“Quick Reminder: You Deserve Love, Respect, Intimacy, Hot Sex, And Orgasms Even If You Don’t Look

Is this wrong?

We have never met, yet I can see into your soul. We talk on the phone and when it is late and we're both tired, neither of us wants to be the first to say goodbye. I listen to your breathing, your voice as it softens and deepens, producing a velvety softness I yearn to hear in my ear. You don't know it yet, but I'm falling for you. You say things that are slightly risqué. Are you hoping to hear a naughty invitation? I pretend I don't know what you're talking about. Do you know that? You become quiet and make an almost inaudible sound. I asked, "Are you okay?" Suddenly I suspect you are touching yourself, and again I hear the same noise. The heavy silence is embarrassing and erotic at the same time. I wish I was there with you. Our friendship is complicated. We were never meant to cross paths. Our lives have been so different. One painful bad decision on the part of our spouses has brought ud together. We have leaned on each other for support and cried tears. Neither deserving of the pain their affair has caused our families, we find ourselves drawn to each other in more than just friendship. Are we making a terrible mistake? Without saying the words, we know that when we meet, it will be a passionate love affair. Is this so wrong?

Love this dress!

Sexy and Classy 😍😍😍

Can you imagine being Jason Momoa and having so many women drooling over you?

Jason Momoa photographed for American Way

Ballad of a Broken Woman

I’ve always been aware of it.

The flat yet hungry look some men get when they look at me. They look at, but not in.

They imagined, wove their personalized fantasy and threw it over my shoulders. It’s always so heavy. Impossibly so, but I bore it with a smile through gritted teeth. Every girl wants to be desired, right?

I endured until I was a rage-filled wraith.

I’m not your manic pixie dream girl. Fuck that.

I’m not manic, nor am I a goddamned pixie. My bones are strong, and I am tall, so I can look you in the eye. I’m no dream. I breathe, eat, shit, sleep, just like you. 

Most of all, I am no girl. 

I’m in my third decade. I’ve earned my high standards. Every single one of my scars. Some are physical. Most are not, but they are mine. 

For years, I lived in terror that he would see that I am no panacea. I would not, could not heal him. I am no savior. I am limping as much as he, am just as frightened. My thoughts are just as disheveled, if not more.

What happens when I shake the fantasy off my shoulders, and he sees that I need him more than he needs me? That I wasn’t built to organize his life, give him purpose, clean his dirty laundry and constantly replenish his deflated ego?

What of my ego, if I find no significant nourishment in serving his? What of my purpose, my dirty laundry?

Will he raw his knuckles on it, wash me and make me new, just like he expected me to do with his?

What happens to the silent few, the women who cannot, or will not be a mirror for a man’s dreams? Is it selfishness, or is it that my own desire burns me to distraction?

I don’t know anymore. I am no vessel. There is no end to me to stop the flow. I am no lake. I am an ocean. I go on forever. Churn with fierce and frightful imaginings, so far removed from white picket fences.

Still, I dream of love, but free. 

What man will dive deep into me, be swallowed up, despite his fear of drowning?

There is so much in me, so much to share with a man who dares. I am not easy. I am not always kind. 

I hurt, but there can be shared comfort, unlike any he’s felt before, in the healing.

Lust

Why is every man I meet unable to maintain an erection and keep me satisfied? I feel i need to ask the question, can you fuck, before I date you.

Who wanted to watch that cake being eaten over and over?

Eat her pussy so well she thinks about it all day