#general contractions Florida

[generalcontractorsflorida]

Amazing Real Estate Development Projects of Florida

Real Estate Development projects by WGPITTS in Florida depicts the combination of perfect design, architecture, management and successful completion. Here are the top level and unique real estate development projects they have accomplished in Florida. 

[swflcontractingfl]

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[profifm]

Commercial General Contractor in South Florida, FL | ProFi Looking for a general contractor in South Florida for your future commercial project? ProFi gives you the complete construction services from remodeling to renovation.

[fladco]

Body Shop Products Florida

The Body Shop offers a wide range of high-quality automotive products specifically designed for auto dealers. With a focus on superior performance and customer satisfaction, the Body Shop products cater to the unique needs of auto dealerships, providing effective solutions for vehicle maintenance, repair, and detailing. Some of the body shop products categories are automotive paints, body repair products, detailing supplies, automotive tools and equipments, safety and personal protective equipment.

[meret118]

“I have yet to find one of them that I felt was credible enough for me to actually file documentation for that voter,” he said. “So as a good steward for voter registration, which is what I’m charged with doing, I should not act upon stuff that is proven to be not credible.

”This year, election officials like Wilcox have spent valuable time sorting through pages of these mass voter challenges. And voting rights advocates worry that the trend could result in eligible voters being removed from the rolls, or from accommodations like being on lists to automatically receive ballots in the mail.

. . .

But experts and election officials who spoke to HuffPost said voters should confirm their registration status now — before the November election season heats up — just to be safe.

. . .

The month following that election, True the Vote teamed up with Georgia Republicans to challenge the eligibility of more than 364,000 voters in the state, based in part on U.S. Postal Service address-change data.

. . .

Some voters only found out their registrations had been challenged when they didn’t receive requested ballots in the mail for Georgia’s January 2021 U.S. Senate run-off election. Ultimately — after courts stepped in — the vast majority of these challenges were rejected. True the Vote’s list “utterly lacked reliability” and “verge[d] on recklessness,” a federal judge later observed.

. . .

At least one Georgia county has signed a contract to use the software, and in May, the director of the Florida Division of Elections sent county officials a list of 10,000 names to review that a local “concerned citizen” had generated with EagleAI.

. . .

Other efforts are state-based, including the “Pigpen Project” in Nevada and “Soles to the Rolls” in Michigan. Some even go so far as to go door to door to ask voters to confirm their information, raising concerns about intimidation. The Republican Party is also involved in the effort — in June, a federal judge rejected a GOP lawsuit alleging Nevada officials had failed to properly maintain voter rolls. (The GOP’s data was “highly flawed,” the state said.) A similar suit, against the state of Michigan, is ongoing.

And some states have made mass challenges even easier. In Georgia, S.B. 202, passed in 2021, allowed anyone to formally challenge an unlimited number of registrations, and S.B. 189, passed this year, requires voters to defend their registration against even frivolous challenges, sometimes at in-person hearings. It faces a lawsuit.

More at the link. Check your registration!

[reality-detective]

Florida Surgeon General says a new Lancet study shows anyone who got the vaccine is more likely to contract Covid•19 than someone who did not get vaccinated. Will the CDC tell you this? No.

[intheupside]

• Penguins sources said multiple teams have made strong pitches for Bryan Rust, who owns a full no-movement clause until July 2025. Rust is injured and has dealt with three separate injuries this season, all of which have caused him to miss time. However, he’s been excellent this season and has a deserved reputation as one of hockey’s best big-game performers.

The Detroit Red Wings have shown the most interest in Rust, perhaps not surprisingly. Rust is a Michigan native, and the young Red Wings are on the verge of making their long-awaited return to the postseason. Rust, a wonderful two-way player whose trademark speed remains, would be a veteran presence who could make the Red Wings better this spring.

However, Dubas did not ask Rust to waive his no-movement clause.

It remains to be seen if Rust will remain in Pittsburgh for the entirety of his contract, but don’t expect him to be dealt this week. The Penguins greatly value him, and, while much is rightfully made about Crosby’s preference for Guentzel as a linemate, the same can be said of Rust.

• While it’s not a certainty that Guentzel will be traded, it’s very likely.

A bidding war is ongoing. The Edmonton Oilers have aggressively inquired about Guentzel and would love to add him to their already potent top-six forward mix.

