your eyes and throwing yourself into the tunnel.

One.

I pulled back the sleeve of my coat and looked at my wristwatch as the subway came screeching to a halt at the dock. The doors slid open and I walked in and sat in the only vacant seat next to a man doing a crossword puzzle in last week’s Sunday newspaper. The time read 9:25 PM.

Perfect.

I removed the day planner from my coat pocket.

“May I please borrow your pen?” I asked the man solving the puzzle.

“Sure thing,” He said, handing me the utensil. “You know not many young men your age use ‘may I’ or ‘please’ anymore. Your parents must be real proud of you.”

“If only you knew,” I flipped to the correct page and crossed out Sarah Robinson, age 23, subway station off of Broadway and 17th Street, 9:25:00 PM. I licked my index finger and used it to turn to the next page of assignments and check my next task.

“Thank you,” I said as I handed the man back his pen. He smiled and returned to his crossword puzzle. A small, deceiving smile passed my face before I uttered the words.

“Brian, right?”

[kelseygutierrez]

metaphorically speaking

“That isn’t true.” I say, chuckling with disbelief.

“Of course it is. Why would they publish it if it wasn’t true?”

“As a joke, I gather.” I bring the glass of whisky to my lips and finish what is left.

“Don’t you believe in true love?” You ask, an unidentified gleam in your eye.

“How can I not with a face like yours?” I reply softly, and you smile in surprise. You put the magazine down on the table beside us with a huff.

“Well, I think it’s true.”

“A person can’t live without their heart, you precious thing.” I say gently. “I think it’s a very sweet notion, giving your heart to someone else, but I really think it was made to be a metaphor.”

“I want to live in a world of metaphors,” You say, throwing the remainder of your drink down your throat. “Where love isn’t an intangible concept, but a literal fire in your chest.”

“Where your voice really is a hand between my legs,” I offer, a sultry smile on my face.

“Where your lips are a velvet-lined prescription drug just for me.” You say, as you reach for the bottle on the table and raise it as an offer. I nod as I grab one of your hands in mine to run my lips along your hardened knuckles. You bring your hand through my hair and kiss me on the forehead.

You gingerly pour more whisky in my glass, and I gently bump your wrist to allow more to flow into my cup. I hold your face in my hands, stroking your upturned lips with my thumb. You stare at me for a long moment before you take the emptied glass bottle by its intricate neck and smash it into the floor beneath us, your eyes still locked on mine. Your fingers grope along the broken glass until you find a suitable shard, palming it in your hand. You clench it so tight that your skin cracks and ribbons of warm blood begin to pool on the wooden floor.

“Trust me?” You ask, your stare intense. I feel a shiver going down my spine and my words banding together and going on strike in my throat, refusing to come out until good sense came to bargain.

“What are you doing?!” I stuttered, a few of my words managing to find the wherewithal to cross the proverbial picket line.

“Undress me.” You say, taking one of my hands in your uncut one and bringing it to the buttons on your shirt.

“You’re bleeding!”

“Trust me.”

My breath is caught in my throat and my brain is rioting in protest but I cannot deny you. I clumsily try to push each button out of its place, gradually allowing your chest to peek out from behind its fabric shield. I push the collar down your shoulders and work your cuffs around the piece of glass in your hand.

“Put your hand over my heart,” You say, and I comply. My blood rushes through my fingertips as I let them dance through the thick hair coursing over your chest, your heart thumping relentlessly beneath my touch in response. You lean in and kiss me on the lips as you press the glass against your skin. You urge the shard, using my hand as a stencil to cut your own chest open. The deeper the glass cuts, the deeper your kiss gets until my mouth is full of you, overflowing with you, bleeding you.

“I’ve severed the major arteries,” you say with a smile as wide as your face as you drop the shard at your feet.

“Take it.” You offer your cupped hands and I open mine. You place your almost too warm, still-beating organ in my palms and I stare, my mouth agape. I feel as if I should be frightened but I seem to have forgotten how.

“It’s so soft,” I say, my voice candy-coated in wonder. My eyes volley between your face, still speaking and breathing, and your heart, beating erratically in my hands like a fish out of water. I gently give it the smallest of squeezes, the way one might grip a newborn child fresh from the womb.

“And it’s yours.” You say, staring into my eyes.

