Thought Catalog

5 Real Sex Stories That Will Make You Really Horny (Part VII)

Posted: 25 Jan 2016 08:00 PM PST

Shutterstock, NAS CRETIVES
Shutterstock, NAS CRETIVES

1. Cocktails and (tits and) dreams.

"I was in New York a few months ago and I wandered into this nondescript bar in a decent neighborhood that turned out to be some kind of titty bar—like Hooters, but classier. The waitresses were young and beautiful and shirtless and none of them had fake boobs or anything so I decided to stick around even though I’m definitely straight.

Around vodka number three, the hottest girl working sat on the stool next to mine in her itty bitty booty shorts, with her impossibly perky b-cups jiggling right out in the open. All I could think about from the second her lips parted to introduce herself was what it would be like to lick her pussy. As soon as the elevator doors closed behind us in my hotel lobby, we started making out like two sexually starved, closeted teens. At one point, she stopped for a split second to lick two of her fingers and slip them between my legs and it was like she had a GPS tag on my clit. Naked in bed, she straddled me and kissed my neck tenderly but aggressively and bit my bottom lip while she massaged my breasts. Then she went down on me, circling my clit and fingering me so expertly I was convulsing with pleasure for several minutes straight. It was hands down the best oral sex experience of my entire life."

— female, 34

2. The unsuspecting seductress.

“Middle of the night last Thursday, I felt this tickling sensation in my crotch, so I rolled over onto my other side. A minute later, the tickling sensation was back, and then it was more like this gentle squeezing and my dick was suddenly stiffer than a two-by-four. I opened my eyes then and realized that my wife was massaging my package like some kind of professional temptress. She muttered something about a dream she’d just had about being a geisha that turned her on like crazy and begged me to ‘pound her.’ It was the most dick hungry I've ever seen her—like she was hypnotized by her own libido or something—and we got it on like we used to when we first started dating. She fucked me on top, then we did it doggy style, and finally in this scissor position we made up on the spot. She even sucked me off as I came. If you wanna hold onto to your husband, ambush-seduce him every once in awhile.”

— male, 27

3. Masturbating on the company's dime.

"About two years back, I was sitting at my desk at my old job eating lunch when I shifted in my seat and my jeans happened to rub up against my vagina in a way that made me incredibly horny in an instant. So I stood up and headed straight to the bathroom to chase the sensation. After triple checking that the door was locked, I sat on the toilet with my pants pushed down to my ankles and my legs spread as wide as possible. Then I pulled the underwire of my bra up over my nipples so it pushed down on them, which got them nice and hard. I fingered myself right there with the water running so no one could hear me moaning until I orgasmed like a champion."

— female, 32

4. A little pleasure delay goes a long way.

"Once, I literally walked right into this insanely sexy Swedish woman because I was staring down at my phone like an idiot. As soon as I realized I’d bumped into a bombshell, I was zapped into horny high gear. I had to have her, and I could tell she wanted me too. Problem was, we were both in a rush, so we exchanged numbers and agreed to meet for a drink that night. An hour later, she sexted me a shot of her cleavage and I responded with a dirty voice note because no one actually likes a dick pic. I had to hide my boner at least a dozen times at the office that day.

By the time we finally met up, I was in sexual overdrive, and so was she. I could sense it. We barely finished a round of drinks before we were tearing each other's clothes off back at my office, in a conference room no one ever uses. Fuck, that woman knew what she was doing. The way she tongued my dick from the base to the tip. The way she clenched her pussy so it squeezed my cock when I slowed the pace to tease her a little. The way she wrapped her legs around my back and pulled me towards her, closer and closer, further and further inside her. That’s the kind of mind-blowing sex that comes around once in a lifetime. We did it three times in an hour, until her pussy and my dick were too sore to keep at it. Next day, she flew back to Europe. "

— male, 29

5. The beauty of fucking like beasts.

"The other night I walked in the door after the worst day at work and before I even put my bags down or took off my shoes, I screamed, 'I need your cock. NOW!' My boyfriend got the message and hung up on whoever he was talking to. By the time he reached me in the hallway, I’d already stripped off all my clothes. I told him to get his shirt off as I plunged my hand down his pants to double check that he was hard. He was. So I jumped up into his arms, right onto that pulsating mushroom of a cock and took it like I needed to. I bounced up and down like his dick was my Pogo Stick, screaming 'Fuck me! Harder!' the whole time. He pressed me up against the wall and pummeled me just like I wanted. I needed to be fucked. And I needed him to come all over me."

