Kinky Sayings And Quotes

Spanish, huh?" he said, glancing down at the scattered papers as he grabbed them. "Can you say anything interesting?" "El tono de tu voz hace que queria estrangularme." I stood up and waited for him to hand over my papers. "That sounds sexy," he said, getting to his feet and handing me the stack of Spanish work he'd swept together. "What's it mean?" "The sound of your voice makes me want to strangle myself." "Kinky.

Let me ask you something first. Do you want a regular vanilla relationship with no kinky fuckery at all?" My mouth drops open. "Kinky fuckery?" I squeak. "Kinky fuckery." "I can't believe you said that.' "Well, I did. Answer me," he says calmly. I flush. My inner goddess is down on bended knee with her hands clasped in supplication begging me. "I like your kinky fuckery," I whisper.

Cheating in relationship is a sign of self-regulation failure. When it happens ones, it is a mistake. When it happens twice, it is unfortunate. But when it happens thrice or more, it is a pattern indicating primitive, uncivilized inhuman behavior.

Two married partners do not just live with each other, they live in each other, neurologically speaking.

Try to respond to your partner instead of reacting.

Do not seek for the best partner, but seek for the person who makes you a better version of yourself.

Do you know about the spoons? Because you should. The Spoon Theory was created by a friend of mine, Christine Miserandino, to explain the limits you have when you live with chronic illness. Most healthy people have a seemingly infinite number of spoons at their disposal, each one representing the energy needed to do a task. You get up in the morning. That’s a spoon. You take a shower. That’s a spoon. You work, and play, and clean, and love, and hate, and that’s lots of damn spoons … but if you are young and healthy you still have spoons left over as you fall asleep and wait for the new supply of spoons to be delivered in the morning. But if you are sick or in pain, your exhaustion changes you and the number of spoons you have. Autoimmune disease or chronic pain like I have with my arthritis cuts down on your spoons. Depression or anxiety takes away even more. Maybe you only have six spoons to use that day. Sometimes you have even fewer. And you look at the things you need to do and realize that you don’t have enough spoons to do them all. If you clean the house you won’t have any spoons left to exercise. You can visit a friend but you won’t have enough spoons to drive yourself back home. You can accomplish everything a normal person does for hours but then you hit a wall and fall into bed thinking, “I wish I could stop breathing for an hour because it’s exhausting, all this inhaling and exhaling.” And then your husband sees you lying on the bed and raises his eyebrow seductively and you say, “No. I can’t have sex with you today because there aren’t enough spoons,” and he looks at you strangely because that sounds kinky, and not in a good way. And you know you should explain the Spoon Theory so he won’t get mad but you don’t have the energy to explain properly because you used your last spoon of the morning picking up his dry cleaning so instead you just defensively yell: “I SPENT ALL MY SPOONS ON YOUR LAUNDRY,” and he says, “What the … You can’t pay for dry cleaning with spoons. What is wrong with you?” Now you’re mad because this is his fault too but you’re too tired to fight out loud and so you have the argument in your mind, but it doesn’t go well because you’re too tired to defend yourself even in your head, and the critical internal voices take over and you’re too tired not to believe them. Then you get more depressed and the next day you wake up with even fewer spoons and so you try to make spoons out of caffeine and willpower but that never really works. The only thing that does work is realizing that your lack of spoons is not your fault, and to remind yourself of that fact over and over as you compare your fucked-up life to everyone else’s just-as-fucked-up-but-not-as-noticeably-to-outsiders lives. Really, the only people you should be comparing yourself to would be people who make you feel better by comparison. For instance, people who are in comas, because those people have no spoons at all and you don’t see anyone judging them. Personally, I always compare myself to Galileo because everyone knows he’s fantastic, but he has no spoons at all because he’s dead. So technically I’m better than Galileo because all I’ve done is take a shower and already I’ve accomplished more than him today. If we were having a competition I’d have beaten him in daily accomplishments every damn day of my life. But I’m not gloating because Galileo can’t control his current spoon supply any more than I can, and if Galileo couldn’t figure out how to keep his dwindling spoon supply I think it’s pretty unfair of me to judge myself for mine. I’ve learned to use my spoons wisely. To say no. To push myself, but not too hard. To try to enjoy the amazingness of life while teetering at the edge of terror and fatigue.

I’m trying to be your dirty, kinky rebound from the boring, drab Van Helsing. I’m not trying to be your gay best friend. My answer is that he’s not worth it, but I am,” he says with a completely serious expression.

Sexual fantasies say a lot about the emotional places we go to in our minds. When you find out what’s so sexy about something to you or your lover, you will both want to do it more and you might start to crave the searching for whatever else you have hidden in that beautiful brain.

Hey, did you guys..." Duncan was saying when he walked into my room. Apparently, since Finn had left the door open, he thought he could waltz on in. "Sure, everybody just walk on in. It's not like I'm a Princess or anything and this is my private chamber." I sighed. When Duncan saw the bizarre scene, he stopped and motioned to Loki. "Wait. Why is he here? He didn't spend the night with you two, did he?" "Wendy is into some very kinky things that you wouldn't understand," Loki told him with a wink. "Why are you here?" Finn demanded, and his eyes blazed. "Will somebody please tell us what the hell is going on?" "I would, but this is a private conversation." Finn kept his icy gaze locked on Loki, who looked completely unabashed. "Come, now, Finn, there are no secrets between us." Loki grinned and gestured widely to Tove and me.