 I match the intensity of your gaze before dropping my eyes down to your heart, each tireless pump making it hotter in my crimson covered hands. I lean down and kiss it softly, my lips finding refuge on the upper atrium. I look up, and I can see your face is full of adoration and a longing that is so deep I can feel it in my bones.  I lean in and kiss you, smearing dark blood on your mouth as I let my lips linger. My forehead rests on yours and I can’t shake the truth that you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

One moment you’re the man I love and the next you’re the fire burning in my chest. In a second you have transformed into a garden of the most perfect smooth-stalked roses, and then a spark of lightning coursing through my veins, and then a hard-knuckled hand sliding between my thighs.

“My turn,” I whisper onto your rhetoric-dipped lips. Your eyes flutter open and I can’t feel anything but the ripe warmth in my chest and the undulating burning in my hands. “Undress me.”

[kelseygutierrez]

the light and the sound

The first thing that hit her was the smell. The scent of warm tar and burning rubber and spilled gasoline set fire to her nostrils. The fumes overwhelmed her, causing her to sneeze and involuntarily throw her head back into the headrest. Her red-rimmed eyes glistened as she tried to wipe at her nose, but found that her hand had not responded to her request. She tilted her head to look down at her extremity but found that she was looking up instead.

Her eyes were wild then, trying to comprehend the scene around her. She drew her bottom lip into her mouth to bite it. It was a nervous habit that she had developed in middle school, when faking stomach aches and menstrual cramps had stopped being viable options to keep her from the anxiety that plagued her between the hours of eight in the morning and three in the afternoon five days a week. Her mother had always scolded her for her anxious gnawing, but there was something soothing in the act of it that dissuaded her from heeding her mother’s complaints. She was used to the faint metallic twang of blood on her tongue after chewing on her lip too frequently or fervently; however, she wasn’t used to the amount that she found pooling in her cheeks in that moment.

She spit her lip out of her mouth with a spray of blood, covering a mosaic of broken glass around her head. Tears fells up her face, making a rolling ascent from her forehead to the strands of her hair. The glass had come from the fractured windshield before her, translucent red and glimmering from the light of the fire.

I am going to die, she thought. I am going to die today.

There was a flash. Even behind her thick curtain of eyelashes, she saw a bright light shine out from the darkness, if only for a moment. Her eyes fluttered open, turning their gaze toward the source of the brightness as the nylon fiber of the seatbelt cut into her collar bone. A woman was upside down in front of her. No, she remembered. I’m upside down.  The woman was kneeling on the pavement, leaning towards her. She tried to speak but her voice had failed her.

“Please,” She finally sputtered, her voice a whisper on the breeze. “Please help me.”

The woman outside reached toward her with a clutched hand. Her brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of it. Before she could muster the strength to utter another word, she heard the familiar click of the shutter on a camera phone. The woman stood and pivoted, walking out of her peripheral vision. Her mouth agape, she felt her sobs begin to stampede through the tightness in her throat. She turned her head to better see the flames licking at the street beside her, but her eyelids pulled themselves shut almost immediately.

 “Miss?” A voice called out. “Miss, can you hear me?”

She drew in a ragged breath before opening her eyes. She saw a fit of unruly hair before anything else. Her eyes focused and saw the man, lying on his belly on the pavement outside of her broken window. He tilted his head, his eyes desperately trying to make contact with hers.

“Can you open your eyes for me, miss? Can you hear me?”

Her mouth tightened as her eyelids slowly trembled open. She searched his face frantically.

“Yes.”

“Atta girl,” His smile took hold on his lips and in the corners of his eyes, wrinkling at the sound of her voice. “Someone already called 911, the paramedics should be here soon.”

“Who?”

“The paramedics. They’re going to g-”

“No,” she cleared her throat, wincing. “Who called 911?”

“The cashier at the deli right behind you,” he said. “As soon as that guy side-swiped your car, she was on the line with 911.”

“Where is he?”

“The man who hit you?” He asked, his tone somber. “He took off.”

 “I don’t know what’s worse,” She laughed. “That the man who did this drove off, or that some bitch just took a picture of me for her Instagram feed.”

 “Well, at least you’ll be internet famous by morning.” His face softened, offering a smile. “Some people kill for that kind of publicity.”

“Lucky me, all I have to do is die for it.”

“Hey,” he reached inside the driver’s side window and grabbed her limp hand from its place between the seat and the center console. “Don’t say that. We’re going to get you out of here and you’re going to be fine.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.” She said, tears welling in the corners of her eyes.  He couldn’t help but laugh. His hand continued to rub circles gently into hers. “You know how I know you’re wrong?”

