aieroshi

[aieroshi]

Let’s be inappropriate…

When was the last time you masturbated?

Do you enjoy being fingered/fingering?

How do you feel about food during sex?

What do you do directly after sex?

Cuddle with the tip in?

What’s the nastiest sexual thing you’ve done?

Name a follower you would fuck.

Name a follower you have fucked.

What’s the sexiest part of your body?

FuckMarryKill: DJ Khalid, Rick Ross, Fat Joe

Would you ever be with a trans person?

Riding dick or doggy style?

Ever fucked in a school?

Most random place you’ve had sex?

Would you ever be part of the mile high club?

Name three of your spots.

Fuck on the first date?

Do you suck dick?

Do you eat ass?

Do you eat pussy?

Do you like kissing?

Is farting during sex sexy?

Ever fucked in the shower?

How old were you when you lost your virginity?

Do you prefer sex in the morning, afternoon, or night?

Do you like drunk sex?

Do you like high sex?

FuckMarryKill: Nicki Minaj; Cardi B; Kash Doll

When was your first kiss?

How did you meet the person you lost your virginity to?

Have you ever faked an orgasm?

Ever painted/been painted on?

You like sex toys?

What’s your favorite sex position?

Sex on a bed, couch, or floor?

Do you like car sex?

You get instantly horny; what happened?

FuckMarryKill: Trey Songz, Chris Brown, August Alsina.

Describe your crush.

Woukd you ever be with someone with an incurable STD?

Rate your head game.

Rate your sex.

Would you fuck someone outside of your race?

Describe the type of freak you are.

Ever tasted your own nut/cum?

Into golden showers?

Body count: Under or Over 25?

How do you feel about nipple play?

Where do you like to be nutted on?

Which are you better at: topping or bottoming?

What do you consider “too small?”

Is play fighting foreplay?

Do you like angry sex?

How long should a quickie be?

How long is “too long” to have sex?

How long is “too long” to go without sex?

Is “no” relevant in a relationship?

Do you believe in no-strings-attached sex?

Would you have sex in a public bathroom?

Would you have sex in a changing room?

Who was the last person you had sex with?

Describe your type.

Name 3 turn-ons.

Name 3 turn-offs.

Name something that would make you stop in the middle of sex.

Would you answer a phone call during sex?

Would you ever pay for sex?

Would you accept money for sex?

How do you typically feel after sex?

Do you like your body?

Ever sent nudes?

Have you ever cheated on someone?

Have you ever been cheated on?

Would you have a threesome?

Would you have a foursome?

Would you take part in an orgy?

Would you let’s train be ran on you?

How often do you masturbate?

Sex with the lights on or off?

Sex with music or tv in the background?

Do you have a cousin you’d fuck if you weren’t related?

In your last relationships, rate the sex?

Do you sleep naked?

How often do you go commando?

Are your nipples pierced? If not, would you get them pierced?

Do you dive right into sex, or converse first?

After taking your clothes off, what’s the first move?

Do you make the first move?

Have you ever had sex with more than one person in a day?

Do you like dryhumping ?

Can you twerk or do a split on a dick?

Have you ever been recorded during sex?

Do you watch porn during sex?

After fucking, do you try becoming friends with a one night stand?

What’s your kink?

Would you hook up with the same hook-up again?

Ever made a relationship from a one night stand?

How romantic are you during sex?

Describe your sex in 5 words or less.

[aieroshi]

Could you do a mini-syllabus on growing apart? I really love how you do them!

by con-ti

Tiny Love Stories

Come away with me, he said, we will live on a desert island. I said, I am a desert island. It was not what he had in mind.

Circe/Mud Poems in “Selected Poems I: 1965-1975″ by Margaret Atwood

“What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why” by Edna St. Vincent Millay

For everything that’s lovely is But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.

“Never Give All the Heart” by W.B. Yeats

by William Steig

“Mad Girl’s Love Song” by Sylvia Plath

For a second there, it really felt like I was going somewhere. by ebriosity

[aieroshi]

Alpine Sunsets  Light is a fleeting mistress  Vanishing shadows  A lupine sunset

by Bala Sivakumar

[aieroshi]

~The art of wanting~

Fifteen by Taylor Swift // Lucille Clifton, from The Book of Light; “Climbing” // New York Movie by Edward Hopper // Ghostwritten by David Mitchell // To Know by Lang Leav // A Burning Hill by Mitski // Everything, Everything by Nicola Yoon // The Retribution of Mara Dyer by Michelle Hodkin // Clarice Lispector, tr. by Stefan Tobler, from Água Viva //Projection - Jenny Holzer

[aieroshi]

There’s a stirring in my soul; a restless, wild anticipation.