The Vancouver Canucks are also interested. They don’t have a first-round pick to offer this season, but again, that’s not necessarily a dealbreaker if the right young players or prospects are included.

Rutherford, now the president of hockey operations in Vancouver and Rick Tocchet, the Canucks head coach, have obvious Pittsburgh ties and have a particular affection for Guentzel.

The Vegas Golden Knights and Florida Panthers also have interest in the 29-year-old forward.

This time of year, most teams inquire about players. General managers aren’t doing their jobs if they don’t at least gauge the market. But the interest in Guentzel is very significant.

• It wouldn’t come as a surprise if the Penguins were to deal a goaltender, with Alex Nedeljkovic being the most likely to be dealt.

It’s not inconceivable that Tristan Jarry could be traded, but that seems unlikely unless a team blows Dubas away with an offer he can’t refuse.

pens trade chatter from the athletic

[annieqattheperipheral]

HER STORY IS INCREDIBLE EVERYONE SIT DOWN AND LEARN FROM THIS QUEEN ⤵️

Kiana Scott, who played minor hockey system for 11 seasons, including four seasons on boys teams, gravitated to scouting from watching her brother’s games and critiquing his strengths and weaknesses.

Unaware of jobs available in hockey, she enrolled in makeup artistry college after high school, but knew her heart was in the sport.

She eventually enrolled in an online hockey general manager scouting course.

Scott joined the International Scouting Service Hockey mentorship program in 2018 and scouted for the service for two years while holding down two jobs.

“I love scouting future prospects, and the evaluation process,” she said. “I think that's kind of where my passion lies. It's just the evaluation process. And it's exciting, building a team.”

Scott spent two seasons as a full-time scout for Erie before she took a bold step and left the organization to move to Calgary and became an independent scout in June 2022.

“I just kept practicing my craft and kind of paid my own way, like, throughout the whole year,” she said. “All of the tickets to every game, all of my travel expenses, everything. I just put all my money into scouting and trying to evolve and then I ended up getting my (Avalanche) internship the next year.”

Scott had some financial help from her family for the move and she supplemented her income by working as a bartender at a Calgary casino, a job with hours that allowed her to scout games.

If all that wasn’t enough, she also enrolled in the University of Florida’s online sports management program.

“I've always had the mindset to just keep betting on myself and working hard and evolving,” she said. “I think I've taken a lot of risks to get to where I am, but I wouldn't try to change the journey for anything.”

Scott said she hopes women, women of color and people who don’t come from a so-called “traditional” hockey background will follow her on the journey.

“I grew up playing hockey, but I didn’t play professional hockey, I didn’t go to college or university for hockey,” she said. “I just had a passion for it. I love scouting. I worked at it, and I continue working at my craft.

“People that don’t necessarily come from the traditional background, I hope they see themselves in me and believe that they can put their minds to it and get it done.”

-----

The 2024 NHL Draft was as eventful for Kiana Scott as it was for the players who were selected in the seven-round event at Sphere in Las Vegas last month.

The 25-year-old Barrie, Ontario, native signed with the Colorado Avalanche at the draft to become a full-time amateur scout, fulfilling a goal she has had since she was a teenager.

“This is something that I've worked really hard for my whole career to be able to sign my first NHL contract,” Scott said. “I was elated. The Avs have been really good for me the past year, and I’m excited to keep building with them.”

Scott joined the Avalanche after working as an intern for the organization.

Colorado general manager Chris MacFarland said he and executive director of hockey operations Suzanne Borchert “were impressed with her work ethic and her passion."

MacFarland said: “Kiana was on our radar when she was scouting in major junior circuits ... and it worked that a few years ago we had an internship opportunity for her.

“She did a good job in that role and was an integral part of our amateur scouting department. We’re excited to see her contributions moving forward in her full-time role as an amateur scout.”

-----

Scott made history when she became the first woman scout in the Ontario Hockey League with Erie in March 2020.

She was among the initial of a wave of women who were hired in recent years as scouts at all levels of hockey, including Cammi Granato (Seattle Kraken), Blake Bolden (Los Angeles Kings), Krissy Wendell-Pohl (Pittsburgh Penguins), Meghan Hunter (Chicago Blackhawks), Gabriella Switaj (Anaheim Ducks) and Brigette Lacquette (Chicago Blackhawks).

