quizzical pussy

I lay no claim to being exceptionally dateable. It can’t be easy to let yourself fall for me, and maybe it’s not even smart. I realize everyone has their own personal red flags, but logically, I must live in much of their overlap.

When you read discussions about evolutionary psychology, debates about weight, or even conversations on general attractiveness, someone will always raise the point that human beings are fundamentally attracted to health. This probably seems like a diplomatic, benign way to speak about physical beauty: Can’t we all just agree that we’re programmed to read signs of health as beauty? Isn’t health really the most important factor in choosing a mate?

Every time I hear that, read that, I flinch just a little. It’s such a casual way to tell someone that no matter how she actually looks,  she doesn’t count as pretty.

I am not healthy. My body has not been healthy for several years. I am disabled; I am sick. I have debilitating fatigue, chronic pain, a compromised immune system, and a low tolerance for activity.  I wouldn’t have a breath of a prayer of surviving in the wild. Despite the fact that even I get mesmerized by my ass sometimes, in one sense I’m unattractive on the most basic level. And even ignoring bullshit theories and pseudoscience, being in a relationship with me day-to-day must be frustrating.

Want to do a fun activity together? Depending what it is, I might be able to do it if I have a week’s notice so I can rest. And a free week after, so I can rest. Want to do a fun, spontaneous activity together? Haha fuck you no.

Feel like grabbing a bite to eat together? Okay, but right now I’m off gluten, dairy, sugar, and fifteen other things just in case it helps my illness. So far it hasn’t helped much, but it means we definitely can’t order that pizza. Also, I bring my own sugar-free ketchup or wheat-free soy sauce along, which I acknowledge might be weird.

Do you want a partner who can be your workout buddy? Who’ll go dancing with you every weekend? Who lives a normal, productive, active life? Who can work a normal full-time job? I’ll say it now: you can’t rely on me. I may never be this for you no matter how much I try.

Add to this the fact that even if I were perfectly healthy I’d still have my emotional issues and my weaknesses, just like anyone else, and most people would run away, sweating from the adrenaline rush of having just dodged a bullet. Wouldn’t they?

But I know something they don’t: I’m worth it. Not to everyone, maybe, but to the few, I’m so entirely worth it. I will love them so fiercely and sweetly, we’ll laugh together so joyously, and those things I do offer will bewitch them so thoroughly that my health will be a detail, trivia, like the maze of color in my eyes. Like the ridiculous songs I make up. Like the brownies I bake that I can’t even eat myself, but I know you like them. Like my insatiable lust for the people I love.

I’m no one’s textbook ideal mate. No one describes their perfect woman as always sick. But I make up for it. I try to. I have to believe I do.

(image source)

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It’s cute how I can’t just get a cold or the flu and then recover from it like normal people. No, that would be silly. Of course it becomes pneumonia. Pneumonia in the midst of life trauma type stuff.

That, kind and indulgent reader, is basically why there was no ConTuesday last week. This week, though? Different story. There is a ConTuesday. I may still have pneumonia; I may still be having a month full of turpentine, gristle, and mud, but guess what? January’s almost over and I’ve always had luck with Februaries.

Hey, former sex worker here.

Every time a guy talks about how he’s “so good” that even prostitutes get off with him, I laugh. I laugh long and hard on the inside (or outside, if it’s online) and shake my head.

Guys, seriously: That is what you are paying for.

I know some women can have endless orgasms, but the general consensus is that after about ten it starts to hurt. Also, the pounding, slapping, whateverthefuck thing you think you’re doing REALLY DOES NOT WORK. A body is a finely tuned instrument, and it takes repeated practice before you can tune it to accept your stimuli.

The “orgasm” comes standard with the moderately-priced intercourse package, which also includes insincere platitudes and expressions of disbelief that you’re a virgin. It’s what you’re paying for. Be honest.

Sex work is one-tenth sex, three-tenths customer service, and three-fifths human affection and contact. That’s what separates it from a fleshlight. Start being honest about what you’re buying.

And hey, maybe if we can, as a culture, accept that affection and reassurance is more important than sex, people will start treating sex workers with respect.

PS: None of us care about the size of your penis, big or small. We don’t care either way, as long as you use a condom.

If I had enough money to pay for sex, though, I’m sure it would be different with me. Right? Right?

Last night I had a threesome with my roommate and her fuckbuddy. It’s the nicest thing ever to be having sex with a guy while your friend is in the corner reading Sandman, and no one has any problems with this situation.