I am staring out into the horizon, as far as I can.

I can’t see what’s beyond it-but I can feel it.

-Lang Leav

[aieroshi]

loputyn

[aieroshi]

“Lemonade” poetry bits

Intuition

I tried to make a home outta you. But doors lead to trapdoors. A stairway leads to nothing. Unknown women wander the hallways at night. Where do you go when you go quiet? You remind me of my father, a magician. Able to exist in two places at once. In the tradition of men in my blood you come home at 3AM and lie to me. What are you hiding? The past, and the future merge to meet us here. What luck. What a fucking curse.

Denial

I tried to change. Closed my mouth more. Tried to be soft, prettier. Less…awake.

Fasted for 60 days. Wore white. Abstained from mirrors. Abstained from sex. Slowly did not speak another word.

In that time my hair grew past my ankles. I slept on a mat on the floor. I swallowed a sword. I levitated… into the basement, I confessed my sins and was baptized in a river. Got on my knees and said, “Amen.” And said I mean. I whipped my own back and asked for dominion at your feet. I threw myself into a volcano. I drank the blood and drank the wine. I sat alone and begged and bent at the waist for God. I crossed myself and thought… I saw the devil. I grew thickened skin on my feet. I bathed…in bleach and plugged my menses with pages from the Holy Book. But still inside me coiled deep was the need to know. Are you cheating? Are you cheating on me?

Anger

If this what you truly want. I can wear her skin…over mine. Her hair, over mine. Her hands as gloves. Her teeth as confetti. Her scalp, a cap. Her sternum, my bedazzled cane. We can pose for a photograph. All three of us, immortalized. You and your perfect girl.

I don’t know when love became elusive. What I know is no one I know has it. My father’s arms around my mother’s neck. Fruit too ripe to eat.

I think of lovers as trees… …growing to and from one another. Searching for the same light. Why can’t you see me? Why can’t you see me? (Why can’t you) Why can’t you see me? Everyone else can.

Apathy

So what are you gonna say at my funeral now that you’ve killed me? Here lies the body of the love of my life, whose heart I broke without a gun to my head. Here lies the mother of my children both living and dead. Rest in peace, my true love, who I took for granted, most bomb pussy, who because of me, sleep evaded. Her shroud is loneliness. Her God was listening. Her heaven would be a love without betrayal. Ashes to ashes…dust to side chicks.

Emptiness

She sleeps all day…dreams of you in both worlds.

Tills the blood in and out of uterus. Wakes up smelling of zinc. Grief, sedated by orgasm. Orgasm heightened by grief. God was in the room when the man said to the woman, “I love you so much. Wrap your legs around me and pull me in, pull me in, pull me in.” Sometimes when he’d have her nipple in his mouth, she’d whisper, “Oh my God.” That, too, is a form of worship. Her hips grind pestle and mortar, cinnamon and cloves, whenever he pulls out.

Loss. Dear moon, we blame you for floods…for the flush of blood…for men who are also wolves. We blame you for the night, for the dark, for the ghosts.

Every fear… Every nightmare…anyone has ever had.

Accountability

You find the black tube inside her beauty case. Where she keeps your father’s old prison letters. You desperately want to look like her. You look nothing like your mother. You look everything like your mother. Film star, beauty. How to wear your mother’s lipstick. You go to the bathroom to apply the lipstick. Somewhere no one can find you. You must wear it like she wears disappointment on her face. Your mother is a woman. And women like her can not be contained.

Mother dearest, let me inherit the Earth. Teach me how to make him beg. Let me make up for the years he made you wait. Did he bend your reflection? Did he make you forget your own name? Did he convince you he was a God? Did you get on your knees daily? Do his eyes close like doors? Are you a slave to the back of his head? Am I talking about your husband or your father?

Reformation

He bathes me… …until I forget their names…and faces. I ask him to look me in the eye when I come…home. Why do you deny yourself heaven? Why do you consider yourself undeserving? Why are you afraid of love? You think it’s not possible for someone like you. But you are the love of my life…love of my life…the love of my life…the love of my life.

Forgiveness

Baptize me… …now that reconciliation is possible. If we’re gonna heal, let it be glorious. One thousand girls raise their arms.

Do you remember being born?

Are you thankful? Are the hips that cracked… …the deep velvet of your mother… …and her mother… …and her mother? There is a curse that will be broken.

Resurrection

You are terrifying… …and strange… …and beautiful.