— female, 28 TC mark

Planting Seeds In Concrete

Posted: 25 Jan 2016 07:00 PM PST

Look Catalog
Look Catalog

All we ever allowed ourselves to be were parallel lines, seeing each other, hurting each other, never crossing over to the other side, choosing distance over depth, resistance over understanding, we've become so obsessed with emergency landings and running away from the things we truly want to say that on some days we don't even recognize our own face.

The distress you feel in the middle of your chest, in the depth of your soul, that's a lack of control. A lack of authenticity, a lack of a belief, in yourself and in your convictions that's been strong enough to force out personal omissions and make you a pawn. You've got to move on, and remember that you have a vision. You just have to shove through a few weeds, and maybe a few shrubs, and then run through the trees until all you see is green and you're surrounded by the nature and the beauty of being free.

But don't be mistaken – the word free doesn't rhyme with popularity, it rhymes with see, with your own eyes, the person you were convinced to be and how you've been deceived and cynical and unfeeling to a degree of destruction. If we paid attention the debris would show us that we're all broken, open, at the time of our defeats but we bandage our wounds in the dark alleys of our streets and hide our scars from the people we meet in order to turn the more desirable cheek towards the critique of those who are doing the exact same thing.

It’s crazy. Stop worrying about who you are on the outside. Who are you when you're alone with your mind? And are you happy? What are the truths that haunt you at night, the skeletons that sing to you about the things you've given away?  Who were you before you were walked out on? Who were you before you told yourself that you always had to be strong, that you always had to build up walls that even your mind couldn't keep tabs on. When did it dawn on you that you needed to validate yourself through attention, give false affection in order to go through a motion so you wouldn't feel rejected. When did you start to live like you were half empty?

Because you're not; expose your heartbeat and you'll feel the heat from the stars as they course through your body and unstitch your scars and open you up to the strangers whose potential you've thrown into surrender this whole time. You'll remember how it felt to feel alive, how it felt to feel full and thrive on something non material.  When was the last time someone touched a part of you? Other than your body, other than your excess, other than your need to impress? When was the last time you were moved? To the point of tears, where you shook from the compassion and felt a different kind of fear, a fear of the idea that there were people out there who might never feel that?

That might make you sad, but it should also give you hope because you can set a precedent. Don't be afraid of humanity, as disappointing as it seems to be, you can change what you see by being free. Release your bounds to society and think bigger, stop hiding and simply be open – the bad and the good parts, the confusion and the marks, the scuffs on your soul – let them all take their toll, let them leave lines on your face like maps to your eyes that lead strangers to your undefended life. Start feeling from the inside, you'll radiate a feeling most people thought died along with their innocence and their tenderness, connect with the cynics and plant seeds underneath their skin.

Watch the world bloom again. TC mark

Read more of Bianca Sparacino’s writing in her new book Seeds Planted in Concrete here.


12 Ways Powerful Women Run Their Lives Differently

Posted: 25 Jan 2016 06:00 PM PST


1. They communicate with precision.

They do not alter their opinions based on who they are around. They care more about what they want to say than how other people could receive it: when someone doesn't speak clearly and concisely, they are muddying their message because they are afraid of how it will be perceived.

2. They date mindfully.

They do not get "swept away" or completely caught up in a relationship. They choose the kind of love that helps facilitate the lives they want to live – not hinder them.

3. They are careful of what they give their mental energy to.

They recognize that it is not time, nor attention that is most precious and limited – it is energy. Energy creates your life and it is through energy that you experience your life fully. They are mindful of every bit they give away to each thought, interaction and task during the day.

4. They inform ignorant people, rather than just lambast them.

They don't judge other people for not knowing better if they don't first try to (gently, kindly, open-mindedly) explain a different, perhaps more informed, perspective. Otherwise, they are being just as ignorant.

5. They fight clean.

They don't name-call, or let an argument play out when the other person just wants to "win," rather than arrive at a mutual understanding.

6. They make personal development a #1 priority.

They recognize that it's not about asking what you want, but who you want to become. They recognize that their perception informs and creates their experience, so it will only be as good as they are.

7. They respect even the people who don't respect them.

They treat everyone equally, and do not use someone's attitude as an indicator of whether or not they should alter their behavior around them. After all: character is how you treat those who can do nothing for you.

8. They don't expect to love work all of the time, nor do they try to force themselves to.

Whoever thought joy is the essence of success probably did not accomplish very much.

9. They let their actions speak for them.

Rather than demanding respected, they give people a reason to respect them. They realize that people ultimately judge you based on your actions, not on what you say of your actions.

10. They make sure they're capable of being completely independent before they go after love.

By doing so, they ensure they'll be able to remove themselves from circumstances that are unresolvable or unbearable. Therefore, they never experience "needing" someone to survive. Because this is the case, they are free to actually enjoy their time with them. They know that you cannot love someone you need.