Yeah, until it all gets jumbled up together and somebody pictures The Corinthian while climaxing.

The best thing I ever did for myself …was get a genital piercing. When I listen to music that’s heavy on bass, I have a built-in hands-free vibrator. When I go to concerts and stand by the amp… well. I think I deserve some kind of medal for this weekend, or a spot in Guinness: most orgasms experienced while standing in three-inch heels is all mine.

I can honestly say I have never wanted to shove metal through my skin more. Things I need to know:

1. If you are a clitoris-having person. I don’t want to assume, but I want to know if your setup would apply to me.
2. What exact piercing did you get?
3. Am I really considering getting a genital piercing based on the anecdote of an anonymous stranger? (Answer: I’m not not considering it.)
4. If I do this, what song should I listen to first?

Why do more boys not make noise? The guy I fucked last night made the prettiest noises… a couple of times he just kept saying “wow.” It was the hottest thing.

Oh dear Anubis, yes. I don’t really share this often, but male voices are a particular turn-on for me. I wish there were an industry term that made it easy to look for porn clips where guys talk a lot and make sexy sounds while fucking, because I would use it in searches even more than I use “The Corinthian rule 34″.

Sometime when I bring up the fact that I actually like sucking dick, a friend will agree and say something about how it makes her feel powerful and she enjoys the feeling of giving pleasure to her man. I usually just pretend to agree with that, but honestly, I like it for itself. There’s just something unbelievably hot about the feeling of a cock in my mouth, especially the smooth, soft head. And as for power, it makes me feel like a powerLESS sex object, and I LOVE IT! Does this make me a bad feminist?

Nope.

My girlfriend spanked my vulva too hard and it left bruises. I’m trying to figure out whether the mind-blowing orgasms I had with her at the time are worth the three subsequent days of being too sore for any kind of sex whatsoever. For some reason it’s the not being able to masturbate that annoys me the most.

I’m not entirely sure it would be worth the three days of frustration, but I’d be willing to find out for myself. There is something about this confession that makes me all squirmy and speculative. Probably the vulva slapping, if I had to guess.

Confessional.

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So my ribcage is hinged now, like a huge pair of jaws. It yawns wide, and there’s this chasm, a throat, where I normally expect my heart to thrum. Then it snaps shut in a low growl without warning, crushing my lungs, chuckling at the idea that humans need air. Either way my chest aches. Either way I’m powerless against the grinning beast. It has no tongue. It’s all teeth. Like a heartbreak with no explanation. Exactly like that.

I am all searing thorax. The rest of me is numb.

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Things I don’t want the government to have the power to control (a random sampling of a much, much longer list):

• My reproductive system
• Whom I love and/or marry
• My ability to protect myself
• My blog
• My access to information

If we let them seize the internet, they’ll never give it back. And you just know they’ll end up coming for the porn eventually. U.S. citizens, if you’re against blacklist legislation, please contact your representatives and let them know that SOPA/PIPA are some bullshit.

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I feel guilty a lot, mostly because I do stupid things a lot. Not malicious things, not even selfish things… literally I-did-not-think-about-this-at-all-before-I-went-ahead-and-did-it-my-bad things. Or sometimes, alternately, I’ll have thought quite a bit about something before implementing, but prioritized the exact wrong thing. Guilt is not useful or helpful in any way, but it’s familiar.

It’s not exactly foreign to some of you guys, either.

…I shouldn’t be pointing it out like that, should I? I’m such a douche.

Had a hot, sweaty, sexy, awesome summer threesome with two lovely ladies once. Everyone was into it, everyone was into each other, and a half-dozen condoms later we fell asleep in each others arms. It was the perfect threesome.

All of us were poly, kinky, sex-positive, and dating others at the time. All three of us agreed to keep it to ourselves (and my housemate, who couldn’t help but notice). Despite this being one of the hottest things I’d ever done, I still feel a little guilty that we didn’t tell our respective other lovers. I felt even more guilty knowing that I’d have done it again.

With all the poly and sex-positivity in play, I’m curious as to why you kept it a secret. But no matter. I’m not here to judge. Say fifteen “Oh, God”s while masturbating to the memory, and thou shalt be shriven.

I don’t really get along with most of my co-workers, and I spend most of my time there yearning to be elsewhere.

However.