“Sweetheart, I’m never wrong.” He smirked at her.

“I’m willing to wager that there’s a woman around here somewhere who is absolutely tired of you saying that.”

“You’d win that wager.”

“I’d also wager that you’re wrong this time.”

“How do you figure?” He said, his voice playful.

“Because I can’t feel that,” she said, her eyes on his hand. “Or anything below my neck.”

His face fell. He brought his free hand up to her cheek, stroking her skin with his thumb. Her eyes pressed tight and her lip quivered, her head shaking from side to side.

“You’re not going to die in here,” he said authoritatively. “You’re not going to die in a piece of shit Honda.”

“It’s not that bad.” She said defensively. “Besides, it could be worse. It could have been a Toyota.”

She smiled but found herself unable to stop crying. His face was pained, looking over his shoulder as if he could simply will the ambulance to arrive. “Tell me something,” he pleaded as he continued tracing patterns into her lacerated knuckles. “Come on, tell me about yourself. What’s your name?”

“Kate.” She managed between dry heaves.

“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you, Kate.”  He said. “I imagine I would have enjoyed it more had it been under different circumstances, but you’ve got to work with what you’ve got.”

She could feel her head growing lighter and her vision began to flutter around the edges. He noticed a dark drop of blood gather on the corner of her cracked lips before it dragged itself up and off of her cheekbone onto the car’s fabric roof below her. He reached with fumbling hands and tried to wipe the blood off her face, but accidentally smeared it instead. She pressed her face into his hand, her eyes closed tight. He used his elbows to pull himself further through the fractured window, glass crunching beneath his bones. A faint sound whirred outside.

“Kate, do you hear that?” He asked.

She opened her eyes one last time and studied his face. He was older than her, but not by much. Maybe he had a high-end job, maybe he had unruly dark-haired children, maybe he had a mother-in-law that put too much pressure on his marriage – whatever it was, it had left him with two distinct gray streaks in his otherwise coal black mop of hair. She could tell that he had shaved his face this morning, the lingering scent of aftershave filling her nostrils.

“What’s your-” she started.

“Ian.” He cupped her face in his hands. “My name is Ian.”

 “Give me your business card or something,” She pressed her dry lips together slowly and formed a weak smile. “If you’re right and I somehow don’t die, I would very much like to kiss you on the mouth.”

 “You can kiss me now if you’d like.” He beamed.

Howling sirens blared from around the corner as a parade of emergency vehicles began to line the street around them. The back doors of the ambulance slammed open against the rig and a man and a woman in dark blue uniforms jumped out of the back and began to run towards the flipped car.

“What’s that sound?” She asked, her eyes closing involuntarily.

“Sir, we’re going to need you to get out of the vehicle!” A voice behind them shouted. The sound of glass being crushed under heavy footsteps surrounded them.

He held her face between his hands and pressed his lips to hers, tasting her smile-stained lips.

“That,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “Is the sound of you living.”

[kelseygutierrez]

a study in narcissim

“You should leave him.” Ari mused as she pushed the ice in her cocktail around with a straw. “Why would you say that?" The shock in Rosey's voice was tangible. "I just told you that I had the best sex of my life last night." “Because while it might have been the best you’ve had thus far, it palls in comparison to what it could and should be, my dear.” “Do you actually know what you’re saying, or do words just fall freely out of your mouth when you open it?” “Listen, darling,” Ari said absentmindedly. “A man who gives oral immediately after he pulls his dick out of you is the ultimate narcissist.” Rosey stared blankly in her direction, lips slightly agape. She couldn’t believe her ears. Rosey had thought Ari would be proud of the fact that she had finally slept with Jefferson, and even happier at the results. As if Ari could read Rosey’s thoughts like text on a billboard, she slid a single finger under Rosey’s chin and pressed her mouth closed. “Listen, ladylove, I’ve been around the block a time or two.” “Or thirty.” “Well there’s a conservative estimate.” Ari laughed. “Look, I’m proud of you for putting him in you at all, but as your nearest and dearest gal pal, I’m just passing on my incredibly hard earned, and might I add, arguably sage-like wisdom to save you some of the bedside follies I’ve endured. Not every dame can roll with the cuntpunches like I can.” “Good god, I can’t believe you kiss your mother with that mouth.” “Sweet girl, I’ve gone down on mothers with this mouth.” Ari’s lips turned up, giving the slightest hint of a smile as she lifted a single eyebrow. “Trust me. The older you get, the more appreciative you become of a saucy broad who can turn a fucking phrase.” Rosey rolled her eyes behind painted lids. “Just wait, when you start living off your social security, you’ll be banging at my door with your walker trying to get a piece of this filthy action.” Ari cupped her ample breasts in her hands and gave Rosey a lascivious look. Rosey leaned over and smacked her hands. “We’re in public, god damn it!” She chastised. Ari smirked, folding her hands in her lap and straightening her back, mocking Rosey’s ladylike presentation. Rosey sighed wistfully. “I take it I’m picking up the check today?” “I’ll get this one,” Ari smiled, reaching into the vast expanse of her purse. “If I had to pick up a tab every time some egotistical dick put his junk in me, I’d have to remortgage the house.”