Granato moved on from Seattle to become an assistant general manager for the Vancouver Canucks on Feb. 10, 2022, and Hunter was promoted to assistant GM by the Blackhawks on June 22, 2022.

“When I first started scouting, I didn’t know of any women in the industry already,” she said. “Cammi Granato got her job with the NHL a year after I started scouting. That’s when I kind of knew it was possible. But I never had anyone to look up to. I just had this dream and the passion for hockey. I knew that I had to the talent and skill to do it, and to try to keep building on them.

"That’s what I’ve always gone off on -- keep evolving, never give up on what you love.”

[tropes-and-tales]

My Best Friend’s Girl, Part Seven

Characters:  Santiago “Pope” Garcia and F!Reader

WC:  4302

Other Pieces:  This is part of a series, which can be found here.

CW:  Angst (oblique talk of addiction).  Smut (PiV, protected; implied oral, m!receiving; light roleplay).  18+ only.

AN:  As proofed as anything I publish here, which is to say:  this is full of typos.

Six months. That’s how long you have to wait for Santiago to come home.  He has to run out his contract, wrap up his loose ends in Colombia while you wait for him in Florida.

You’re busy, of course.  You fill your hours – you work on the edits for your second book, you consult on the script based on your memoir.  You hang out with friends.  You work on your house, stripping paint and refinishing the built-in wood features of your home.  Slowly, the glory of the original home emerges, and you start to get furniture, start to decorate.

There’s a big fireplace in the living room, and you set framed pictures along the mantel. A picture of you and your father. One of you on the Appalachian Trail, a nice selfie you managed to take as you summitted Mount Greylock.

The latest photo is one of you and Santiago – he had asked a passerby to take it on one of your weekends out in Medellín, in one of the city squares bursting with color. At the last second, right before the photo was snapped, Santi had turned to kiss your cheek, and the captured moment is beautiful:  his head turned, his lovely profile, and you facing the camera with a look of pleased surprise.

You know you’re in the honeymoon period.  You’ve never been in a relationship that lasted longer than a few months, so you’re a little apprehensive about what will happen when he finally moves back to the U.S.  Maybe he’ll get bored of you.  Maybe he’ll find someone better.  He’s never been in a long-term relationship either, and you worry that he’s too used to being a tomcat to settle down. 

It’s a million little doubts circling your mind each night, and sometimes you struggle to fall asleep, worry gnawing at you.

But if your traitorous brain keeps telling you that it won’t work out, it’s your gut – which has never led you astray – that reminds you how solid Santiago is. How perfect for you.  He’s not perfect, of course, and neither are you – you both have dark pasts, and insecurities – but when you really think about your time with him, you feel nothing but a steady, solid sort of love.

So all you have to do is wait.  It’s the longest six months of your life.

-----

Sara gives birth in September.  She and Frankie – they have a daughter now.  Amelia is a scowling, red-faced little thing, and when you go to visit with Benny and Will, it’s curious how little you feel.  Newborns, in general, make you nervous.  They are such soft creatures, seem so easily breakable.  But when you stand there and gaze down into the bassinet, you feel…nothing.

If someone would have told you that you’d be here, gazing down at Frankie’s baby that he had with another woman and feeling not an iota of angst, you wouldn’t have believed them.  You can still remember the pain of when Frankie started dating Sara, when they got engaged…and now your heart is made of tougher stuff.

Things are still a little tense between you and Frankie.  You have spoken here and there, after that ugly showing when you told him about you and Santi.  There’s a reserve.  The air gets chilly when the two of you speak to each other.  Another worry, that:  Frankie and Santi are best friends, and even though Frankie is married with a kid now, you still remain a shadow between them.  

You try to send out opening salvos to healing the rift between you.  You try to laugh off the awkward silences when you go to visit them with their new baby.  You ask a million questions about Amelia, show more interest than you really have. You tacitly ignore Frankie when he makes little jabbing comments meant to needle you, and you study him on the sly.

You think Santi is right.  There is something wrong with Frankie.  It’s more than marital stress or the stress of being a new parent.  It’s more than sleepless nights due to every-other-hour feedings.