My supervisor is eleven years my senior, is tall and bulky, has piercings and a deliciously deep voice, and is an obnoxious, puffed-up braggart. I’m not normally attracted to men, and I can’t stand him, but I keep having these horribly vivid fantasies about him. Fantasies like locking up the training room, slapping him in the face, shoving him to the ground and forcing him to suck whichever cock I was packing that day, and then doing awful, degrading things to him until he cries. And then bending him over the desk and spanking him while I fuck him, and making him cry some more while I use him to get off.

I feel kind of guilty for thinking like that about someone I work in such close proximity with (apparently, I have a thing for humiliating and objectifying people who are much bigger and stronger than I am, physically speaking), but it certainly makes the work day go by more quickly…

Okay, I’m worried about saying this because then everyone I know will have to wonder whether I’m perving over them, but you have a right to have sexual and/or kinky fantasies about pretty much anyone and everyone you know. Very often, acting on it or even telling them about it would be crossing the line, but thought crime does not exist.

Unless it does. In which case I’m a monster and so are 98% of the people reading this, minimum.

I’m young, broke (but come from money), sexually rapacious and forced to live with a mother I can’t stand (we came within an ace of killing each other when I was 14), a father who could care less and a little brother I’ll miss when I finally leave this hell-hole. Now, onto the actual confession.

About a month or so ago, I was out with a few friends, ducking my mother’s return from a business trip in Boston, when I noticed that I was getting the once-over from a guy across the dance floor. I looked him over right back, he grinned and made a beeline for me. In a little under a half hour, I had danced with him, made out with him in one of the bathrooms, and gotten him nice and buzzed. Then I let him tag along with me and my girls (who also had a few guys of there own by the end of the night, so I wasn’t the only one).

We all crashed at my homegirl’s place, where the party continued … downstairs. Upstairs, in one of the spare bedrooms, my new friend and I were having our own party. I fucked his brains out until he fell into a deep sleep.

So deep he didn’t notice when I got curious and started rifling through his wallet. He had a lot of cash (mostly in 20 and 50 dollar bills.) I took three twenties and got the hell of there before my conscience could get the best of me.

Since then, I’ve been doing the same thing off and on: Pick up random dude, fuck him senseless, then go through his shit while he’s out cold (and I always leave ’em good and tired). If I find money, sweet. If I don’t, well … at the least the sex was good.

I’ve tried to feel guilty about this, but I need only to hear my mother’s ”you-have-shamed-me-merely-by-existing” tone to remind me why I feel the need to pick a lover’s pocket, why I can’t afford something as basic as underwear, and why I’ll never ask that sadist for a fucking dime.

I think this is generally referred to as a “sin tax”.

On a more serious note, I keep getting reminded lately that I should really and seriously never have a one-night stand. And why I should deposit the Christmas money that’s still sitting in my wallet.

Sometimes I kind of hate my boyfriend’s face. At proper angles/when he makes cute facial expressions/when his beard is trimmed, he can be the cutest fucking boy in the world, and once in awhile I do think he is just straight-up for realsies hot. But a lot of times I look at him and recognize that, objectively, he’s pretty fucking weird looking. Maybe even a little gross.

I would never tell him this, and sometimes it even works to his advantage – if we’re doing a rape scene, or if he’s just generally in Creepy Dom Mode, it really fucking turns me on to look up at his face and think, you know, ”oh, this ugly, weird-looking guy can do whatever he wants with me, and I’m completely helpless even if it disgusts me.” But sometimes, when we’re cuddling, I look at him and I feel like a fucking monster for thinking these things about such an amazing, sweet, perfect guy. I know I’m not perfect either, and I know it’s really shallow. But none of that stops me from thinking it.

Feel not guilty, my child. You should just hear the shit he thinks about you!

Totally kidding. I am such a dick.

Confess your sins and wins here!

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It’s kind of a lonely feeling.

I’m excited about exploring BDSM and figuring out where I fit in that world and what I want from it, but I’m mostly doing it alone. I don’t have a partner who wants to tie me up, or hit me with things made out of leather, or have long discussions about what trips our respective kinks. I have a few friends I can compare notes with, and they are truly worth their weight in Lelo toys, but it’s not quite the same as someone I trust pushing my boundaries and giving me orgasms.