[kelseygutierrez]

lunch break

fists swallowed my hair as my face was pressed onto the chilly concrete floor. the warehouse had no doors to hold our secrets. the windows were uncovered, the glass panes fractured into a makeshift mosaic across the foundation floor. the slightest hint of a breeze sauntered through the brick-and-mortar wasteland. i glanced at the uncovered door frame. the thought of someone taking an aimless stroll through the industrial park and seeing us awakened the beast in my belly. i arched my back, lifting my backside in anticipation. i bit my inner lip languidly as i noticed the moisture pooling in the thin cotton lining of my panties.

i wasn't the only one to notice.

she positioned her hips in front of my face. the mid-afternoon light refracted from the broken glass scattered along the floor and caught in the chestnut ringlets that fell artfully across her torso. she leaned over my bowed form, her hands hovering so close to my skin that the tiny hairs along my body raised to meet her.

"do you want me to touch you?" her voice, a hand between my legs.

"yes, mistress," i replied, tasting the dirt embedded in the cracking concrete below my lips.

"you have been rather good today."

before i could think, she slapped her hands onto the small of my back and began digging trenches in my skin. she slowly dragged her nails up my spine, and the only thought i could muster was what i would have to do to have her hit me again.

it was then that i heard his patent leather soles kissing the earth behind me, his steps echoing throughout the vast room.

"i see you've started without me," he mused, popping his jaw with his thumb and forefinger.

"i hope you can forgive me, sweetheart," she released her grip on my skin momentarily and i began to ache. "i only have half an hour for lunch today."

"that's it?" he asked as he furrowed his eyebrows.

"you wouldn't believe the day we're having at the office."

i unsuccessfully tried to silence my labored breathing so as not to interrupt their conversation. he noticed. he always noticed.

he walked over to where my face still remained sideways on the concrete. he lowered himself closer to my level, his immaculate hands resting on the knees of his designer italian suit.

"have you been a good girl for your mistress today?" he asked, his breath warming my ear. goosebumps arose along my body immediately.

"yes, sir."

his eyes remained fixed on mine as he grabbed my jaw in his hands.

"would you like to be rewarded?" he asked.

"i think she deserves it," she said, her hands slid along my lower back. her fingertips found the waistband of my panties and pulled, ripping them in half. "she has been such a good girl today."

he used a single finger to brush a stray piece of hair behind my ear. my breath hitched in my throat as he began to rub his knuckles along my cheek. i opened my mouth to draw a deep breath, but he thrust his hand into it instead, rolling it along my tongue and wetting his fingers with my saliva. he stood and turned on his heel, and i felt him inches behind me. i braced myself for impact. seconds that felt like centuries passed and i had yet to feel the sting of his palms. i laid like a piece of metal above a bellowing forge, just waiting to be struck and thrust into the burn of ecstasy.

"sweetheart, i'm kind of on a schedule here," she said, tapping her foot deliberately. i heard his hands make contact before i felt it, but god damn, did i feel it. i could feel the radiating heat emanating from my skin.

"same time tomorrow." she said sternly, looking down at me.

"yes, mistress."

"have a good afternoon." he added as he kicked a small pile of dirt in my face. my blood rose to the surface where he had struck me. the gritty taste of earth on my tongue was sweet as honey. tiny rivulets of blood trickled down my lacerated skin, hungrily licking at the open air.

i lifted my eyes to the warehouse's entrance and watched the silhouettes of the loves of my life walking out, hand in hand.

"do you have time for a burger?" he asked, his hand resting on the small of her back.

"yeah," she checked her wristwatch. "i can make time."