You are naïve in many ways, but you know a bit about addicts.  At the center for troubled teens, there were plenty of addicts:  every shade and variety, from casual weed-smokers to full-on meth or crack addicts.  You’ve seen people in active withdrawal, and you’ve seen people with some sobriety, and you’ve seen people currently using, those able to smuggle in their drug of choice. 

You can’t say quite what you think Frankie is on, but you are certain he’s on something.  Something that keys him up, makes him buoyant and fun for a moment, then turns him sulky and irritable.  Some stimulant.  Meth? Coke? 

Maybe there’s no room left in your heart to love Frankie, but you still feel other things for him.  Concern. Pity.  Fear that he may die or lose his family.  Fear that he’s so far gone that he may be beyond help.

When you go to leave after your visit with the new baby, Frankie walks you to your car. He’s twitchy; he keeps removing his ball cap and running his hands through his curls, then resettling his hat no his head. 

“You know I’m always here if you need me,” you say, and you look at him until he finally meets your gaze with his own.

“Yeah, I know.”

“We’re still friends, right?”

At that, Frankie glances away, and you notice the way he shifts back and forth on his feet, like he’s itching to be somewhere else.

“Sure,” he replies, and there’s no warmth or conviction in his tone at all.

*****

Santiago sets the date of his return with you:  the second week of November.  Right before Thanksgiving.  You light up at the news over your video call with him.  You shift straight into planning mode; a Friends-giving type feast paired with a welcome home party and a house-warming party.

Santi doesn’t miss how it makes him feel, the thought of coming home to you and building a home with you.  A cozy domestic life he used to scoff at, but now that it’s within reach, he wants nothing more.

He works so damned hard to wrap up all his loose ends, he finishes his contract two weeks early.

What better surprise than to turn up at your doorstep early?

The timing is a few days off from Halloween, but Santi turns up the evening when your neighborhood is doing trick-or-treating.  The taxi crawls down your street because of how many groups of children and parents are milling around, going from house to house, but when the taxi stops and the driver pops the trunk so he can get his luggage, Santi has a moment of confusion.

For a brief few seconds, Santi feels off-kilter.  This isn’t your house.  He peers closer in the late twilight and studies the lines of the house, and it takes him a moment before he realizes that it is your house and that you’ve worked far harder to get it ready for him than he had thought.

The peeling paint is gone.  The sagging window sashes have been replaced by flower boxes filled with bright flowers and lush greenery.  The shrubs and trees have been trimmed back into neatness, and the entire air of dereliction has been replaced by a warm hominess. 

The lights by the front door are on, chasing away the twilight shadows with warm yellow light, and in the center of it, there’s you.

You don’t notice the taxi.  You don’t notice him as he approaches.  You’re engrossed with a trio of children in front of you, smiling and chatting with them as you dole out candy from the giant bowl in your arms.

You’re dressed up like Little Red Riding Hood, he guesses:  a Bavarian-type dirndl, white knee socks, and a scarlet cloak, and it makes a flurry of feeling rocket through him.  Lust, obviously—he has a sudden, powerful image of bending you over some surface, flipping that skirt up and taking you from behind, of hauling you off your hands so he can turn your head and kiss you while he fucks you…

And love, too.  Obviously love.  Santi has never really been in love before, and now that he has you, he’s learning that love can feel a hundred different ways.  It can be a gentle groundswell, like sitting in a boat on a calm ocean, being softly rocked, like waking up beside you in Medellin before dawn.  It can be a warmth, like sitting beside you in your mother’s gazebo and teasing each other.

Right now? Right now, love feels like a knife in his heart, a sharp, piercing pain as he looks his fill of you.  As he realizes that he’ll never have it with anyone else, and the realization makes a thread of fear run alongside the love. What if he messes this up somehow?

The fear gets swept away the moment you notice him.  Santi has the distinct impression that you’d plow through the kids standing on your porch to get to him; he watches as you start to drop the bowl of candy and take a step towards him, then stop.  And he watches as your eyes fill with tears, but then he’s moving towards you, skirting around the gaggle of kids with their parents, and then he hears something fall but doesn’t look because he has his arms around you, he’s kissing you, and you’re struggling to kiss him back because you’re crying.  You’re crying and touching him—his face, his arms, his neck, his hair—to prove that he’s really there, and his feet crush the candy scattered along the porch because you’ve dropped the bowl so you can hug him.

“He didn’t say trick or treat,” one kid says in a voice that’s laced with indignation.

-----

The parents can guess what’s up.  They exchange sly, knowing smiles as Santi hauls his luggage inside, and as you basically dump your reserve of candy onto the porch, then give a half-assed apology to the kids before you shut the front door and lock it.

“Santiago Garcia,” you say in mock-anger, wagging your forefinger at him.  “You’re early.”

“I think I’m right on time.”  He reaches out, tugs lightly against the hem of your cloak.  “Got to see this.”

You give a twirl, just like you did the night of Frankie engagement.  Your skirt bells out, and you give a shy smile.  “You like it?”

“Mmm.” He reaches out again, tugs against your cloak again.  “Very much.”

“I’m supposed to be Little Red Riding Hood.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“If I knew you were coming early, I would have gotten you something to wear.  A wolf costume or something.”

Santi snorts. He moves closer to you, the would-be Big Bad Wolf.  “How much candy do you think I could hand out with you looking like this?”

You roll your eyes.  You never quite believe him when he expresses how beautiful he thinks you are.  How sexy.  It’s a side effect of your trauma, he thinks.  Low self-esteem.  He promises himself to say it more.  He’ll say it all the time until you start to believe him.

He takes your hand in his and draws it down to himself until your palm is cupping where he’s hard and straining for you.  He watches your eyes go wide, your lips part as you take a deep breath.

“Told you I like this outfit of yours,” he grumbles near your ear. 

“Guess so.” You work your hand against him, cupping him, squeezing him gently through his jeans.

“Doesn’t Little Red Riding Hood get eaten?”  He drives the point home by biting you lightly against your neck, and he expects you to squeal and push him away, but your moan at the sensation and lean into him more.  So he bites you harder—he pushes the neckline of your cloak and dress aside to reveal the sensitive bit where your shoulder meets your neck.  He sinks his teeth into you.  Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to leave indents, his teeth dimpling your flesh.  He runs the tip of his tongue over those little divots, and you moan again, so he sucks against you there, tastes you.

“God, Santi—”

“I’m the Big Bad Wolf,” he mutters against your skin.

“San—”

“Gonna eat you up.”  He nips at you again, a line of light bites that end with him nipping your earlobe.  “Fucking starving for you, querida.”

Your free hand finds the back of his head, and he feels your fingers push through his curls and grip him.  You hold him against you—you don’t push him away.  Your other hand shifts from stroking him through his jeans to undoing his pants.  You fumble at the button and zipper, but then your hand slips through the waistband of his boxers and you grip him.  You stroke him as he pushes his hips against your hold.

He leans into the game and growls at your touch.  “Want you,” he manages to get out before his mouth finds the other side of your neck, nips and sucks against your soft skin there, raises matching marks.

“You have me. Please, Santi.”

“Wolf,” he corrects, and you laugh at that, but he snakes a hand down to your skirt. He slips under the layers of skirt and petticoat, he slips under your panties, and he finds you slick and ready for him.  He pushes a thick finger into your tight heat, and it makes you groan out his name, but then you amend it and call him ‘Wolf,’ and it turns him fully feral and you his willing victim.

He pulls his finger from you, and he pulls away from your stroking hand.  He gets himself under you at the right angle and lifts you up in a fireman’s carry, your body slung across his shoulders like a downed soldier as he carries you upstairs while your laughter fills the house.

Later, he’ll marvel on how much you’ve gotten done in the home.  Right now, he’s got tunnel vision.  He only feels the weight of you on his back, and he only focuses on getting you to the bedroom so he can fuck you senseless.

*****

Until Santiago came into your life, you hated the position of doggy style.

You had a brief boyfriend in college who only liked to fuck you from behind—an obvious red flag you were too naïve to notice back then—and he had always been rough about it.  Made it degrading.  Called you a slut for taking him like that, said only whores took it from behind. You always felt bad afterwards, but you were too insecure to speak up or break it off.

Santi changed your mind about it, back in Colombia.  He always was gentle about it, never degrading.  You wondered at his ability to rewrite parts of your unhappy past. It was like magic.