11. They focus not on what could go wrong, but how they would respond if something did.

Rather than freak out that they could lose a job, they groom their résumé and keep a blazer in the closet and remain prepared to find another one. Rather than worry about a relationship dissolving, they maintain the confidence that they could find someone else to love, or be alone happily.

12. They adapt.

If they aren't comfortable with money, they pick up a book on personal finance. If they aren't happy in a relationship, they communicate why. If they don't like where they live, they find a new home. They do not accept the circumstances of their lives blindly, they respond and change them. TC mark

My Best Friend Has Been Gone For 15 Years And He Just Walked Through The Door Like Nothing Was Wrong

Posted: 25 Jan 2016 05:00 PM PST

Flickr, Shane Gorski
Flickr, Shane Gorski

The day Bacon came back, he just walked through the door and said "Hello." Like nothing had happened. As if he hadn't been gone for 15 years.

Son of a bitch walked in like he owned the joint, sat down in the chair across from me, and said "Hello."

"'Hello’?" I could barely look at him, I was so angry. "'Hello'? That's all you have to say, you cowardly shit?”

Bacon shrugged his shoulders and gave me his best 'what do you want from me' grin. It was pretty obvious he was sure I was going to forgive him. I always had before, what made this time any different?

Well, for one, it had been 15 years. Not to mention what happened in homeroom all those years ago. What Bacon had made me do.

"I missed you?" Bacon added.

"Fuck you," I said, but if I had to admit it, I had missed him too. 15 years is a long time to go without your best friend. It feels like a piece of you is missing, a phantom limb that itches with no way to scratch it.

"There's the spirit. I was starting to get worried about you." He settled back in his chair, glancing around the sparse room. I could tell from the way he sat he knew he was out of the doghouse already. Or at least, he figured as much. "Haven't been too lively these days. Seems like you've given up, Mick.”

"How the hell would you know? You've been gone 15 years." There, I said it, spat out the phlegm at the back of my throat. There was his crime, clear as day, 15 fucking years. Not to mention what happened in homeroom.

Bacon went on like he hadn't heard me.

"I've popped in on you from time to time. Checked you out, made sure you were getting on okay. Just didn't feel like the right time, you know?”

No. I didn't know. Had Bacon been stalking me? How exactly had he been "checking me out?" And why had it taken so long for him to come back into my life?

"I'm not getting on okay. I haven't been. Not since you left." I sounded pouty, a sulking child, but I couldn't help it. It hurt.

"Aww, buddy. C'mon, Mick." Bacon leaned forward and cuffed my knee gently with his knuckles. "You know I only act in your best interests. I always have. It was time for me to go, I couldn't stick around. Not after—”

"Homeroom." I finished the sentiment at the same time it came out of Bacon's mouth. He nodded grimly, for the first time exposing the serious side of himself I knew was always lurking beneath the surface.

"You're slipping away," he said bluntly.

"Fuck you. You think you can just pop back into my life and start judging me?" Bacon was always judging me. Always pushing me to do better, go a little farther. I suppose without him maybe I've slipped but fuck him anyway.

"That's why I'm back, Mick. I can't let you slip away. You've got more to do.”

Always more to do with Bacon. Maybe 15 years had been better for me than I thought — I'd missed him so much I'd nearly forgotten how demanding he could be.

"I think I maxed out in 2001," I sneered, and that made him sit back in his chair a little. Not quite as relaxed when he saw I could potentially put up a fight. "Can't imagine what else you'd have lined up for me. Besides, I'm not a kid anymore. I've got my limitations.”

Bacon gave me a brief but thorough look over. Nodded in stern agreement.

"Yeah. I can see that. But I can help. I can get you back on your feet. Stop the slipping. That's why I'm back, buddy, you've got potential and you're stronger than I thought.”

"Gee thanks." I broke eye contact to stare at my feet as if there was something particularly interesting to examine there. "You sure know how to make a guy feel good after abandoning him for over a decade.”

"Mick," he began, but I cut him off.

"You were supposed to be my friend. We said we were going to do it together and you backed out and now here I am." I was mortified to realize I was on the verge of tears so I shut my mouth and kept staring at my feet.

"I know," Bacon said, then added gently, "and I'm sorry.”

Bacon never apologized before.

"I got scared. I thought I could do it, thought it was the best option, but at the last second I chickened out and I'm sorry." He cuffed my knee again and I looked up from my feet. He looked sorry, too. "I've been using our time apart to think, you know? Because if that wasn't the best option, there had to be another one, right?”