Hope

The nail technician pushes my cuticles back… …turns my hand over, stretches the skin on my palm and says: “I see your daughters, and their daughters.” That night in a dream the first girl emerges from a slit in my stomach. The scar heals into a smile. The man I love pulls the stitches out with his fingernails. We leave black sutures curling on the side of the bath. I wake as the second girl crawls headfirst up my throat. A flower blossoming out of the hole in my face.

Redemption

Take one pint of water, add a half pound of sugar, the juice of eight lemons… …the zest of half lemon. Pour the water from one jug, then into the other, several times. Strain through a clean napkin.

Grandmother, the alchemist. You spun gold out of this hard life. Conjured beauty from the things left behind. Found healing where it did not live. Discovered the antidote in your own kitchen. Broke the curse with your own two hands. You passed these instructions down to your daughter. Who then passed it down to her daughter.

My grandma said, nothing real can be threatened. True love brought salvation back into me. With every tear came redemption. And my torturer became my remedy.

So we’re gonna heal, we’re gonna start again. You’ve brought the orchestra. Synchronized swimmers, you are the magician. Pull me back together again the way you cut me in half. Make the woman in doubt disappear. Pull the sorrow from between my legs like silk, knot after knot after knot. The audience applauds… …but we can’t hear them.

Warsan Shire

[aieroshi]

“your body is a map and your veins are the trails that lead to the only place that feels like home.”

— home is where the heart is.

[aieroshi]

When Your Number Is Called

My name is Courtney, and I was born at 5:15 AM on October 26th, 1988.  When I was born my parents didn’t ask the doctor if I was a boy or a girl, or if I was healthy. Instead they asked, “what’s the number?”

The room braced for the doctor’s answer.  My parents held each other close, both openly crying as they prayed for good news.  “Her number is…” started the doctor, flipping my right wrist over and reading the black numbers that spread across it.  “152310232048.”

My parents cried in relief.  

I would live a good life.  

I had a good number.

You see, in my world, everyone is born with a 12-digit number on their right wrist.  What does the number mean exactly?  Well—the number gives us the day we die.  We don’t know how we will die, but we will—at that exact time.  Think of it like the expiration date you see on a jug of milk.  After the expiration date, you throw away the milk, right?  Well, that is what the marks on our wrists mean.  We obviously don’t get thrown away in the trash, but we cease to exist after that date.  And just like that jug of milk buried in some landfill, we too will be buried in the ground.

My number is 152310232048.

Which means that at 3:23 PM on October 23rd, 2048—I will die.  

I will live to be 59 years old.  

I have a good number.  It isn’t the best number.  My brother is going to live to be 88. My parents, couldn’t believe it when the doctor read his number out loud.  He will live 29 years longer than me.  He will see so much more than me, experience so much more than me.  He might even live to see his great-great grandchildren—I’ll be lucky to see my grandchildren.    

I sometimes get jealous when I see his number.  

But this is my life.  

I can’t change my number.  

It is permanent.  

Medicine, money, and miracles do not change your number. You can certainly die earlier then your number, but to die before your number is rare.  People just tend to be more careful.  After all, when you are constantly walking around with a literal reminder of your time left on earth on your wrist, you tend appreciate the life you have a little more.

I have a good number.  

I’m reminded of this when I see other people’s number.  

The first time this happened was when I was 5 years old.

On my first day of school, I was in kindergarten and I’ve never really interacted with any other kids besides my older cousins. I was nervous, so when recess was called, I decided to go to the swings.  Anyone who liked swings as much as me—well, they were cool in my book.    

On my way to an open swing a wild boy with a dinosaur shirt, and brown eyes full of mischief, performed a back flip off the swings and nearly knocked me over in his crash landing.  He jumped up, dusted off his pants and smiled at me and said, “My names Devon, and I am going to live to be 57.”

It was such a typical kid way of introducing themselves.  Adults tended to be more secretive of their numbers.  Wearing watches, or long-sleeved shirts to cover up their numbers, but five year olds—we didn’t understand the concept of subtlety. 

Clearly.

Another body quickly landed next to him, this one thankfully on their feet.  It was a red-haired girl, with two perfectly braided pig tails.  “My names Fiona, and I’m going to live to be 62.” 

Another body landed next to her.  He stumbled a bit on his landing, and his glasses fell down the bridge of his nose as he found his balance.  “Hi, I’m Oscar,” he smiled, shaking his long brown hair out of his eyes as he pushed his glasses up his nose.  “I’m going to live to be 17.”