Now, he’s less gentle.  He’s leaning into some Wolf persona, a dominant side you’ve never seen in him, but it makes a painful throb of desire rocket through you.  He’s still gentle, just less gentle than before.  He drops his voice down a half-octave, and his calloused hands are firm as they undo your cloak, making it pool at your feet like a scarlet puddle.  As he reaches under your skirt and tugs your panties down your legs until you step out of them.

As he pushes you gently onto the bed and tells you in his low, graveled voice to get on all fours.

Santi gets it perfect.  How does he always manage it, being so perfectly in tune with you in bed?  He’s playing at some dominant, growling wolf-Santi, and he’s ordering you around, but he’s careful too—when he reaches into the bedside stand for a condom, he whispers in your ear, asks if this is okay, tells you to talk to him if you need something different.

You repeat what you said downstairs.  “You have me.”  You wriggle a little from where you are perched on all fours on the bed and add, “I’m all yours.”

He hums at that.  You hear the rustle of clothing, the soft whump as his jeans hit the floor.  You hear the tearing of the foil condom packet, then Santi’s heavy breathing as he rolls it onto himself.  Then nothing, and the moment of nothing seems to stretch an eternity, so you wriggle again like a dog wagging its tail.  The full skirt of your costume flounces, but Santi flips it up over your hips and delivers a light smack to your ass.

“You gonna be a good girl?” he asks.  “Gonna be good for me?”

Oh, that’s new too.  You bite down against your lower lip, but the phrase good girl makes your pussy clench down on nothing, and you wonder if he can see.  The thought makes your face heat up.

“Y-y-yes. I’ll be good.”

“Not a very good girl, walking through the woods alone.”

Oh, this is new too.  A full-on roleplay.  You’ve never done it before; you always assumed you’d be too self-conscious to layer in acting to your sex life.  But you aren’t facing him, and it’s Santi anyway, so it feels easy to fall into the game.

“I am a good girl,” you pretend-pout.

Another swat to your ass, but Santi keeps his hand on you.  Cups your hip with it, and his other hand lightly strokes you between your legs.  You bite your lip again, swallow down the moan that wants to tear out of your throat.

“I think you wanted to get caught.”  He parts your folds, pushes his finger into you again.  He moves slowly so you feel every centimeter of his digit.  Every knuckle.  He pushes himself in, pulls himself out, and then he adds a second finger. You can feel him carefully scissoring his fingers, stretching you out.

“Think you wanted this,” he adds.  “Sweet little thing, tempting all the scary beasts in the forest to come take you.”

“Just trying to tempt one beast.”  Your voice is tight, strained.  You’re trying to be patient but he’s driving you mad with his slow, careful fingering, and you have missed him for months.  “One, specifically.”

“You have him.”

You open your mouth to snark that you don’t really have him, not yet, but he beats you to the punchline.  He pulls his fingers from you and settles that hand along your hip, the wetness on his fingers smearing along your skin.  Then you feel him, the blunt, heavy weight of his cock as he notches it at your entrance.

“Please.” Your hands twist in the comforter as you brace yourself.  “Please, Santi—”

“Be patient. I like seeing you like this.”

“Please.”  You grip the comforter harder, drop your head as you huff out a heavy breath of frustration.

He chuckles behind you, and his hands rest lightly on your hips.  “If you want it, you can take it anytime, querida.  It’s yours.”

You don’t know where this falls in the game of pretend, but you don’t care anymore.  You’ve missed him for so long.  You’ve waited even longer to have what you have with Santi. You searched for it in the wrong place, with Frankie, but it was Frankie who led you to his best friend, so you can’t be mad about it.  But for now, your entire life collapses into this single moment, and Santi is here with you again after so long apart, so you push back against him, you push yourself onto his thick cock, and it toes the delicate line between pleasure and pain to have him inside you again.

“Fuck, sweetheart.”  His words are breathless, and his hands spasm tighter on your hips.  He pulls you back the last inch, seats himself deep inside you until you feel him flush against you.

He sets a slow, deep rhythm to his thrusts.  He doesn’t jar you; he keeps a firm grip on you and fucks you carefully as you reorient yourselves to each other.  You warm up to the feeling of his invading length, and you arch your back when he delivers a particularly deep thrust.  The tip of him brushes over that spot inside you, and your vision wavers each time he does.  Little yellow sparks light up at the edges of your vision.