"You've got another option," I said, my tone dry as desert sand.

"Bet your ass I do." Bacon grinned, then leaned forward conspiratorially. "What went down in homeroom—”

"When you left like a cowardly shit," I interjected, but he went on.

"—that wasn't right. It wasn't what was supposed to happen. I had the signals all mixed up. I got it wrong.”

"You 'got it wrong?'" I would have laughed in his face if, you know, I wasn't so furious. "What about your 'signals' got it so 'wrong' that I put a gun in my mouth in front of a class of kids I'd been going to school with since kindergarten and pulled the trigger? That seems pretty fucking far off the mark, Bacon.”

He held his hands up in defense of his mixed-up signals.

"I know. I know. I was wrong, I'm sorry, I told you. But you survived! You're still here!”

"I'm here," I spat, fuming. "You're damn right I'm here, look around, Bacon!" I would have lifted my arm and swept it around the dayroom of the psychiatric ward if, you know, I wasn't paralyzed.

Bacon wouldn't look. I noticed he'd been pointedly ignoring all the other psych ward patients, in fact. Probably made him feel worse.

Did you know when you eat a bullet, it's not always your last meal?

I didn't. But turns out, if you aim just a little too high, you miss the part that controls heart functions and breathing. If you aim just a little too high, you just destroy the part that controls language and memory and motor functions.

I didn't know that, but I think Bacon did.

"I'm going to help you," Bacon insisted.

"You were supposed to go with me," I said, but you know I didn't really say it, I was just sort of thinking it because Bacon could hear me even when I couldn't talk.

Bacon could always hear me.

"I couldn't." He grimaced a little. "You did it wrong, Mick, buddy. If you'd blown your brains out the right way I'd be gone with you but we're both still here." His face brightened but I still noticed how he refused to look at any of the other vegetables in the dayroom. They wheel us out of our rooms for sun a few times a day and wouldn't you know that's where Bacon had found me, staring listlessly out the windows with the rest of them.

He cuffed my knee for a third time.

"But it's okay. Because like I said, I was wrong. I thought you had to kill yourself to end our torment but you know what, buddy, that day you pulled the trigger in front of all those kids?" Bacon let out a long, low whistle of appreciation. "The agony in that room when the gun went off… the agony that lingered after those kids went home? I can still taste it, Mick, and it's fucking delicious.

"I don't know what you mean." But I kinda did. And I was getting excited.

"You weren't supposed to kill yourself. That didn't take away the torment, did it, Mick?”

No, it sure as shit didn't.

"But you can cause it," Bacon said. He sounded as excited as I felt. "Turn the gun the other way. We could go right back to that high school, right back to that homeroom, and have some real fun.”

He paused, then added, "Or we could start right here." Bacon turned towards a nurse on watch, acknowledging someone other than me for the first time since he'd walked in the door. He cocked his thumb and forefinger in mockery of a pistol, aimed it at her head, fired.

The nurse didn't even blink. After all, it's not like she could see Bacon.

Only I could see Bacon.

It had been 15 years since Bacon had whispered to me every night, every day, about how I had to kill myself. Where my dad's gun was. How to load the bullets. How I had to end things, and how I had to do it. Now here he was, out of nowhere, with a whole new plan. Demanding things. Bacon could be so demanding.

He could also be very, very persuasive.

"I'm paralyzed, Bacon," I said, but it was hard to deny that my palms were sweaty. I ached to flex my fingers, wiggle my toes, anything. What was Bacon promising, exactly? "I can't even wipe my own ass, let alone fire a gun.”

"And that, my dear friend," Bacon said, leaning towards me again, "is why I'm here.”

He paused, then — keeping a careful eye on the nurse — reached for my hand. He cuffed my knuckles the same way he'd been cuffing my knee and suddenly, miraculously…

My hand twitched.

I thought for a wild second that I'd imagined it but Bacon gave me that grin of his so I flexed and —

My hand twitched.

"Consider it reparations for my long absence," Bacon said, leaning back in his chair again, lacing his fingers behind his head. "But I told you, it wasn't the right time. Signals were all wrong. Now is the right time."

"This is gonna be a lot of work, isn't it?" I asked him, staring in wonder at my hand. It ached, the long-dead limb coming back to life, but I could almost wiggle my fingers already.

"Yeah. You betcha. But it'll be worth it." Out of nowhere he gave my twitching hand a sharp smack. He was frowning at the nurse, who I could see out of the corner of my eye — she was watching me. "Careful with that. You don't want them to know you're getting better. Element of surprise, you know?”