My intention here is not to gripe about the fact that Laramy isn’t interested in this stuff. I have absolutely no wish to force feed kink to my boyfriend or cram it into our relationship dynamic or sex life. I’m not even sure if it would be a good idea for me to introduce any significant kink involving power exchange into my primary relationship just yet, even if he was into the idea. No, actually, because of the wonders of open relationships, I’m griping that I don’t have any other kinky partners to experiment with at the moment. Glad we cleared this up. Good talk.

Because honestly, I’m feeling a little lost. Overwhelmed might be more accurate. I read about it, discuss it in the abstract, ponder it and fantasize about it, but for me, BDSM is still a tiny bit of experience and a long and jumbled string of thought experiments. It’s fantasies that I’m not even sure I’d enjoy in real life. It’s trepidation and fascination. It’s a slick and nimble creature that my mind can track but never catch.

More specifically, I’m unclear about when bottoming becomes submitting.

…Which wouldn’t matter so much if I weren’t so conflicted about submission. My fundamentalist Christian family aggressively taught me from birth that as a female I should submit to men like Jesus and my dad and my future husband, and I have never been a fan of any of that. My first romantic relationship was abusive, and I completely lost my sense of self trying to survive it. This is what submission has meant to me in the past. I fear it, and see it as personally nullifying and harmful¹. The idea that it would be all too easy for me to let go and dissolve back into that abused mindset haunts me.

I worry if subspace, which, as I understand it, is a type of dissociative state, will feel like a trauma-based flashback.

I’m confused about how the fact that my ex boyfriend used to hit me relates to the fact that I now want to be hit, and I know this is something I’ll eventually have to deal with. Is it messed up? Is it a craving for catharsis? It’s something I can’t even look at directly yet, but it lurks in my periphery, waiting. Right now when I’m bottoming I’m just after the endorphin rush. Just give me the sting and the swoon.

I have so much I still need to figure out. Is it any wonder I’d like a hand to hold through all this?

But that seems like kind of a long shot right now. I don’t know this for sure, but I don’t think I’m very good at attracting people. I know people who can find relationships and play partners like you can find D’anjou pears, in or out of season. I am convinced that those people are either sexier than I am (likely) or have luck dragons (less likely), but either way, I’m not of their tribe and cannot work their wonders. So I’m not in love with the odds that someone appropriate² will saunter up to me and observe, “I couldn’t help but notice that you have no idea what you’re doing. However, I find you oddly alluring. I would like to tie you up, possibly hit you with leather things, and lay bare your deepest fantasies. Would you be good with that?”³

Does anyone have a luck dragon I can borrow?

1. In my own case only. I want to make it very clear that I do not see submissives in general in this light. I just have my own personal issues to work out on the subject. [↩]
2. Someone who is responsible, mature, compassionate, experienced in BDSM, enjoys talking philosophy, and with whom I have chemistry. [↩]
3. And really, if this were to happen, who’s to say I wouldn’t try to crawl into my shit and hide? [↩]

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Life is full of little disappointments, isn’t it? Well, not so much for me; I got a unicorn horn dildo for Christmas. But for you people? Lots of little disappointments. They’re unavoidable.

But may the good stuff make up for them twelve times over this year!

Every week, when I read the confessions, and mine aren’t there (I think I’ve sent in 3 over the past several weeks) it gives me a sad.

I hope this brightens up your day. The only confession of yours that I know to put up has made it into the very first ConTuesday of the year!

If you’re still disappointed, fear not. I have a tingly sensation in my earlobes that tells me I’ll get to the others before too long. I’m practically the groundhog that way.

I am starting to feel like a Nice Guy.

I’m a sadistic top, and there are few things that get me wetter than tying someone up and torturing them (consensually!) for an hour or more. My relationships don’t always allow for this sort of play, so I sometimes play with different people (again, with the knowledge and consent of my partners).

I swear to everything that is holy, submissives are the most goddamn annoying group of people I’ve ever met. Since I’m still “young” by BDSM terms, most of the people with whom I play are fairly new to the scene. In between navigating “Tigger Syndrome”, daddy issues, and bizarre and creepy relationship requests (I agreed to hit you, that does not mean that we’re engaged or have a deep emotional connection, or, heaven forbid, that I’m the only one who REALLY UNDERSTANDS you.), I have to deal with people who find the idea of limits abhorrent.

“What do you want to do?”

“Oh, you know. I figured you could just tie me up and hurt me for a bit.”

“Okay, do you have any way you like to be hit? Caning, flogging, spanking…?”

*Pulls face* “You know, my PREVIOUS master didn’t ask questions. He just did what he wanted. Are you sure you’re really a top?”

Why yes, yes, I AM sure, and I’m sorry that trying not to kill you or cause emotional damage ruins the mood. (Spoiler: I’m really not.)

I get people complaining that I do things like check for circulation and breathing, or that I ask for a list of hard limits, or that I spend the first few sessions getting a feel for the bottom rather than just wailing on them until they safeword. The way I learned it, that’s how to be a GOOD top.

Unfortunately, it’s also the main reason cited when I ask why people don’t want to play with me again. Said people then go off to Creepy McWifebeater because he “doesn’t play with limits” and “provides the TRUE submissive experience”.

Ffffff… I don’t want to become a Nice Guy, but it’s equal parts frustrating and infuriating to see people my age care so little about their safety. I really worry about how “the community” seems to focus on going harder, deeper, longer than everyone else. It’s one-upmanship that’s not healthy, and I especially hate how I’m judged to be a “bad partner” for actually treating my submissive like a human being.

/sighs I get if you want that, but could you at least wait until the scene begins?

Maybe I’m not grokking the flagrant disregard for health and personal safety because I’m not very submissive (that I know of), but I can state as someone who’s beginning to explore BDSM as a bottom, you’re describing pretty much what I’m looking for in a top. I hope for my sake that you are not the minority.

Maybe– and this is just an idea– these people should try submitting to common sense, and see how that works out.

(Oh, and I should also note that I don’t personally know a great many people who identify as submissive at this point, but I can’t see the ones I do know pulling this rubbish. Yeesh.)

i’m bisexual. i’ve only dated guys so far and i’m currently engaged to the love of my life….who is also a guy. he’s monogamous, i have polyamorous tendencies but am content in monogamous relationships. i’m struggling a little in this one though, because, we are SO compatible and i truly believe we have the potential to be together forever – BUT HE’S A DUDE. i get so much shit for being bisexual when i haven’t so much as kissed a woman. i know i am – but what if i never get a chance to truly explore that side of myself? :(

I didn’t start exploring with women until I was in an open relationship, so I don’t have much in the way of advice for a bisexual in a monogamous relationship with someone of only one gender. Because you seem to really want to explore your attraction to women, part of me is sort of hoping that your fiance comes around to the idea of opening up things a little. But I don’t know if that’s fair. Sometimes people in open relationships are too quick to act like that’s the answer for everyone.

At very least, you need to get a female stripper for your bachelorette party.

My first lesbian experience involved a sexy, funny friend who was so stunningly hot that I still often imagine her pink nipples and orgasmic shudder when I masturbate.

My husband finds her just as attractive, maybe more, and several times per month we both arrive at screaming release while telling each other dirty stories about threesomes with this woman.

We both really want a threesomes with her.

The problem…neither of us are really into her boyfriend, and we don’t want to make things awkward in that way.

If you as a couple invite someone to a threesome and they bring their significant other, it is a sure sign that you’re dealing with someone who can’t count for shit.

I mean, you know she’s into at least one of you, so I think maybe I’d risk it and ask her what she thought about a threesome, provided she watched a respectable amount of Sesame Street as a kid.

You know your sluthood has jumped the shark when you’re making out with a guy on the floor, he’s groping your ass, and your roommates’ reaction is to continue discussing whether invisibility or flight is a cooler superpower.

That is just a waste. Flight is obviously cooler, and your roommates should all know that. Show me a person who would rather be invisible and I will show you one sneaky motherfucker.

Not that I have a problem with sneaky motherfuckers. They tend to have excellent confessions.

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One of the best Valentine’s days (er, nights) I’ve ever experienced was the one where my friend Eloise and I drove through far too much snow to go to the local lesbian club.

We were probably both new-ish-ly single. Or possibly I wasn’t; I’ve spent more of my adulthood in relationships than out, but I haven’t always given a fraction of a shit about sentimental days where I’m supposed to buy candy.

Still, I made Eloise a mix CD of various slightly-fractured love songs because I make excellent mix CDs and getting them is often one of the perks of being my friend and driving me places. (Erasure’s “Waiting For Sex” was on it, as was mc chris’s “nerd grrrl” and Liz Phair’s “Flower”. Look me in the fucking face and tell me that mix wasn’t inspired.) We hopped in her car and on the other end of the drive we found a magical land of drag shows and women making out.

It felt like home. Wait, no, it felt like fun.

For some reason that’s the exact kind of New Year’s Eve I’d like to have. Maybe because Laramy’s working tonight so I can’t kiss my man and that reminds me of a Valentine’s day alone. Or maybe just because it would be intensely awesome. I can’t unravel the psychology of it all right now. I just want to see drag, dance with chicks, and ideally drink brightly colored, deceptively intoxicating sugar water.

Eloise has moved away, though, and I’m too tired to dance. Boo. Maybe I’ll have a night home alone dressed in drag. That would definitely be zero units of pathetic, right?

Oh yeah and HAPPY NEW YEAR everyone!

(image source)

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I like to think of this moment in my life as mirroring the nascent winter, when legends say the sun dies and is reborn.

It’s probably not, in actuality, quite so dramatic.

I feel dormant, but changes are afoot. I’m exhausted and restless, quiet and crouching. I’m an irritable, hopeful malcontent. I need a nap and a pick axe, among other things. I have a lot of needs, you see.

For most of my like I’ve felt like it was by far the most shameful thing of all to need things. Anything. Almost as horrible was being noticed.

In seventh grade I was supposed to go on a class field trip, which probably cost about twelve dollars. I decided that instead of asking my mom for the money to go I would just skip it. My family wasn’t desperately poor, but I remember worrying about money a lot as a child. My parents had so many kids, and what if they really couldn’t afford us?

My first period teacher noticed that I hadn’t turned in my permission slip and asked me about it. I shyly (I did nearly everything shyly in those days) told him I wasn’t going. Later that day the school counselor called me in to see her, and it became increasingly clear that “I’m not going” wasn’t a valid position to take. Why wasn’t I going? I answered honestly that I didn’t want to bother my parents for the money.

The last thing I wanted, in the entire world, was to be a bother to anyone.

The counselor told me they had a special field trip fund for students in need. I stammered out that it wasn’t necessarily that we didn’t have the money, understand, but things were kind of tight and I didn’t want to add to expenses if I didn’t have to. She assured me that she understood, and that’s exactly what the fund was for. I looked on in horror as she produced a permission slip and told me to just get it signed; the money part was taken care of. My plan to bother no one and skip the field trip had completely backfired and somehow I had scammed this woman into giving me twelve charity dollars.

I went on the trip, but it felt wrong. Between calling a great deal of attention to myself, miscommunicating my situation horribly, and possibly taking money from someone who needed it much more, things hadn’t quite gone the way I’d planned.

This is pretty much what happens whenever I ignore my needs, neglect to ask for things, try to make things smooth for everyone at my own expense. I make a mess of things. I steal twelve dollars. Every time. I am only recently realizing how reliably this happens.

So lately I’m feeling that quite a few things in my life (not the least of which being the way I treat myself) are going to change. Because I need them to. Because I’m ready. Because I’m restless. Because I am the sun returning triumphant from the land of ice and shadows.

Or I could be. You don’t know.

(image source)

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I hope everyone out there is having far too much holiday fun. Here are some fun and lovely confessional curios to brighten up your winter (unless you’re in the Southern hemisphere, in which case I hope it brightens up your day in between trips to the beach.) Chins up; only four months or so to go!

Please link this to your awesome and sexy readers
http://marriedfreaks.com/?p=166

Done! They really are quite sexy and awesome, aren’t they?

Just before Christmas break is my favorite kind of year, because my professors always give out candy canes and I can watch and see who I think would be the best at oral sex.

(P.S. There’s this boy in my stats class- not terribly attractive, but ohh boy, if he’d do to my clitoris what he does to that candy cane…)

I love the way your mind works.

I woke up this morning soo wet. I wish I could remember what I was dreaming!

Not to assume I know your business or anything, but it was pretty much definitely a sex dream about Data from Star Trek: TNG.

Goddamit, Cupie, you’re so fucking hot.

Best confession ever. Okay, I’m lying. The actual best confession ever can be found here, but I do like this one. It has a certain something…

Not a sex confession but…

I am so in love with my boyfriend that all I want to do is wrap myself around him at night and fall asleep against his chest.

And that is scarier to me than any sex confession I could possibly make.

This is more adorable than a baby in a manger. By way a lot.

I’ve always been a cock-loving lass, but there’s this girl at my coffeeshop… when she smiles all I can think about is how the inside of her thighs would feel against my lips.

Raise your hand if you suddenly wish you worked in a coffee shop.

Give the gift of a juicy secret.

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