Mind you—we were in kindergarten.  We were literally learning our ABC’s, learning how to tie our shoes, and zip up our coats, but the concept of numbers—that we didn’t need to learn.  Our parents made sure we knew what our number was, and what their number was, and what grandma’s number was—numbers were literally ingrained into our minds, much like the literal numbers that adorned our wrists.  

Which meant even at 5 years old, I knew that Oscar—well Oscar, had a bad number.  

It must have showed on my face because the boy—a boy who I didn’t even know, hugged me.  And as he squeezed me, he said, “It’s okay,” before pulling back and smiling.  “My dad’s say that seventeen is plenty of time. They said it is isn’t about how high your number is—but it’s about what you do with the number you get.”

Looking back now, as an adult thinking about having my own child—I’d probably say the same thing to my child if they were born with a bad number.  What else can you do?  You can’t change your child’s number.  You can’t give your child more time, no matter how much you wish you could take the numbers off your wrist and place them on your child’s—you just can’t. Your job as a parent is to protect your children, but you can’t protect them from the inevitable, so instead, you give them something else.

Oscar’s dads gave him hope.  

His dads were great people.  I grew close to them as we progressed through school because obviously, Oscar, Fiona and Devon and me—we became best friends after the day on the swings.  We called our group “The Swingers,” much to the embarrassment of our parents.  We didn’t understand why they didn’t like our group nickname when we were young, but we finally understood when we were 15—and thanks to the internet, we learned exactly what “swingers” were. But even after learning the sexual nature of our group nickname, we still kept it, because honestly, what teenagers didn’t like tormenting their parents?

“Courtney where are you going?  It’s late!”

“Dad said I can go to Oscar’s house!”

“And what will you be doing at Oscar’s house?”

“God mom—we are just having a swinger party, can I go now?”

The look of embarrassment on my parent’s face was always perfect—especially in public.

Speaking of Oscar’s house.  His house became the “hang out” spot for us four.  Mostly because his dads had an awesome basement, and his dad Jerry was professional Chef, which meant we ate good there.  But back to Oscar’s dads—they were awesome.  They adopted Oscar when he was just an infant.  His mother gave him up when she saw his number.  It was an epidemic in our world.  Foster homes were full of children with bad numbers.  

But Oscar’s dads, they didn’t see his number.  They just saw Oscar.  This happy, intelligent, beautiful blue-eyed child who just so happened to be destined to die young.  They didn’t see his number—instead they just saw Oscar.

Devon, Fiona, and I—we only saw Oscar too.  

Most of the kids in our class didn’t really attempt to get to know Oscar, because honestly, what was the point?  He wouldn’t be around for long.  So, it was the four of us—for as long as we had the four of us.

We laughed.

We cried.

We fought.

We experienced our first kisses.

We loved.

We had our hearts broken.

We got drunk once—never again.

We got high—more than once.

We just lived.

“The Swingers” lived every day to the fullest—until the day came when four was about to become three.  Oscar’s day would land just a few weeks before our Senior graduation. We always knew his number, but it never seemed real until it came so close to the actual date on our calendar.

Oscar took accelerated courses so that he could graduate before—his number came up.  The school planned a graduation ceremony just for him the day before his number.  His dad’s and his extended family fills the stands, the rest of his class sit in the chairs, the very same chairs they will soon fill in a couple of weeks when the class of 2007 would all walk together.  The principal called out Oscar’s name, and he stepped up to the microphone.  

Oscar was the schools valedictorian.  He stayed late after school, he studied well into the night, he worked hard—so hard, that his dedication to his studies really got in the way of “swinger” time.  One day, after another late night of not seeing Oscar because he was studying for a Chemistry test, I yelled at him. “It is just a Chemistry test Oscar! If you get a B, it won’t be the end of the world!”

Oscar barely blinked an eye at my outburst, instead, much like that day in front of the swings—he pulled me into a hug. “Look, this is the only time I have to be great,” he said.  “I don’t get anything after this.  So, if this is all I get—I’m going to be the best.”

And he did.  

He became the best.

A 4.0 grade point average

An SAT score of 1560.

And he never filled out a single college application.

Oscar cleared his throat in front of the microphone, garnering everyone’s attention.  “Thank you for everyone who came today.  It means a lot, to me. Very much like my life, I’m going to keep this speech short.”

Gasps echoed through the gym and Oscar smiled.

“That was not meant to be a joke.  Please don’t think that I am making light of the fact that tomorrow is my number.  Instead, I say that I will keep this speech short—because I think the world tends to greatly underestimate the power of something short.”