"Yeah," I said, but my heart was hammering hard in my chest. I should've known that when Bacon came back, he'd come back in a big way.

"There's the spirit," Bacon said, grinning. "Now let's get started. I can't wait for you to taste the agony, Mick. It's fucking delicious.TC mark

Why Does The Mainstream Media Ignore ‘March For Life’ Every Year?

Posted: 25 Jan 2016 04:45 PM PST

March for Life II
Veronica Lark

I was one of the many Washington D.C. visitors who found herself snowed into a friends’ apartment during the weekend of Winter Storm Jonas. I arrived on Thursday night with a backpack and North Face boots, ready to brave the elements. I didn’t expect to stay past Sunday, and I have no one but myself and Delta to blame for a flight delayed until Tuesday morning.

The weather reports gave everyone adequate time to welcome Jonas into Washington, D.C. on Friday afternoon. Meteorologists foresaw the cold, the likely car wrecks, and the flight cancellations that would bring the nation’s capitol to a standstill. The city’s sense of emptiness seeped into the snowed-in apartments on Saturday just as softly as the snowflakes smoothed into snowdrifts outside.

Following the storm, Reuters reported that “the National Weather Service said 17.8 inches (45.2 cm) fell in Washington, tying as the fourth-largest snowfall in the city’s history.” Across the East Coast, there were at least 19 weather-related deaths, with public transportation operations suspended in D.C. from 11 p.m. on Friday through Monday morning.

But for all that the measurements and weather alerts were worth, they left out mention of the other storm that brought me and tens of thousands of Americans to DC in January. This forty-year long storm system culminates annually as the March for Life.

The March for Life is scheduled every January on the anniversary of the day that Roe v. Wade was decided. In 1973, a panel of Supreme Court justices voted that public-approved state legislators were wrong to put regulations on abortion. Roe put a limit on states’ control over abortion policies, and attempted to make the abortion issue a matter of Constitutional protection: a matter no longer open for public debate.

The March for Life demonstrates that those justices were wrong. They were wrong to add abortion to a list of “privacy rights” that the Constitution protects, and they were wrong to think that Americans would be silent in their dissent.

Whether or not those justices lacked the foresight of our meteorologists isn’t the issue. The issue is that this event is regularly ignored by media. Once again, 2016’s March was underreported, and any mainstream media coverage angled the story through a hazy media bias.

The New York Times reported vaguely that there were “hundreds” in attendance at the “anti-abortion” rally. Likewise, The Washington Post generously suggests a number closer to the “thousands.” These numbers are fractional compared to the forty thousand estimated by LifeSite News insiders.

Maria Servold, a professor of Journalism at Hillsdale College writing for The Federalist discusses how mainstream media acknowledges its social importance, they just fail to give it journalistic relevance. She insists that “If something is "one of the largest" of anything, it's worth covering in some way every year, without fail, with the same respect that any other large gathering would get, and especially if it's during a snowstorm. This isn't an oversight. This is a concerted effort to ignore a message that doesn't fit with the media's pro-abortion agenda.”

Once again, 2016’s March was underreported, and any mainstream media coverage angled the story through a hazy media bias.

For the thousands who attend the March for Life, words can never quite capture into words the “message” that compels them to walk from the Mall to the Supreme court every January. Even the nature of the walk – a literal mile long hike up Capitol Hill in the snow – sounds on paper exactly like that three-mile, uphill trek that all our parents supposedly made on a daily basis walking to school.

Unlike that anecdote, the March for Life is no fiction. The blizzard grounded it in a reality that even mainstream media couldn’t spin for long. Storm Jonas became a vehicle of discussion when actual vehicles leaving the Rally and March were stranded on the side of the Pennsylvania turnpike

The New York Times issued a later report on Saturday detailing the ongoing traffic backup of Marchers returning home across the Midwest. The backup lasted for hours through the night on Friday, with at least one group from Franciscan University of Steubenville finally moving forward 32 hours later on Sunday.

Andrea Moury, one of the students stranded in Franciscan’s seven buses, explained that “there were many inconveniences we endured during the time we spent waiting to be rescued. We had to divide a cold pizza by 40. We had to sleep two extra nights on the bus. We did not have running water.”

Perhaps the most memorable image from the backup was the Mass that was held on the side of the turnpike. Catholic high school students and their priest returning from DC turned to prayer as soon as their wheels stopped turning.

In this image, the mainstream media grasped what they didn’t quite grab hold of at the March: The responsiveness of the pro-life movement is deeply related to the responses that are waited for in the silence of prayer.