To say I have frizzy hair is an understatement. It is kinky, more pubic than cranial, and whitish blond, breaking off easily, like hay.

When two people fall in love, they not only give up their genuine authority over their own lives, but also, they become mutual authorities of the collective life that they build together.

A healthy world is made of healthy nations. A healthy nation is made of healthy families. And a healthy family can only be raised on the foundation of a monogamous relationship.

Either one is promiscuous or in a relationship - it cannot be both at the same time.

Marriage is not a competition. Marriage is completion of two souls.

You're not my matchmaker any longer. But we're still friends, and in the interest of our friendship we need to discuss page thirteen." "Page thirteen ?" "You've accused me of being arrogant. I've always thought of myself as confident, but I'm here to tell you, no more. After studying these pictures... Honey, if this is what you're looking for in a man, I don't think any of us are going to measure up." "I have no idea what you're talking about." "Who knew flexible silicone came in so many colors?" Her sex toy catalog. He'd taken it months ago. She'd hoped he forgotten it by now. " Most of these products are hypoallergenic. That's good, I guess. Some with batteries, some without. I suppose that's a matter of preference. There's a harness on this one. That's pretty kinky. And...Son of a bitch ! It says this one is dishwater safe. I'm sorry but there's just something unappetizing about that.

True love is born out of the pyre of two committed souls.

Polygamy is a luxury of the cave-people, and monogamy is an existential responsibility of the civilized society.

So, Violet." Zane turns his chair in my direction. "Is your day getting better yet?" "Pretty sure it's getting worse as we speak," I say. - Zane's dark eyes are sparkling with humor. "Come on," he says. "It's not that bad, is it?" "Oh, let's see." I stare up at the fancy glass ball lamps hanging from the ceiling. "I got dumped at Taco Bill's today; fell down, split my pants, and generally humiliated myself in front of a complete stranger; went to dinner at a snooty restaurant, found out said stranger is my future step brother; got called a stripper, hooker, and virgin by my mother...did I leave anything out?" "Well, I don't know. The night is still young — anything could happen." The corners of his beautiful mouth twitch upwards. "It can only get better, right?" I frown. "Don't say that, you'll jinx me. Now my mom will come back and blurt out how she and Bill had kinky bathroom sex, and I'll run away before she can go into detail, and trip over that waiter carrying that flaming dessert - he'll go crashing into the lady with way too much product in her hair, and then the whole restaurant will be on fire.

I don’t think our sugar daddy contract included kinky blindfolds.” A palm came to my butt and he squeezed, mouth near my ear. “Say kinky again, and I’ll fuck you against this wall.” He warned, kissing the side of my neck and for a second … a crazy fucking second, I was going to tell him yes please.

Cheating is an innate evolutionarily programmed desire, especially in men, but it is not a desire that cannot be controlled.

A healthy marriage acts as the vessel of wellbeing and stability for both partners as well as the children.

Well,I don't know.The night is still young—anything could happen."The corners of his beautiful mouth twitch upwards. "It can only get better, right?"I frown. "Don't say that, you'll jinx me. Now my mom will come back and blurt out how she and Bill had kinky bathroom sex, and I'll run away before she can go into detail, and trip over that waiting carrying that flaming dessert—he'll go crashing into the lady with way too much product in her hair,and then the whole restaurant will be on fire.

Me: Can we order takeout tonight? You’ve been out of town for, like, three days. I won’t make it through dinner without mole-sting you. Leo: Ah yes. Mole-sting. My favorite. Me: Molesting* Fucking autocorrect. Leo: Don’t lie! If you want to get kinky , just say so. I’m not sure how I feel about moles, but I’m willing to discuss.

Is Obama Anything but Black? So lots of folk—mostly non-black—say Obama’s not black, he’s biracial, multiracial, black-and-white, anything but just black. Because his mother was white. But race is not biology; race is sociology. Race is not genotype; race is phenotype. Race matters because of racism. And racism is absurd because it’s about how you look. Not about the blood you have. It’s about the shade of your skin and the shape of your nose and the kink of your hair. Booker T. Washington and Frederick Douglass had white fathers. Imagine them saying they were not black. Imagine Obama, skin the color of a toasted almond, hair kinky, saying to a census worker—I’m kind of white. Sure you are, she’ll say. Many American Blacks have a white person in their ancestry, because white slave owners liked to go a-raping in the slave quarters at night. But if you come out looking dark, that’s it. (So if you are that blond, blue-eyed woman who says “My grandfather was Native American and I get discrimination too” when black folk are talking about shit, please stop it already.) In America, you don’t get to decide what race you are. It is decided for you. Barack Obama, looking as he does, would have had to sit in the back of the bus fifty years ago. If a random black guy commits a crime today, Barack Obama could be stopped and questioned for fitting the profile. And what would that profile be? “Black Man.