How could you have ever guessed, all those years ago at the airport when you met him, that this would be the man who made you see stars in the bedroom?

“So fucking gorgeous,” he mutters behind you, low, like he’s talking to himself.  “Taking me like such a good girl.”

His praise makes another hot pulse of desire course through you, and you drop your head against the comforter and push back against him. 

“Missed you,” he adds, and before you can reply—yes, you’ve missed him too, so fucking much—his hands move from your hips up to your shoulders, and he’s suddenly hauling you off of your hands until you’re kneeling in front of him.  He wraps his arms around you, presses your back to his chest, and his thrusting turns sloppy. 

“Kiss me,” he demands.  You turn your head as much as you can, and the kiss is sloppy too because you can’t quite reach completely, but his mouth slides against yours.  His tongue finds yours, and it’s messy—his ravenous mouth seeking yours, his cock thrusting erratically against you as you lean back against him.

“Missed you so fucking much,” he pants between kisses.

“Missed you more.”  You reach an arm back and hook it behind his head.  You tug against his curls and try to direct his mouth back to yours.  “Missed you the most.”

“Wanted to romance this.”  He sounds slightly ashamed.  “Wanted to make it sweet for you, querida.  I’m sorry—”

“Don’t.” You pull his hair harder.  Hard enough to make him groan, and he drops his head to rest in the crook of your neck.  He kisses you there softer, but there’s a faint ache when he brushes his lips against the places he’s marked you.  In the morning, you’ll see the carnage:  the handful of hickies, the visible teeth marks that have bruised you. 

In the morning, the sight of those marks will make you so suddenly and inexplicably turned on that you’ll seek him out in the kitchen and sink to your knees then and there.

“Don’t apologize to me,” you add.  “Don’t you dare.  You’re—”  You gasp at the sudden hard thrust he gives you, cuts you off for a moment.  “You’re here weeks early.  Best surprise ever.”

His arms tighten around you.  He holds you so tight it steals your breath away.  He holds you like he’s terrified you’ll slip away if he doesn’t anchor you to him.  You take your free hand and grip his wrist, and you can feel his fast pulse under your fingers.

“I’m not gonna last much longer.  Sweetheart, I’m not—”

“Don’t hold back.”

“Baby, I can’t—”

“Go ahead and come for me.”  Your own orgasm is too far away.  Your thoughts are too scattered to focus on your pleasure; Santi feels amazing, but you’re still stunned by his unexpected arrival, and the roleplay that came out of nowhere, and you haven’t even really gotten to look at him very closely—

You tug on his hair again, steer his head back to yours.  You turn to kiss him, and you break the kiss to whisper against his lips, “wanna feel you come, Santi.”

“Baby—”

“Please.” Another kiss, another tug on his curls. “Come inside me.”

Maybe he forgets the fact of the condom, but your words make him shudder—and then his orgasm breaks around him.  He thrusts hard into you and stills, and his arms tighten around you even more, and he buries his face in your neck and groans out your name.

“Sorry.” It comes out muffled, and his frame slumps over you a bit as he loosens his hold on you.

“Don’t apologize.”  You loosen your grip on him too and run your fingertips through his hair. 

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You laugh. “Now that you’re here, you have plenty of time to make it up to me.”

And he does, a few hours later.  After you clean up and after he showers.  After he drags his luggage out of your entryway, and after you make him a snack in your renovated kitchen because his schedule is all out of sync.  When the two of you finally turn in late at night, he makes it up to you:  he takes you gently, slowly.  He seems to savor every moment, and he touches every part of you like he’s reacquainting himself to you.

Afterwards, as you drowse in his arms, sated and so full of love that your chest feels tight, Santiago traces his fingers along your spine until you squirm a bit.

“Think I finally found a good nickname for you,” he tells you.  “Better than ‘Bean.’”

You tilt your head and try to peer at him in the darkness of the room.  “You already picked one.”

“’Querida.’”

“Yeah. I like that.”  You settle against him again, your cheek pressed against his chest.

“Might start calling you ‘Red.’”

You laugh, and he chuckles underneath you, a pleasant rumble.  “You’re trouble, Santiago Garcia.”

“And you love it.”

“I absolutely do.”  You let a moment pass, then you turn your head again and press a gentle kiss on his bare chest, right where his heart lies.

“Welcome home, Trouble,” you whisper.