In my own experience of the March, I was just as distracted by the weather reports once I landed at Ronald Reagan airport. It wasn’t until the next morning during a well-versed homily at St. Joseph’s Catholic Church behind the Supreme Court that I felt my own individual worries begin to melt away. The priest was visiting the D.C. area, and he spoke about how he had almost canceled their parish trip due to the weather reports. Amidst phone calls and prayer, this priest made the decision to take the trip. That single moment of clarity gave him the peace that he then conveyed to the crowded morning Mass.

As he spoke, I looked around at travelers wearing leg warmers, layers of coats, and Washington DC tourist garb, and I was reminded of the sense of community that is critical to the pro-life movement. A community that spans generations, cultures, and age groups is one that will soon overcome the silence imposed by mainstream media. TC mark

18 Ways You Can Ruin Your Sex Life Without Even Realizing It

Posted: 25 Jan 2016 04:00 PM PST


1. Not considering your needs. Focusing solely on the person you are with and pleasing them has the potential to make you bitter and resentful and very sexually frustrated.

2. Not thinking about your partner’s needs. Zeroing-in onto your wants and desires, while completely neglecting their’s, is just as bad as ignoring your own.

3. Failing to communicate consistently and effectively. Plowing forward without “checking in” or asking your partner about how they are feeling, is a recipe for suckish sex.

4. Not emphasizing foreplay enough. Sometimes we are in the mood RIGHT NOW, but usually we need to be warmed up. Making sure foreplay is hot for you and your partner is the best way to ensure the sex is too.

5. Only having sex with one small (and very specific) segment of the population. Have intense exclusionary criteria like: “white only,” “under 25,” or “BIG DICKS ONLY.”

6. Not being clear about your expectations. Keeping things intentionally ambiguous and use phrases like “Netflix & Chill?” or “let’s watch a movie” can actually leave a lot of doubt and anxiety about what is ACTUALLY about to happen.

7. Not being open to trying new things in bed. Who knows, you might actually really like it!!

8. Getting pressured into doing things you aren’t comfortable with. Don’t let your partner push you into territory you don’t want to go into, you deserve to be comfortable 100% of the time!

9. Thinking about other things while having sex. Hmmm, when will those dishes get done? What about that homework assignment that’s due in four days?? Sex is a time when multi-tasking is NOT a good thing.

10. Zoning out when a sexual partner is giving you suggestions or constructive criticism. We all have a LOT we can learn, no matter how “experienced” we are.

11. Not using protection, or using it improperly! This will, quite simply, cripple you in a constant post-coitus wave of anxiety and fear. Nobody wants that!

12. Using people for sex. Misleading them about “wanting something more” and having “feelings” for them. This might lead to one good night, but it will NEVER lead to a better sex life or better life in general. Be honest.

13. Letting yourself get used for sex when you don’t want to be. Sometimes we know that we’re falling for a fuckboy, and just go with it, and there is literally no good destination at the end of that road.

14. Being exceedingly arrogant. Guys, pro-tip: Bragging about the size of your manhood does NOT turn us on! Also, don’t lecture your partner about how you KNOW they will “like THIS,” if you just met them like an hour ago.

15. Talking about ex-lovers and how your current partner compares. This is a great way to throw cold water on any hot and sexy situation.

16. Bad Hygiene. Full stop, big problem! Make sure you are cleaning “down there” and everywhere else for that matter!

17. Being really uptight about the whole thing. Sex is not always v. srs business, so let yourself laugh over mistakes or misfires.

18. Convincing yourself that an orgasm is absolutely required for great sex. Rejecting any sex without the “big O” as a failure and total waste of time will wreck havoc on your confidence and make sex suck. TC mark

I Wonder If I’ll Ever Recover From The Way He Swallowed My Heart

Posted: 25 Jan 2016 03:00 PM PST

Franca Gimenez
Franca Gimenez

There is a boy in San Francisco
who splintered my bones,
carved all the shallow parts
into something more jagged,
points and things I know others can’t touch.
I became a toothpick
he stuck in the places
he was trying to get
rid of something else.

There is a boy in San Francisco
who flicked apart my flesh
like I was nothing more
than something you pass
on the side of the road.
Never checked to see
if the bleeding stopped,
or if I made it to the hospital,
or if I was ever going to be okay.

I called it Love.
I called my friends
and everyone I knew,
said this was what Love looked like
when it showed up at my door
after years of telling it
to try again later.
Purple hearts are given out
to the bravest souls,
So maybe black and blue were just
pretty colors
and not a reason
to ask if Love
should hurt like this.

if Love should hurt me like this. TC mark

This Is How You Talk To Your Little Sister About Her Body

Posted: 25 Jan 2016 02:00 PM PST


You wait, at first. You don't say anything. Instead, you put Band-Aids on her skinned knees when she topples off her training bike, and kiss the swollen finger she slammed in the car door. When she is three and you are eight, and she asks you to share the bathtub with her, you do. And you splash warm water over her head and gently brush her thin brown hair with your fingers. Then you hug her. And you don't say a thing.