“My mother gave me up for adoption when I was only 1 minute old.  As soon as the doctor read my number, she signed over custody of me to the state.   I always wondered, how can I be judged of my quality of life, before I’ve even taken my first shit.”

Laughter echoed from the students, gasps echoed from the parents, and grumbles of disapproval echoed from the teacher’s and administration. But Oscar just smiled, as he looked back at the principal.  “Feel free to give me a detention this weekend for cussing,” he joked, earning another chuckle from the students.  

“She was wrong—by the way,” continued Oscar, his gaze going back out to the gym.  “Anyone who ever stared at my number, and looked at me with sadness—you were wrong. I have lived—not as long as our parents and not as long as you all will live—but make no mistake, I have lived.  My life may have been short, but it doesn’t mean it has been any less significant as someone who lived well into their 80’s.”

Taking in a breath, he gave his parents and then the swingers a shaky smile. “Every second of every single day for the past seventeen years—have been lived to the fullest because simply, I didn’t have the time to waste.  Every moment of my life has counted, cherished and loved—can you say the same thing about yours?”

Oscar died on 2:13 PM on March 16th, 2007.

Like his number said, he lived to be 17.

He had a bad number

But he didn’t let his number define him.

Instead he lived every day, until his number was called.

This story was adapted and turned into a 50 page short story, and is now available for purchase through Amazon!

The Kindle format can be purchased here for $2.99

The Paperback format can be purchased here for $5.99

It is also free with Kindle Unlimited!

Thank you for reading this story, and for your support if your purchased the book!  

[aieroshi]

Teach boys about periods

My mother also talked about periods to my brothers.

When I first got mine I had terrible cramps. Crippling cramps. I once was camping with my family and a few of my big brother’s friends when my period came. My cramps were so bad that my mom gave me a full pain killer ( I was 13 and before that she only gave me pills cut in half).

I literally laid down on my parents’ air mattress and cried in pain for an hour before the pill kicked in.

My brothers friend came in to the big tent and I was just curled up and sobbing. Now, I was quite the tomboy and was known to rough house with my brothers and their friends and made sure I wasnt seen as just “a little girl.” So my brother’s friend was confused to see me openly weeping in the fetal position (seriously, these were the worst cramps I have had in my life. My vision went white). He asked what was wrong with me.

My big brother stood up immediately and suggested a nice long hike. During this hike I am sure he had a pretty awkward conversation with his friend explaining menstrual cramps, because when they got back the pain pill had (mostly) kicked in and I was sitting up at a table when my brother’s friend sheepishly asked me if I was feeling better. I said I was better, and he said good.

When we made s'mores that night my brother and his friend kept me well supplied with chocolate.

Making sure sons know as much about periods and menstruation as daughters makes them better brothers, better sons better fathers, and better men. A man that understands a period will not lightly accuse a woman of “being on her period” if the woman is in an argument.

Raise better sons Teach them about normal bodily functions.

[aieroshi]

I had a lovely day at Elfia! 

Instagram: Lunaintheforest

[aieroshi]

Soft hands and sad words, a Lady Amalthea character playlist

The Lonely - Christina Perri // My Skin - Natalie Merchant // I found a reason - Cat Power // Paradise - Coldplay // Good Woman - Cat Power // No, I don’t remember - Anna Ternheim // Sort Of - Ingrid Michaelson // Every Single Night - Fiona Apple // Scary Fragile - Butterfly Boucher // I’m in Here - Sia // All This and Heaven Too - Florence and the Machine // You Are the Moon - The Hush Sound

Listen

[aieroshi]

The Last Unicorn Valentines 

By: Novelquirks and Nutmegcutesocks

[aieroshi]

In Search of Unicorns by Mary-Anne Leslie Inspired by one of my favorite books and movie, The Last Unicorn by Peter S Beagle. Ballpoint pen and markers

[aieroshi]

Now that I’m a woman, everything has changed.

My heart-felt contribution for Ladies of Literature Vol. 2, organized by jovaline  and janetsungart. Be sure to check ladiesofliterature​ for all the lovely submissions!

Also, I’m giving away 10 signed copies of this print on my tumblr and instagram, because spring is here! *O* If you’re a follower whose username appears in the notes then you’re entered in the giveaway - winners will be randomly selected on May 1st!

[aieroshi]

My favorite line from “The Last Unicorn.”

Decided to play with silhouettes for this Inktober image.

[aieroshi]

I found this painting that I did in the beginning of 2015, and started thinking about all the things I could do to make this better. Then, it just occurred to me….why not? 

This is based on the book The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle.