cherry baby @bimbogfcherry: If he calls me in the next 5 minutes I’m sending him a titty pic
You are not a proud girl. In the bathtub, you squat for twenty minutes with your hand resting on the knob, incapable of turning the faucet on. You are not a proud girl, you tell yourself. The minutes clack on. The cold steel knob coils under your palm and the minutes clack on. You are not a proud girl. That phone on top of the toilet tank. That cold steel knob under your palm. You are not a proud girl, you tell yourself. Your phone is still on the toilet tank and your silent face creaks towards its silent face, waiting. If he thinks you are some proud girl then you’re squatting here for forty minutes, hand on the knob, unable to move. Your phone still there. If he comes inside you then the faucet turns on. That cold shelf. If he hits your line again. You hold your breath. If he hits your line again the faucet turns on.
bella @bellatharula: he talkin n starin at me while he nut n my titties just bouncin
How the two of you met doesn’t matter. It could’ve been at Candy’s with the purple lights swelling and exhaling over the cramped room. It could’ve been at the place downtown with lychee martinis. You could’ve been grinding against a tabletop and wagging your ass in the air. It could’ve been at Tommy’s party with “Come Get Her” playing in the background. You could’ve been wearing tight leather pants with a top or no top. It could’ve been a rooftop bar or a studio apartment or a tight basement. You could’ve been licking salt out of someone’s belly button or leaning against the walls with your arms crossed. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that wherever or whenever the two of you met, that first time, he watched you for hours. Across any number of rooms he watched you and waited. Already, then, you felt the air around you harden, your outline emerging from the blue before him like a gaseous mist into ice.
di 2 @ d1ana9dizzy: i wanna kiss him while i sit on his lap and ride his dick
Who’s the other girl he’s fucking? Does she have brown eyes or blue eyes? Does she ask him to come in her mouth or on her face or on her tits or inside her? How tall is she and what is her waist size? Does she wear leather platforms or kitten heels or white sneakers or suede mules? Does he call her hot or cute or pretty, and if she’s cute does that mean he wants to take her out to a French restaurant and buy her a mini purse and come in her mouth, and if she’s hot does that mean he just wants to titty-fuck and then come on her tits? How do her tits look when he squeezes his face against them? Does she send him nudes with those tits on full display or with her forearm draped artfully over them? How tight is her pussy? Does he fantasize about her? Does she look up at him with dripping, pouty lips and is he seized by an irresistible urge to spoil her? Does he fantasize about her, does he masturbate to her, does she take up hours and hours of his day, is she the one, out of that formless fog field of his mind, that he creates in its center, whose image steps out first onto the frosted grass?
vivi @viiivigotchi: i love making calm men go insane
He called you two weeks after you first met. By then, you were already obsessed with him. You’d looked him up online and he was beautiful, so you knew he wasn’t just beautiful in the dim lighting of a bar or a basement or a rooftop or an apartment but beautiful in broad daylight, beautiful for real. You found photos of him lying in the middle of fields of desert sunflowers, his thick wavy hair gleaming in the sunlight, with the relatively banal caption Spring in Death Valley. Photos from a night out, turning up at the club or standing outside a kebab place with his large arms crossed over his chest, with the Ke$ha lyrics Let’s make a night you won’t remember, I’ll be the one you won’t forget. Photos of himself surrounded by dogs, lots of dogs, his cheery grin beaming out from underneath matted mounds of fur. When he finally called you, you couldn’t believe your luck. You felt the first thrill of exhilaration you’d known in a while. You spent all day cleaning your apartment, running the vacuum over your floors and rearranging the clothes in your closet, sorting first by color then by season then by color, even though you knew the closet doors would be closed when he arrived. Everything had to be perfect. You freshened up your room with a few spritzes of perfume. Everything smelled so good. You collapsed onto your bed and thrust your hips up in the air, performing a few Kegels to feel prepared. You could hardly breathe. Any hour now he would be here. Any hour.
alyssa @alyysuhhhhh: For once in my life I am so obsessed and in love with myself like I am my own dream girl fr
When you were younger, you learned how to hold your breath so you could crawl on the pool floor. Down there, the day sounded different, so you swam for as long as possible. The rising hum of water encircled you, solid as a wall, and you pretended you were the only person left in the world. Small flashes of light fell through in rippling patches. But then you’d gasp. You’d run out of breath and have to look up. Above you, the girls’ floating legs tangling with the boys’ floating legs. All you saw were those thin snatches of white, those brief glimpses of light, and you knew. Far past the surface of the water came the ringing laughter, that strange laughter of girls who wrap their legs around boys who wrap their legs around girls. It was so far away. They kept laughing, the air bright with their hazy chorus, and they kept joining their legs until all those shimmering cuts of skin fused together and the thousand-layered water became one impenetrable expanse of white.
layla ♡ @_r4inyd4yz: if he doesn’t get boners when he sees my notification, he’s not for me
In the bath, your body melts into the warm water, the hard outline of your limbs dissolving under its clear surface. You finally realized he wouldn’t call, not tonight, and forced yourself to fill the bath. You can tell he’s losing interest or has already lost interest. He hasn’t called in a long time. You scroll through Twitter. Somewhere, somehow else, a girl is getting her back blown out. You dip your hand underwater and trace the spots he would touch: the inside of your thighs, your stomach, your breasts, your collarbone, then back down to your pussy. You mimic his hand and reach inside yourself and hollow out the terrain he once explored. Is it interesting enough, does it provide interest. You try to feel for soft spots, small nicks, deep recesses, anything that might prove more interesting. You want him to call you. If he’s obsessed with you then what does that say about you. You wish he would call you. If he would call you now, no matter what he might say, you would agree. You would open your mouth and say
Ah
Ah
Ah
Ah
Ah
Ah
Ah
and he would come.
k wrld @ijustdroppedmyblunt: 25 waist and 36 hip is crazy but someone (me) has to do it
The girls on Twitter say real men eat ass and put their fingers up there on the first link. The girls on Twitter need to get their nipples pierced because that’s the only way soapy boob pics will look good. The girls on Twitter listen to Deftones and Portishead and Snow Strippers and my bloody valentine. The girls on Twitter say fuck sex, let me sit on your lap and grind til I feel you get hard under me. The girls on Twitter are high 24/7 and say their strawberry Stiiizy is their best friend. The girls on Twitter wear low-waisted miniskirts and tight shirts that squeeze their tits and show their nipples. The girls on Twitter say don’t tell anyone but my pussy got grip, my shit will make you wanna get my name tattooed. The girls on Twitter post grainy Photo Booth selfies wearing bikinis in bed. The girls on Twitter party in oversized T-shirts and firetruck-red leopard-print panties and want to bring back indie sleaze. The girls on Twitter say he thought I’d chase him, but I’m literally a hot girl in her 20’s. The girls on Twitter want Chloe Cherry lips. The girls on Twitter say give me one shot of vodka and I’m begging to suck his dick. The girls on Twitter say I’m just so hot and juicy and sexy fr and I feel sorry for anyone missing out on me rn.
cleo @n0thing2u_: my boobs are too pretty to not be in his mouth right now
You remember the first time you ever smoked. Ava showed you how. You were both still in high school at the time, and Ava drove you out to the beach that weekend with half a carton of grapes in the backseat and Portishead playing on the stereo. The sky was steel-grey, the air wintry and cold. Sitting with your toes in the sand, she taught you how to hit her pen. Suck on it gently, she scolded when you began coughing, your throat burning with smoke. After a few hits Ava pulled the pen away. I don’t feel high yet, you nagged, and she said just wait. You laid back and looked up into the sky, then closed your eyes and watched the warm shapes of light bubble under your eyelids. You felt every atom in your body like the grains of sand beneath you, and when you finally opened your eyes again you realized an hour had passed. Ava, you wanted to say, but when you looked over she was laying back in the sand, eyes closed, so you knew she was gone. You got up and walked out to the water. It felt like you were inside an unknown, untapped part of your brain. You turned again to look at Ava. It was hard to focus now, and you couldn’t be sure she was still in the same world as you unless you looked at her directly. A smokey purple ring outlined her body, as if she were quietly burning on the shore. Then you turned back towards the water. You took a few more steps forward, and the cold rushed against your feet. The waves breaking against your body, you took a deep breath. Breathing in and holding it forever. Thinking it’s mine. I don’t want to let it go.
mira @miralitadoll: he said it’s something about me that he can’t get away from, ya bitch i got it like that
You pass his apartment building, then enter the vestibule next door. You knew you’d see him again at Tommy’s party tonight, which was why you even went in the first place, but when you arrived, wearing a leather bustier with low waisted jeans, he didn’t notice you at all. He was in the corner with another girl, his arm pressed against the wall over her shoulder. A cold door of emotions slammed against your skull so you left early, cutting past 24-hour laundromats and smokestacks puffing steam and darkened parks full of strangers until you made it to his apartment. Now you wait in the neighboring building. When he returns, he has another girl in tow. One of those other girls he’s fucking. You almost want to follow them. Behind the building is a spot, tucked beneath the swaying trees, with a perfect view of his bedroom, you know that; even while fucking him, you gazed out into that hiding place. But you already know what will happen. What difference would seeing it make. You already know. Do you need to watch him unbutton her blouse and suck on her nipples, one of his hands caressing and squeezing her perfect round tits while the other strokes his own hardening dick. You know. To watch as he takes it out, and folds her legs back as she whines about how big it is, do you need to watch as he nibbles at her juicy thighs and briefly fingers her, then peels apart her pussy to fuck her, barely able to contain himself, how she screams and moans and grabs onto him as he thrusts inside of her, the presence of that solid object unmistakable in a space ordinarily empty, wave after wave of unbearable pleasure coursing through her until you gasp. The mud slick beneath you. Your breath is ragged. You lift your body from the ground. Overhead, the dark undersides of the lance-like leaves are swaying in the wind. Your hair is damp.
bree @faadein2uu: don’t care didn’t ask plus my thighs don’t touch when i walk
On Sundays, the afternoon light pierces through your blinds and fills your room with a stark white. You were running errands this morning and finished by noon. Normally, you would’ve done something else, would’ve come up with more errands, gotten brunch in the city somewhere, anything to stay out. But somehow, today, you’d given up on everything, and you found yourself back in your empty apartment. When you entered to find the windows thrown open and sunlight flooding the room, you froze. Across the years, the quality of that light has never changed: always harsh, white emptiness. Just like when you were a child. Every Sunday, you would crouch by the window, watching as the light flattened the landscape outside. Even then, you wondered if you would be lonely for a long time. The house was so empty. Why were you so lonely back then. Was it your fault, did you do something wrong. And the light fell like a sheet of warm, glowing metal over you. In its concentrating power you saw the terror of your life distilled, and you felt like you would live forever.
ashley @806ashleyy: i want his nut all over my boobs
You and Ava don’t speak anymore. In truth, she is someone from another part of your life. You rarely think of her. You rarely think of her. One afternoon, you saw the wintry beach where you’d both fallen asleep, and you wanted to turn to her and ask, How do I continue waking by your side, but when you woke up you remembered what you’d done, how afterwards she hadn’t wanted to speak to you for a while.