Let me tell you a story. There was a student who asked his teacher, what is love? The teacher said go into the field and bring me the most beautiful flower. The student returned with no flower at hand and said, “I found the most beautiful flower in the field but I didn't pick it up for I might find a better one, but when I returned to the place, it was gone.” We always look for the best in life. When we finally see it, we take it for granted and after some time start expecting a better one, not knowing that it's the best for us.

Oh, I love megalomaniac Christian, too, and control freak Christian, sexpertise Christian, kinky Christian, romantic Christian, shy Christian … the list is endless.” “That’s a whole lot of Christians.” “I’d say at least fifty.” He laughs. “Fifty Shades,” he murmurs into my hair. “My Fifty Shades.

...your kinks aren't arbitrary things your brain comes up with. They're not coincidences from childhood that you fetishize. Or: they could be. But kinks are arrows giving you directions. If you're hot for being whipped, that probably says something about your relationship to guilt and punishment, or pain, or something... It's always complicated and emotionally volatile but there's also no reason to be ashamed of it.

Ask for what you want. Always. Not just with me. If, in the future, a guy ever thinks you’re weird or throws shade at you for doing that, then you drop his ass on the hot pavement. Sex can be fun. It can be hot. It can be kinky or serious. It can be a lot of things. But what it should always be is a safe zone to explore what each person likes. If everyone is consenting and it’s legal, there really are no limits beyond that. Just be you.

She frowned at the message on his T-shirt: IT ONLY SEEMS KINKY THE FIRST TIME. “It was a gift,” he said. “From Satan?” Something that looked almost like a smile flickered across his face and then disappeared. “You don’t like it, you know what you can do about it.” He cleared another snarl of water hyacinths. “What if a child saw that shirt?” “Seen any kids today?” He shifted his weight slightly on the seat. “You’re making me sorry I lost my favorite one.” She turned back to the bow. “I don’t want to hear.” “It says, ‘I’m al for gay marriage as long as both bitches are hot.

You’re here to express your appreciation by proposing a kinky doppelganger ménage à trois? In which case, I’m going to have to turn you down. I’m sad to say it, but Ethan gives me the impression he’d be about as exciting in the sack as an eggplant.

A human is the one, who would give up a thousand Cleopatras to be with the person he or she loves.

Sex is only a tool in love, not love itself.

Polygamy is about sex, whereas monogamy is about love.

This time, try to keep your hands to yourself,” Ayden whispered in my ear. “Your octopus routine could get a bit embarrassing with this crowd.” “Th—that’s not funny.” “Come on. It was a little funny. You’re smiling.” I buried my face in his chest so he couldn’t see he was right. “Now,” Blake said, “about those handcuffs. That’s just—” “Don’t say it,” Ayden warned. “Kinky.

Do you ever wear leather?" the guy asks. "What?" "Leather. Do you like leather?" "It doesn't exactly wipe me out." "I like to see boys in leather." I look at him cool. "Okay," I say, "what is it you want and how much are you willing to pay for it?" "I've got a leather jacket upstairs...Would you put it on?" "Just put it on?" "I'll go and get it." He leaves the horror hole and returns a few minutes later holding a leather flying jacket with a lambswool collar. There are tears in the jacket's sleeves, and the lambswool is yellow with age. John Wayne could've worn it in one of those crappy war films he made. "Put it on," the guy says. I give him a spiky smile and put on the jacket. "Okay, where's the plane, and what time's take-off?" "Drop your jeans and turn around.

Promoting promiscuity in this evolved and civilized society is actually like signing the Declaration, that says: “I hereby renounce my membership of humankind, since I am neither human nor kind. I declare that I no longer belong to the modern human species, i.e. the Homo sapiens. From now on I shall be counted among the swingers of the animal kingdom, such as the bonobo or montane vole. I am simply an arrogant philandering savage.

How you felt?" he asks, still looking like he's trying to hide a smirk. "Oh, shut up. I'm going now. I'm sorry I bothered you, your Highness of Reindeerness," I say, with more than a little sarcasm. "I promise not to ever disturb you again.

Sometimes I think Shug never love me. I stand looking at my naked self in the looking glass. What would she love? I ast myself. My hair is short and kinky because I don’t straighten it anymore. Once Shug say she love it no need to. My skin dark. My nose just a nose. My lips just lips. My body just any woman’s body going through the changes of age. Nothing special here for nobody to love. No honey colored curly hair, no cuteness. Nothing young and fresh. My heart must be young and fresh though, it feel like it blooming blood.

While some male "admirers" of trans women tend to fetishize us for our femininity or our imagined sexual submissiveness, I find trans women hot because we are anything but docile or demure. In order to survive as a trans woman, you must be, by definition, impervious, unflinching, and tenacious. In a culture in which femaleness and femininity are on the receiving end of a seemingly endless smear campaign, there is no act more brave - especially for someone assigned a male sex at birth - than embracing one's femme self. And unlike those male tranny-chasers who say that they like "T-girls" because we are supposedly "the best of both worlds", I am attracted to trans women because we are all woman! My femaleness is so intense that it has overpowered the trillions of lameass Y chromosomes that sheepishly hide inside the cells of my body. And my femininity is so relentless that it has survived over thirty years of male socialisation and twenty years of testosterone poisoning. Some kinky-identified thrill-seekers may envision trans women as androgyne fuck fantasies, but that's only because they are too self-absorbed to appreciate how completely fucking female we are.

Lola: [looks horrified] Burgundy. Please, God, tell me I have not inspired something burgundy. Red. Red. *Red*. *Red*, Charlie boy. *Red*! Is the color of sex! Burgundy is the color of hot water bottles! Red is the color of sex and fear and danger and signs that say, Do. Not. Enter. All my favorite things in life.

Matt said, “I need to go. I have other appointments today.” Without a single ounce of hesitation, he cupped Priss’s shoulders, drew her forward, and gave her a smacking kiss right on her slightly parted lips. It was a toss-up who was more surprised, Priss or Trace. Priss blinked rapidly, Trace snarled and Chris laughed at them both. “I enjoyed working with you, Priss. You were more than entertaining, and a font of information on all things kinky.” Trace narrowed his eyes. Was Matt trying to rile him? All things kinky? Just what the hell had they discussed? “What does that mean, Matt?” “She schooled us on the porn marketplace. Very informative.” After a meaningful glance at Trace, he turned back to Priss. “I hope to see you again.” She went still, unsure what to say. Trace filled in the silence. “Did you want to bill me, or get paid now?” “I almost hate to charge, it was all so fascinating.” Trace growled. “But you will.” Grinning, Matt said, “Yes.” As he turned away, he added, “I’ll get something in the mail to Dare. He can pass it along to you. I certainly trust you.” Matt’s emphasis meant that Priss didn’t trust him—not that Trace needed a reminder of that.

Do you really think my feet smell?” I don’t. I love the way he smells after a lacrosse game--like sweat and grass and him. But I love to tease, to see that unsure look cross his face for just half a beat. “Well, I mean, on game days…” I say. Then Peter attacks me again, and we’re wrestling around, laughing, when Kitty walks in, balancing a tray with a cheese sandwich and a glass of orange juice. “Take it upstairs,” she says, sitting down on the floor. “This is a public area.” Disentangling myself, I give her a glare. “We aren’t doing anything private, Katherine.” “Your sister says my feet stink,” Peter says, pointing his foot in her direction. “She’s lying, isn’t she?” She deflects it with a pop of her elbow. “I’m not smelling your foot.” She shudders. “You guys are kinky.” I yelp and throw a pillow at her. She gasps. “You’re lucky you didn’t knock over my juice! Daddy will kill you if you mess up the rug again.” Pointedly she says, “Remember the nail-polish-remover incident?” Peter ruffles my hair. “Clumsy Lara Jean.” I shove him away from me. “I’m not clumsy. You’re the one who tripped over his own feet trying to get to the pizza the other night at Gabe’s.” Kitty bursts into giggles and Peter throws a pillow at her. “You guys need to stop ganging up on me!” he yells.

Mac: "I happen to love flowers. Especially on clothes. The flashier, the better." Cooper rolls his eyes as if he knows I'm lying through my teeth. Cooper: "You know, you don't have to work this hard. I'm pretty easy." Mac: "I'm sorry, what? Who's working too hard? You've been blowing up my phone talking about scone porn." Cooper: "You're kinky." he says, shrugging Cooper: "I get it. It's not my thing, but whatever gets you off.

her small white dog Bouton hurrying at her heels to keep up. A far cry from the fluffy lapdogs so popular with the ladies of the Court, he looked vaguely like a cross between a poodle and a dachshund, with a rough, kinky coat whose fringes fluttered along the edges of a wide belly and stumpy, bowed legs. His feet, splay-toed and black-nailed, clicked frantically over the stones of the floor as he trotted after Mother Hildegarde, pointed muzzle almost touching the sweeping black folds of her habit. “Is that a dog?” I had asked one of the orderlies in amazement, when I first beheld Bouton, passing through the Hôpital at the heels of his mistress. He paused in his floor-sweeping to look after the curly, plumed tail, disappearing into the next ward. “Well,” he said doubtfully, “Mother Hildegarde says he’s a dog. I wouldn’t like to be the one to say he isn’t.

Now that we know Dylan's gonna live,” Evan speaks up, “I think we should leave these two alone.” He and Cole help me stand, though there's nothing wrong with my legs. “Yeah, so they can practice experimenting on that connection thing I mentioned earlier,” Barry says with a chuckle. “The man's hurt,” Evan says. “What's your point?” Willy asks. “His side is hurt, not his co-” “Willy,” Randy cuts him off. “Pfft! Like they don't know what I'm talking about.

Seth scowled and decreed sternly, “Do NOT read her mind, telepaths. I expressly forbid it. Zach, you and David may read Leah’s mind only in the case of a dire emergency. The rest of you may not. Do so against my wishes and you will suffer my wrath.” Leah nodded somberly. “Seth told me that many of you see him as something of a father figure.” Leaning into his side, she gave his chest a little pat. “Trust me when I say you do NOT want to read my mind and see the kinky sh** daddy does in bed.” Eyes widened as over a dozen mouths fell open. Seth threw back his head and laughed.

Luke, meet Willy,” Micah says from behind him, his voice sounding strained. “Randy’s elf and all around pain in the ass.” “Speak for yourself, nurse boy,” Willy comes back at him with a loud laugh. “And Randy says the pain’s not so bad anymore, so ha! You know that stuff takes a lot of practice for it not to hurt every time.” Surely he’s not saying what it sounds like he’s saying? “And a lot of lube,” the elf continues. “I mean, when you’re as big as I am and all, even if Randy is a big man, he still has a tight-” Oh, he’s definitely saying it. Micah slaps his hands over his ears. “Stop it!” Willy smirks at him. “I bet you won’t call me a pain in the ass in front of somebody again.

Being with them is every bit as perfect as I imagined. I have both of them. Kinky and wrong and absolutely right in my hand. “Oh, fuck yes,” he curses. “I said eat her out, Carter.” I squeeze his throbbing head, pinching the piercing. “Don’t stop.” His pained growl and her willing mouth nearly push me over the edge. I’m close to blowing my load down Amara’s throat. “Yes.” Carter does as I say, his black hair falling and hiding the top of his eyes. He moans into her pussy. She moans around me. “Come.” My last restraint is about to snap. “Both of you, come.” My command has the three of us making it to the finish line together. I feel his cum shoot out on my hand. She moans and screams as she gags on my cock, swallowing every fucking drop.

Do you ever wear leather?" the guy asks. "What?" "Leather. Do you like leather?" "It doesn't exactly wipe me out." "I like to see boys in leather." I look at him cool. "Okay," I say, "what is it you want and how much are you willing to pay for it?" "I've got a leather jacket upstairs...Would you put it on?" "Just put it on?" "I'll go and get it." He leaves the horror hole and returns a few minutes later holding a leather flying jacket with a lambswool collar. There are tears in the jacket's sleeves and the lambswool is yellow with age. John Wayne could've worn it in one of those crappy war films he made. "Put it on," the guy says. I give him a spiky smile and put on the jacket. "Okay, where's the plane and what time's take-off?" "Drop your jeans and turn around.

Why are you doing this? I don’t want you. Is that the problem? Is your ego so big you can’t handle a woman rejecting you?” “Oh, you want me alright, my sexy little witch. Want me so bad it scares you. Well, I’ve got news for you. It scares the fuck out of me, too. But I don’t care. When the options are settling down with you for life and popping out little demonlings or watching you walk away, I know what I choose.” For a moment, she couldn’t answer, could only gape at him as his words penetrated. Surely, she misunderstood. “What did you say?” “I want you as my mate.” No misunderstanding that time. She tamped down her elation by slapping it with the cold, hard truth. “You’ll hurt me.” “Trust me.” He asked too much. “I’m not the right woman.” “You’re all I want.” She shook her head lest his words weave a spell around her and make her believe. Yet despite all the warnings in her head, hope blossomed and love warmed her. How nice it would be to allow herself to love him. To trust him. Sadness entered his expression at her rejection. “I know it’s hard for you, little witch, but I promise you’ve nothing to fear. Unless the thought of too many orgasms in a row freaks you out.” And that quickly, he changed from pensive male to the one she’d grown to love with the mischievous smile. He lunged. She squealed like a little girl and ran. Not far though. With his ridiculously long stride, he quickly caught her and tossed her over his shoulder. He laughed as she beat at his broad back with her fists. “Save some of that energy for the bedroom because you are not leaving until you admit you care for me.” “I’ll kill you first.” “I like a girl who’s kinky.” “You’re impossible.” “No, but I am horny.” “How are we supposed to catch those souls if we’re fooling around here?” “Some things are more important.” “How can having sex with me be more important than ensuring you don’t burst into flame tomorrow?” “I would let someone beat me with a cat-o-nine too, if you’d just admit you like me.” “I hate you.” “Close. I see we’ll need to work on that.” -Ysabel & Remy

What do woman say to little boys? " Stop fighting. Stop being so rough. Stop rough housing." They're boys you know, that's kinda what they're sapossed to do. So, men are sapossed to overcome all these biological drives and I'm just really interested in helping women overcome theirs caus' I think the spotlight of " Outgrow your bestial nature." has been pointed just a little bit too long at men and I think it's time to swivel that motherfucker around and point it at woman and say stop making yourself look like fucking sex clowns to milk money out of men's dicks. Stop lying about who you are and what you're about. Stop being flirty, manipulative, and trying to be sexy. Just stop doing it. It's time for women to outgrow biology just as men have been instructed to for about the last 20,000 years to outgrow their biology. "Stop slamming doors. Stop yelling. Stop climbing trees. Stop being rude. Stop farting. Stop enjoying fart jokes. Just stop being men." Ok, Well; women stop being women. Be people. Be people who have sex, absolutely but, don't be caricatures. Don't aim to be like a woman who looks like the outline of some playboy mudflap on a trucker's rig. Just be people. Be sexual. Enjoy your sexuality and bodies but, stop trying to bury us in tits so that we pass out and you can rifle through our bank accounts. Just stop doing that shit. I won't enable it anymore. Why does your face have to look like some half rained on Picasso water color? I don't need rainbows on the face of a woman. I don't need these weird butterfly wing goth eyebrows and shit like that. Male sexuality is demonized and female sexuality is elevated. That's bullshit. Then women wonder why men prefer porn to them. It's caus' porn doesn't nag you for wanting stuff that's defined as "kinky" or "weird". Male sexuality is demonized and held in low esteem. Woman's sexuality is always beautiful. Woman's sexuality is unremitting shallow. I'm not saying men's isn't but, we know that about men, right? What turns women on? Women say confidence. Do you know what that means? Money. Do women say " He is really confident about his sidewalk art. He is really confident about his subway busking. That's such a turn on!" Why do men like looking at naked women and women get turned on looking at clothed men? Because if a man's clothes aren't on you don't know how expensive his wardrobe is. This is what Mohammad Ali said. I'm going to throw on some old jeans and a old t-shirt and I'm just gonna walk down into some little town and find some woman who doesn't know who the hell I am and then when she's fallen in love with me and we get married, I'm going to take her to my million dollar mansion and my yacht. This is the reality. Once you start having money, once you start having power, then the true nature of massive swaths of female sexuality becomes clear.

NOTE: The character of Aoleon is deaf. This conversation takes place in the book via sign language... “Feeling a certain kind of way Aoleon?” She snapped-to and quickly became defensive. “What in the name of the Goddess are you on about?” Shades of anger and annoyance. The old Aoleon coming out. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t poke at you like that. It’s okay you know. There’s nothing wrong about the way you feel.” As if suddenly caught up in a lie, Aoleon cleared her throat and ran her fingers absentmindedly over her ear and started to fidget with one of the brass accents in her snowy hair. A very common nervous reaction. “No…I mean…well I was…uh...” “Aoleon, I know about you and Arjana.” he admitted outrightly as he pointed at the drawing. She coughed, stuttered, smiled, but could bring herself to fully say nothing. Words escaped her as she looked about the room for answers. “My sight is Dįvįnë, lest we forget. I knew you were growing close.” “Yes. Well…she’s…something else.” “Indeed?” he responded. Images flashed briefly in Aoleon’s head of her father’s old friend. Verging on her fiftieth decade of life. She was a fierce woman by all accounts. One who’d just as soon cut you with words as she would a blade. Yet, she was darling and caring towards those she held close to her. Lovely to a fault; in a wild sort of way. Dark skin, the colour of walnut stained wood. Thick, kinky hair fashioned into black locs that faded into reddish-brown tips that were dyed with Assamian henna; the sides of her head shaved bare in an undercut fashion. Tattoos and gauged ears. Very comfortable with her sexuality. Dwalli by blood, but a native of the Link by birth although she wasn’t a Magi. Magick was her mother’s gift. “I heard her say something very much the same about you once Aoleon.” “Really?” Aoleon perked up right away. “Did she?” “Yes. After she first met you in fact. Nearly exactly.” Aoleon’s smile widened and she beamed happiness. She sat up assertively and gave a curt nod. “Well, of course she did.” “She’s held such a torch for you for so long that I was starting to wonder if anything would actually come of it.” “Yeah. Both you and Prince Asshole.” Aoleon exclaimed with a certainty that was absolute as she once again tightened up with defensiveness. Samahdemn walked his statement back. “Peace daughter. I didn't know your brother had been giving you a row about her. Then again, he is your brother. So anything is possible.” Aoleon sighed and nodded. “Not so much problems as he’s been giving me the silent treatment over it. Na’Kwanza. It’s always Na’ Kwanza.” Samahdemn nodded knowingly and waived a dismissive hand. “He’s just jealous. He always has been.” “So I’ve noticed.” “Why would you hide it? Why not tell me?” “I don’t know.” she said; shrugging her shoulders. “I didn’t know how you’d take it I suppose.” “Seriously? You were afraid of rejection? From me? Love, have I ever held your individuality against you? Have I ever not supported you or your siblings?” She shook her head; a bit embarrassed that she hadn't trusted him. "No, I suppose not." -Reflections on the Dįvonësë War: The Dįvįnë Will Bear Witness to Fate

Yeah. Chris says Mark’s a brother, part of the unit, and so whether he’s gay or straight or...kinky...we just deal with it because we love him.

An extremely drunk man looking for a whorehouse stumbles into a podiatrist’s office instead and weaves over to the receptionist. Without looking up, she waves him over to the examination bed and says, “Stick it through that curtain.” Looking forward to something kinky, the drunk pulls out his penis and sticks it through the crack in the curtains. “That’s not a foot!” screams the receptionist. “Holy shit, lady. I didn’t know you had a minimum!

Something You'd Expect the Marquis de Sade to Say The appearance of cruelty does not make a man evil any more than kinkiness makes him a pervert, but once cruelty crosses the the boundaries of perversion the kinkiness that twists in the curlicue of Satan's tail does not trail far behind. Now let's hear it French ~ a language far better suited to sadism than our own impoverished tongue: L'apparition de la cruauté ne fait pas un méchant homme pas plus que fétichisme lui un pervers fait, mais une fois la cruauté franchit les limites de la perversion la fétichisme qui se tord dans la fioriture de la queue de Satan ne traîne pas loin derrière.

they say if you smile when you think of people who are gone, you loved them.