Not until she's old enough to understand. Not until she's tired of wearing matching dresses that are too small or too big or too scratchy or too matching. Then you tell her that she looks good in the shorts and baggy t-shirt, that she can pull off the overalls and pigtails, that she can rock the boots with the sweater, or whatever else makes her feel confident.

You tell her that she looks beautiful, but not only beautiful. Strong. You tell her she looks powerful in her riding boots or intimidating in her pencil skirt and blazer. You tell her she looks feminine in her eighth grade formal dress and tough in her softball uniform. And you tell her that you are proud when she hits a triple, when she draws an amazing picture, when she receives an award for her grades. You teach her that it is not her body that makes her who she is, but her mind, her soul, the way she carries herself, the way she laughs, the way she loves, the way she listens.

You teach her that it is not her body that makes her who she is, but her mind, her soul, the way she carries herself, the way she laughs, the way she loves, the way she listens.

When she is old enough, you tell her the truth. That our bodies are impermanent, all we are given. But that our bodies are what make us unique. You tell her that her worth is beyond her body. But that she must treasure this body, love this body.

When she is old enough, you tell her about your pain. The calories you counted, the scales you stepped on, the tears, and the times you cursed the mirror, wishing to be someone else. But more importantly, you tell her your triumphs. The times you let go of that reflection and celebrated your budding hips, your curves, your wonderful body that had finally discovered how to love itself. You tell her the way you learned to run with passion, rather than hate. The way you learned to enjoy food, enjoy exercise, enjoy life in a healthy balance.

You tell her how wonderful her body can be. How she can dress it up or dress it down. How she can cut her hair or leave it long. How she can wear heels or gym shoes. You tell her how electric, how dizzying, how mesmerizing her body can be. You tell her to be proud of this body. You tell her to be careful.

When she is old enough, you tell her that her worth is beyond her body. But that she must treasure this body, love this body.

One day, you tell her how it feels to be touched. The rush of warmth that will come when a hand that loves her connects with hers. How her skin will tingle when someone she cares about runs his fingertips across her neck and draws her in for a kiss. How beautiful this all is, at the right time.

One day, you tell her the mistakes you have made. You tell her how it feels to be broken. How it feels when you're not ready, when you're terrified, when you're alone. You tell her how it feels when you give your body to someone who shouldn't have it, when you feel empty, when you have to learn to build yourself back up again, piece by piece.

But you tell her that she is always whole, even if she feels broken. That her body is the shell that protects her heart, that her body is the beautiful casing that hides her, but also sets her free.

You tell her that she is beautiful, that she is strong, that she is a woman, that you love her. You tell her that she should celebrate her body, love her body. But you tell her this: she will always be more than just a body. And she will always be your little sis. TC mark

29 Hilarious Times OkCupid Was Definitely Not ‘OK’

Posted: 25 Jan 2016 01:01 PM PST








Source: Tumblr


Source: Tumblr


Source: Tumblr


Source: Tumblr








Source: Tumblr








Source: Tumblr




Source: Tumblr








Source: Tumblr


Source: Tumblr




Source: Tumblr






Source: Tumblr





Macklemore’s ‘White Privilege II’ Deserves Praise (And Criticism)

Posted: 25 Jan 2016 12:15 PM PST

Amanda Rhoades
Amanda Rhoades

“You think you want white people to talk about white privilege, white supremacy, and race, and then they do, and many times, you’re left thinking, ‘never mind.'” I said this once to a friend; unsurprisingly a friend of color. Put differently, the average white person is either “bad” at talking about race, or simply doesn’t know how to begin, even with the best of intentions.

Intentions, I argue, are important. But mostly only to the individual agent who performs an act. Especially in the context of race and racism, and the societal and institutional consequences that are faced as a result, we can measure consequences but we cannot measure intentions. In this way, when doing discourse analysis, intentions are for the birds. This is important because in what has been a storm of opinions since the recent release of Macklemore’s White Privilege II – some thoughtful, many frivolous and superficial – what is important, I think, is to not spend time focusing on Macklemore’s assumed intentions in this track, but rather what the track as a text is doing, and what Macklemore is doing in it.