alix @msgsfromhome: i have the greatest tits and ass whoever don’t want me missing tf out
There’s a question you want to ask. There’s a question you want to ask but you don’t know how to ask it or what it even is yet. Who’s the other girl he’s fucking. That’s not the question. You turn over onto your stomach and bury your head in your pillow, squeezing your eyes shut. You don’t breathe for a moment and will the question to emerge, and then all you can see is an image of yourself on all fours as he fucks you from behind. Is she there right now in his bed, bent before him, arching her back and perking up her ass. If he looks down at her. What’s the question you’re trying to ask. If he looks down at her while she’s kneeling on all fours in his bed, and all he sees is her ass up in the air. What’s the question. He’s seen you like that before. If he looks down at her while she’s kneeling on all fours in his bed, and all he sees is her ass up in the air, does he remember you. Did he ever see you. Who’s the other girl. Who’s the other girl he’s fucking. Does she feel good when she’s down there now, her head pressed into the pillow and her ass up in the air, him hitting it from behind, looking down at her, asking do you like it, huh, do you like it.
cici @cantfwpendejas: he says I look so pretty bouncing on his cock
You’re in his bed and he’s on top, grunting and thrusting himself inside of you. Beads of sweat and spit fall onto your face. You try to pay attention to the feeling — his cock pumping, filling you up like a plug so you don’t drain — but you’re pushed around and your hands lose their grip on his shoulders and fall to your side, limp. You want to do something, touch him, but you can barely move your arms as your sweaty body wipes back and forth on the sheets. He’s pulling your thighs closer, still thrusting and pumping inside you, and he’s burying his face in your body, his wet mouth sucking on your tit. Suddenly, his dick hooks deep inside you and it’s like he’s a key, turning and unlocking you, and you open up, flow out of your body, hover at the foot of your bed. You watch yourself lying there as he chews on your pussy and you wonder if that’s really what you look like when you’re turned on. Across from you, at the head of the bed, a shimmering ring of girls appears, ghost-like, swelling in the spacious room. You know they’re watching you on the bed there, putting their hands to each other’s ears, comparing notes. You know he looks hot, with his large arms and strong jawline going down on you, but do you. Close your eyes more gently, you will yourself, stop squeezing your face so hard. Open your mouth in a seductive little o, not that clenched, hot dog-shaped grimace you have on right now. You look across the room and watch the ring of girls register the changes in your expression, whispering amongst themselves to adjust the notes. Is anyone satisfied yet. You look back at yourself and wonder how long you’ll keep going. Are you happy, you wish one of the girls would ask for you. Do you like yourself. Are you full.
<3 @222h111gh: at least i am the prettiest i have ever been
You’re standing on the edge of the field as a ring of girls surround you. Too nervous to look directly at them, you stare at the slice of their pale legs under their skirts as they laugh. These are the girls who wear cherry lip gloss and tie pink ribbons under their collars and have boyfriends even now in grade school. They’re laughing because your shirt sleeves squeeze your armpits too tight and your sweat stains are out. All you can do in response is make noises, push air out of your mouth, say huh, huh, ahh. They yell at you to stop hanging your head, to stop staring at the ground, so you look up from their legs, past them, to the ring of pine trees encircling the edge of the field. Huh, huh, ahh, you say. They keep taunting you but you can’t focus. The trees are swaying in the wind, breathing through their rustling needles. Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, the trees sigh, exhaling over you.
♡hot gemini girl ♡@lilacluvrr: i’m his Sweet Little Unforgettable Thing
The iron guardrail by the river is cold against your cheek. Your feet dangle over the black water, toes barely brushing its churning surface. The longer you stay awake, the more unreal he seems to you: you can feel your mind sharpening against him, dulling him down, while the present hardens before you into tight, sober focus. You hear the distant sound of sirens, wailing then falling away, and the insistent smack of waves against the concrete. Groups stumble by, on their way to more clubs and more takeout places and more bars and more house parties, and pay you no heed. You try to think of him, his hands on another girl’s waist, pushing her towards him, but the lights sludge into an oil painting. You keep trying to think of him, but instead of revealing himself, his features melt further into the heavy oil. He’s not real, you tell yourself. You never meant anything to him. He lives with another girl in another oil painting. Outside, you’re sitting by the river. And there’s nowhere to go.