So,” Roland says, rolling it off his tongue until that one little word sounds obscene. “What’s my punishment for peeping?” No words. None. This man makes my blood boil. He leaves me torn between punching him smack in the jaw and telling him to go back to hell—or else doing something so rotten I’m sure it means jail time. I’m paralyzed with choices. Finally, my hand decides for me. I square my jaw, stretch up on my toes, and—while he locks up, staring at me with wide eyes—grasp a fistful of his hair, and yank. I’m not trying to make him bald or anything. I just want to make a point. But I’m not expecting the way his breath catches. The way he goes stock-still with a vibrant intensity, and a faint, rough sound catches in the back of his throat. Something that sounds like pleasure. His eyes close, the expression on his face searing into my head—until I realize what I’m doing and just how insane he’s made me. Snatching my hand back, I retreat a step, struggling to catch my breath. Roland’s eyes drift open slowly, lingering in a slow, searching burn. “Interesting. I had no idea you were so kinky, Miss Landry,” he whispers. Oh. Oh, frick. I’ve done it now.

You know what they say, it’s the quiet ones who are into the really kinky shit.

Fame is like a sequin-covered suit of armor that provides a holographic cover for actual me; most people, whether their opinion is positive or negative, are content to deal with the avatar, leaving me as tender as crabmeat within. Really, it’s an amplification of what happens if you’re not famous. I don’t imagine that we are often interacting on the pure frequency of essential nature; we usually have a preexisting set of conditions and coordinates that we project on to people we meet or circumstances we encounter. This is not just a psychological notion. Robert Lanza, in his concept-smashing book Biocentrism explains that our perception of all physical external phenomena is in fact an internal reconstruction, elaborating on the results of experiments in quantum physics, that particles behave differently when under observation—itself a universe-shattering piece of information—so that, and forgive my inelegant comprehension of the quantum world, electrons fired out of a tiny little cannon, when unobserved, make a pattern that reveals they have behaved as “a wave,” but when observed, the kinky little bastards behave as “particles.” That’s a bit fucking mad if you ask me. That’s like finding out that when you go out your dog stands up on its hind legs, lights a fag, and starts making phone calls. Or turns into a cloud. Lanza describes how our conception of a candle as a yellow flame burning on a wick is a kind of mentally constructed illusion. He says an unobserved candle would have no intrinsic “brightness” or “yellowness,” that these qualities require an interaction with consciousness. The bastard. A flame, he explains, is a hot gas. Like any light source, it emits photons, which are tiny packets of electromagnetic energy. Which means electrical and magnetic impulses. Lanza points out that we know from our simple, sexy everyday lives that electricity and magnetic energy have no visual properties. There is nothing inherently visual about a flame until the electromagnetic impulses—if measuring, between 400 and 700 nanometers in length from crest to crest—hit the cells in our retinas, at the back of the eye. This makes a complex matrix of neurons fire in our brains, and we subjectively perceive this as “yellow brightness” occurring in the external world. Other creatures would see gray. At most we can conclude, says Lanza, that there is a stream of electromagnetic energy that, if denied correlation with human consciousness, is impossible to conceptualize. So when Elton John said Marilyn Monroe lived her life “like a candle in the wind,” he was probably bloody right, and if he wasn’t we’ll never know. We apply reality from within. The world is our perception of the world. So what other people think of you, famous or not, is an independent construct taking place in their brain, and we shouldn’t worry too much about it.

Fame is like a sequin-covered suit of armor that provides a holographic cover for actual me; most people, whether their opinion is positive or negative, are content to deal with the avatar, leaving me as tender as crabmeat within. Really, it’s an amplification of what happens if you’re not famous. I don’t imagine that we are often interacting on the pure frequency of essential nature; we usually have a preexisting set of conditions and coordinates that we project on to people we meet or circumstances we encounter. This is not just a psychological notion. Robert Lanza, in his concept-smashing book Biocentrism explains that our perception of all physical external phenomena is in fact an internal reconstruction, elaborating on the results of experiments in quantum physics, that particles behave differently when under observation—itself a universe-shattering piece of information—so that, and forgive my inelegant comprehension of the quantum world, electrons fired out of a tiny little cannon, when unobserved, make a pattern that reveals they have behaved as “a wave,” but when observed, the kinky little bastards behave as “particles.” That’s a bit fucking mad if you ask me. That’s like finding out that when you go out your dog stands up on its hind legs, lights a fag, and starts making phone calls. Or turns into a cloud. Lanza describes how our conception of a candle as a yellow flame burning on a wick is a kind of mentally constructed illusion. He says an unobserved candle would have no intrinsic “brightness” or “yellowness,” that these qualities require an interaction with consciousness. The bastard. A flame, he explains, is a hot gas. Like any light source, it emits photons, which are tiny packets of electromagnetic energy. Which means electrical and magnetic impulses. Lanza points out that we know from our simple, sexy everyday lives that electricity and magnetic energy have no visual properties. There is nothing inherently visual about a flame until the electromagnetic impulses—if measuring, between 400 and 700 nanometers in length from crest to crest—hit the cells in our retinas, at the back of the eye. This makes a complex matrix of neurons fire in our brains, and we subjectively perceive this as “yellow brightness” occurring in the external world. Other creatures would see gray. At most we can conclude, says Lanza, that there is a stream of electromagnetic energy that, if denied correlation with human consciousness, is impossible to conceptualize.

