Lara's green eyes blinked open. For a moment, they focused only on the ceiling above her, white and sterile. Then, she sat up with a gasp.
Delia was never one to miss Halloween, but this year was going to be extra special. DJ Marqd, a.k.a., her old classmate Mark Witman, was spinning at the hottest club in town for the annual Vampire Night. She was going to be his VIP—and maybe more. Standing in line, she twirled in her black tutu, admiring how her fishnets hugged her cute runner's legs. The fake fangs felt weird in her mouth, and she had to work hard not to drool. The guy who'd made them for her said she'd get used to them, a few minutes after putting them in. Delia certainly hoped so! There weren't many things in life less sexy than a drooling vampire.
Felony avoids my eyes. We look at each other through our reflections in the mirror lining the long width of the make-up room. Through the buzzing of the makeup artists painting our faces with cream and glitter, their wrists flickering and magicking with a flourish and a brush, I see her brown pupils. Wild. Like mine.
I glanced at the clock—5:25. Shit, the house isn’t ready, it’s actually a really big mess and he’s going to be home in like five minutes!!! Guess it’s going to be a punishment kind of night; there’s no way I can make this place look clean in five minutes.
You have a routine. Every morning, your eyes blink open and you stare at the ceiling for a minute, letting your mind rise out of the depths of your unconscious. Your dreams evaporate like early fog, leaving you with the sense that you've forgotten something important. Soon, even that disappears in the light of the new day. It's time to rise.
Rough sex is so good. Let's just start there. After a long week, instead of a beer and wings, you just need a good pounding. Well, at least I do. I'm speaking from experience here people! Let's get started with the topic.
Recently my partner informed me that she no longer was attracted to women and that our marriage could not work. After two and a half years together and having just celebrated our one year anniversary days prior, it was a hard blow to take.
This was the best time of the year, Callie thought dizzily. The leaves. The sweaters. The costumes! She loved October so much. Today was the best part of a great month: the annual kickoff to the Halloween Fair. The winner of the costume contest would get to eat for free at any restaurant in town all month long, as long as they were wearing their costume—which Callie would do, obvs. She fingered the gossamer wings that had cost her more than a month’s rent. Worth it! A little glittery makeup here, glittery hairspray there, and she was a stunning fairy. Callie admired herself in the mirror, striking a pose and pouting. Her low-cut mini dress barely covered her ass and tits, both of which were sparkly with more spray-on glitter. The wings were gorgeous, of course, but Callie knew what really swayed the judges. Year after year, they picked the sexist costume on the sexiest woman. This year, that would be her.
Yep. The title says it all. A guy begged me to stomp his ballsack. I’m sorry in advance to people who see this as a relatively normal sexual activity; by no means am I judging anyone’s sexual preferences (well, except the obviously wrong ones). But for the most part, people are in varying shades of vanilla and an experience like this is extremely out of the ordinary.
At this time of the night, the lab was almost always deserted. That made it feel a little creepy, Jane thought. Maybe it was silly for a grown woman to be nervous, but as a researcher of dead civilizations, Jane often thought she could feel the arrayed millions of ancient dead watching her resentfully. Why had she dug up their stuff? What was she doing with it? Obviously this was all nonsense, but there you go. You just had to look at the elaborate death rituals of civilizations long gone to know that humankind had always been bothered by darkness.
Today, we look at what it is about feet that turns people on, and what you can expect if you want to meet feet singles.
Sasha didn't like to let on her attractions. It was nobody's business that she was interested in Jean, and nobody's business that she wanted her body. It wasn't right. It wasn't proper. And Sasha was nothing if not right and proper. Didn't she wear the flattest bras she could find to disguise her awful, enormous, gravity-defying breasts? Didn't she wrap herself in the baggiest clothing to hide her stubbornly sensual curves? There was no way, Sasha thought, that she was going to be one of those girls. She wouldn't wear lipstick. She wouldn't tease. And she certainly wouldn't be a lesbian.