Lost in My Own Thoughts

Herein lies the stuff that lurks about in the darker recesses of my brain, never to be spoken about in polite society. Welcome. Make yourself at home. Hope your demons play well with mine.

[rough-fuckingg]

Reblog if you’re still an active NSFW blog 😈

[n-gk]

[wildco]

[zengarden2]

[whenthesunrose-blog]

“The cultural ban on having sex with your friends is an inevitable offshoot of a societal belief that the only acceptable reason to have sex is to lead to a monogamous marriagelike relationship.”

― Dossie Easton, The ethical slut : a practical guide to polyamory, open relationships & other adventures (via whenthesunrose-blog)

The whole not fucking your friends thing never made sense to me when I was younger. Like who else are you going to fuck? People you don’t like enough to be friends with?

(via quickienewyork)

[clittyslickers-deactivated20250]

boys of summer

[sattickate]

I am not a straight people.

Reblog if you are also not a straight people.

[celibacy]

If her bra matches her panties when you take off her clothes, it wasn’t you who decided to have sex.

[loxbian-deactivated20200516]

it’s me the coffee mom (she/her)

[babyspacemonkey-deactivated2017]

[daphnemoon]

[568791910-deactivated20200419]

I watch the older butches. They have perfectly shined shoes and crisply ironed dress shirts; ties that point politely down, slung around necks I want to carefully touch; thick belts and square edges and hair that looks like it’s been freshly cut at all times; change in a loose jangle at the bottom of pockets calling out an insistent rattle as they walk by; neatly clipped nails on hands that are forever ready to hold open the door. Their postures are straight and stiff, except for the ones who stoop their shoulders to hide their softness. The butches are always quietly determined to get the drinks. I watch their calm circle to the bar and back, nobly presenting cocktails to femmes who take them like prizes. At the end of the night, I see them hold up coats with outstretched arms for their tired femmes, hail cabs with one authoritative arm reaching for the stars, the other wrapped lightly around their girl’s waist. They make everything look charmed and easy–rolling coins across the table with a silver flash; arm-wrestling with their sleeves rolled up as my eyes hungrily lock on their tensed forearms; swinging Zippo lighters open before I’ve even contemplated having a cigarette. I crave their softness, how gentle they can me in touch and gesture; I love their hardness, all of the sharp lines and angles I want to feel the pinch of and press myself against. They wear their difference out there every day in a mostly hostile world. They take refuge in approving nods of other butches, in welcoming smiles of the femmes at the bar. When they are here, they are home. When they are here, there is nowhere else.

Debra Anderson, “Spotlight” (via throughmotion)

[tomboiheaven]

Ashlyn Harris

[tomboiheaven]

Sara Bradley Instagram

[musclenheels]

[acciowine]

I must be Martha Stewart because I am LIVING.

[comeovrwhenursober]

imma love you girl, the way you need

[lesbifuckinghonest]