I’ll tell you what: I’ll say yes if you agree to something.” That didn’t sound good. “What is it you want?” “I want you to drop this fantasy you have of me dressing like a sailor.” “Oh, but—” He rolled onto his back, holding up a hand to cut her off. “No, no, I am not dressing like a fucking sailor.” She pouted. “Oh, come on! After the first few times, it won’t even feel kinky anymore.” “No.” “But you’d look so—” “No.” “Can’t you at least think—?” “No.” She growled and gave him the sulkiest pout ever. “Trey does it for Taryn.” Nick felt his face scrunch up. “Jeez, Shay, I so did not need to know that.” The image came unbidden to his mind, and Nick feared it might just pop into his head whenever he was around the Alpha male in the future. Her voice turned sultry. “If you do it, I may reconsider the pole dancing scenario you had in mind.” A short pause. “I’ll think about it.” “That’s all I’m asking.

Are you seriously worried that I will?” “Of course, I am! You’re both so fucking smart. She’s a doctor and you were a chemistry major in college. You won all those awards,” I say with a wave of my hand. “You have way more in common with her than I do, Cay. The minute you set your tough guy bullshit aside and actually try for her, she’ll fall in love with you. Hard. And then I’ll lose her. She’ll walk away right into your kinky daddy dom arms. I’ll be the ring bearer at your wedding.

We are supposedly living in a golden age of pleasure. So many tantalizing options lie only a click away: gourmet food, memory-foam mattresses, kinky sex, gadgets galore. Pleasure decoys, all of them, Epicurus would say. Like any good decoy, they look real, and so we take aim. If we fail to hit the target, we blame ourselves for poor marksmanship and reload. Stop aiming at decoys, counsels Epicurus. Better yet, stop shooting altogether. “Not what we have but what we enjoy constitutes our abundance,” he says, noting that, with the right mind-set, even a small pot of cheese can convert a simple meal into a lavish feast.

You probably don’t remember this, but when you were four and your brother was just born, there was a park by the house we lived in. There wasn’t much, but there was this dinosaur swing. It was a normal swing, except it was shaped like a T-Rex with a saddle on its back. You loved that swing. Every time you saw it, your little four-year-old face would glow with pure, unreserved excitement.” “Awesome?” I say, not sure where she’s going with the four-year-old story. “Sounds like a kickass swing. I’d probably still swing on it, assuming I could fit now.” She laughs and takes the next plate from me. “You would. And it’s also the look you have around Eden.” “Like he’s a T-Rex swing with a saddle? That sounds kinda kinky.

Don't be a drama queen, baby. You're sleeping on that bed. With me." He says it as if it brooks no argument, but he's going to get an argument. "I will skin you alive," I snap. He grins, stepping closer. "Kinky.

Tell me naughty things while I jack off. Say anything freaky, but don’t mention finance or economics. That’s just too kinky.

Am I doing it right?” he asks as he speeds up his movements. I hear the nervousness in his voice. My hands slide up his back. “If you were doing it any more right I don't think I could handle it,” I respond softly, meaning it. “You're perfect.” He shakes his head a little. “You're so quiet,” he says. My hands go back to his hips as he continues to move over me. “I'm thinking about how good it is, how good we are.

It was like they were saying, See what multidimensional humans we are. We´re not just kinky, we´re hipsters too.

You honestly want me to wear white latex assless chaps?” Sloane’s cheeks flushed and he shrugged. “I’m not saying you should, just that I wouldn’t mind if you did.” “Uh-huh.” Dex held back a smile. He knew his partner had a bit of a kinky side.

Ooh!” Willy pipes up. “Maybe he'll write a story about Santa and Mrs. Claus getting caught with their pants down with other people. If we get lucky, maybe he'll kill-” “Don't finish that sentence, elf.” “Randy, you're such a spoilsport. You can't say you haven't conjured up that scenario in your big head a time or a dozen. Continue. Maybe I'll write that story.” “No, you won't. Your idea of a good story is nothing but sex, sex, and more sex. You'd never make it through writing a chapter because you'd have to stop and jerk off a half dozen times.” “Ew! Not about Santa and Mrs. Claus. Yuck,” Willy comes back at him with a sour look on his face. “That's not even funny, Randy.

It's just sex, Blake. Isn't that what you said to me the last time? No emotions. Just sex.” “I'll only end up hurting you,” I say to the wall. “Worse than I did before.” He moves from the back of the sofa and comes to stand directly in front of me. His dick is mere inches from my mouth. I have to swallow several times to keep from using my tongue on it. I close my eyes. “I can't, Seth. If I take you now I'll be rough and I'll end up hurting you in other ways.” “Being rough wasn't a concern of yours before.” “I'm not the same person I was before.