Listening to the nine-minute track, it is clear that White Privilege II takes on a specific sound that, while we may not be accustomed to hearing from Macklemore and Ryan Lewis, there are definite elements of their particular style and production. While some have discounted the music’s construction by entirely questioning whether the track even qualifies as a “song,” it would do us some good to remember that art, and especially the kind that is birthed of the rich diversity of black culture, is inherently dynamic.

However, it is also important to note that while the lyrics do point fingers away from Macklemore, throughout the lyrics there is an awareness of his position as a white male.

The song’s musical arrangement is certainly one that travels, although one wonders if it isn’t doing too much for a single track. As a friend who has formerly worked in music production said when I asked his opinion, “It’s almost as if there are three or four songs turned into one.” The anatomy of the song however, clearly depicts a track made for storytelling; stories that connect, but not necessarily chronologically. Beat and rhythm however, can be a matter of taste and experience. Besides that, the storytelling sound positions the song such that the lyrics take full precedent in delivering the social and cultural implications of the message.

While one can write an entire thesis, deconstructing line by line, arguing one way or the other, as to whether the lyrics are the ramblings of a white man overly self-aware of white privilege, and this text is a confession of white guilt; or the text is the ultimate manifestation of the white savior mentality masquerading as the work of activism, in an attempt to create a piece of hip-hop music. Or it is an honest piece of art from someone aware of his position in society, and the juxtaposition of this position in an art form that was historically used as resistance against people in his societal position. Or it is an observation of important race phenomena and social conversations of his time. It could, in fact, be all of the above. The lens used in analysis is as important as the analysis itself.

There are some conclusions nevertheless, that can be drawn in analysis of White Privilege II that transcend lens. The song explicitly calls out the appropriation of black culture by two highly visible culprits that have faced continuous criticism – Miley Cyrus and Iggy Azalea. Importantly, the lyrics also call out a historical figure – Elvis – revealing that appropriation and “who” becomes the face of a specific art form is not a new thing, but rather an old one. (In case you were wondering, for some, Elvis’ privilege is the reason he is known as the king of rock n’ roll, and not Chuck Berry.) However, it is also important to note that while the lyrics do point fingers away from Macklemore, throughout the lyrics there is an awareness of his position as a white male. There is an understanding of the larger societal benefit of this position that infiltrates a subculture that he participates in, but one in which his membership is seen as that of a guest, and not a host.

Throughout the song, Macklemore highlights the important race conversations of the time – Black Lives Matter, police brutality, the politics of identity, the fine line one walks in participating in cultures they are not seen as “belonging” to, and of course, privilege, and its complexity. So the question, I think, after listening to the song and deducing the social conversations it wrestles with, is, “How do we critic Macklemore’s song without simply reducing it and him to ‘never mind’?


My academic scholarship is in race, it plays a significant role in my public writing, and in my personal life. Like most black people in the United States, I am not afforded the freedom of living my life, colorblind. Moreover, given history and context, I don’t have the desire to do so anyway. But in the last few months where race conversations are concerned, there is a question I have been haunted by, and I think the culture too has been haunted by: What do we actually want from white people in race conversations? Because silence about race and racism is a tool of white supremacy – it protects it. But having to deal with the miseducation and misunderstanding of race and its implications that many white people have on a daily basis, is not something I want to sign up to do – the exception being in a classroom.

Macklemore’s text in White Privilege II is one where we must be deliberate in how we analyze its implications. Indeed, Macklemore is not saying anything that people of color have not been saying for centuries. Lyrically, it is not revolutionary in its storytelling. In the type of storytelling it attempts, Reflection Eternal’s Four Women comes to mind in style, and I would argue, with greater conviction and less uncertainty.

Still, it is that very uncertainty that ought to be appreciated in White Privilege II. The uncertainty that the artist is discussing things that are difficult for someone in his societal position to be doing; while attempting it, he questions his right to attempt it. This depicts an acknowledgement that he is conscientiousness of how to maneuver his privilege. In addition, Macklemore is saying things that the average white person likely does not have to confront in their ordinary lives. In the historical and cultural climate that we express ideas and engage in conversations on race – this is significant.

I will admit that I, in particular, have had to eat my words in the last year or two about Macklemore and Ryan Lewis. Almost to the date, two years ago, I wrote a snarky piece condemning the Grammy rap album of the year that Macklemore won over Kendrick Lamar. Where did the condemnation come from? The knowledge of the role white privilege plays in art, and even in art that is historically black. Macklemore is exploring this knowledge, albeit imperfectly in White Privilege II in a way that is relevant and honest. In doing so, he finds a way to not only respond to one approach a white person or white people might take in discussing privilege, he forces us all to reconsider the candor and care we approach in race conversations, and the manner in which we critic speakers and their words. TC mark