“Happy to be here, Red,” he replies.

[gusty-wind]

Recap: 15 COVID “Conspiracy Theories” That Turned Out to Be True #15 – Repeated COVID shots weaken the immune system, according to study. #14 – Ivermectin worked! Peer-reviewed study finds 74% reduction in excess deaths. #13 – The unvaccinated were scapegoated for failure of COVID vaccines, study finds. #12 – Mask wearers paradoxically had an increased risk of contracting COVID. #11 – Natural immunity proves to be seven times more protective than vaccinated immunity. #10 – Ivermectin, the drug once labeled “horse de-wormer,” is now showing 15 anti-cancer mechanisms of action. #9 – Hospitals murdered COVID patients. The more they killed, the more money they made. #8 – Emails prove Biden White House hid COVID-19 vaccine harms from the public. #7 – Mainstream puppets admit COVID came from a lab. #6 – Nearly 1 in 3 COVID vaccine recipients suffered neurological side effects. #5 – Research finds heart anomalies within 48 hours after the COVID-19 shot. #4 – Pfizer hid nearly 80% of COVID-19 vaccine trial deaths from regulators in order to qualify for Emergency Use Authorization. #3 – Perverse brainwashing techniques were thoroughly studied to get you jabbed. #2 – The Pfizer COVID-19 “vaccine” injected into billions of arms was not the same one used in Pfizer’s clinical trials. There was a “bait-and-switch.” #1 – Florida’s Surgeon General has called for a halt to the use of all COVID-19 mRNA injections, citing safety concerns after the discovery of billions of DNA fragments per dose in Pfizer’s and Moderna’s mRNA-based COVID-19 vaccines.

[mariacallous]

Milton Orr looked across the rolling hills in northeast Tennessee. “I remember when we had over 1,000 dairy farms in this county. Now we have less than 40,” Orr, an agriculture adviser for Greene County, Tennessee, told me with a tinge of sadness.

That was six years ago. Today, only 14 dairy farms remain in Greene County, and there are only 125 dairy farms in all of Tennessee. Across the country, the dairy industry is seeing the same trend: In 1970, more than 648,000 US dairy farms milked cattle. By 2022, only 24,470 dairy farms were in operation.

While the number of dairy farms has fallen, the average herd size—the number of cows per farm—has been rising. Today, more than 60 percent of all milk production occurs on farms with more than 2,500 cows.

This massive consolidation in dairy farming has an impact on rural communities. It also makes it more difficult for consumers to know where their food comes from and how it’s produced.

As a dairy specialist at the University of Tennessee, I’m constantly asked: Why are dairies going out of business? Well, like our friends’ Facebook relationship status, it’s complicated.

The Problem with Pricing

The biggest complication is how dairy farmers are paid for the products they produce.

In 1937, the Federal Milk Marketing Orders, or FMMO, were established under the Agricultural Marketing Agreement Act. The purpose of these orders was to set a monthly, uniform minimum price for milk based on its end use and to ensure that farmers were paid accurately and in a timely manner.

Farmers were paid based on how the milk they harvested was used, and that’s still how it works today.

Does it become bottled milk? That’s Class 1 price. Yogurt? Class 2 price. Cheddar cheese? Class 3 price. Butter or powdered dry milk? Class 4. Traditionally, Class 1 receives the highest price.

There are 11 FMMOs that divide up the country. The Florida, Southeast, and Appalachian FMMOs focus heavily on Class 1, or bottled, milk. The other FMMOs, such as Upper Midwest and Pacific Northwest, have more manufactured products such as cheese and butter.

For the past several decades, farmers have generally received the minimum price. Improvements in milk quality, milk production, transportation, refrigeration, and processing all led to greater quantities of milk, greater shelf life, and greater access to products across the US. Growing supply reduced competition among processing plants and reduced overall prices.

Along with these improvements in production came increased costs of production, such as cattle feed, farm labor, veterinary care, fuel, and equipment costs.

Researchers at the University of Tennessee in 2022 compared the price received for milk across regions against the primary costs of production: feed and labor. The results show why farms are struggling.

From 2005 to 2020, milk sales income per 100 pounds of milk produced ranged from $11.54 to $29.80, with an average price of $18.57. For that same period, the total costs to produce 100 pounds of milk ranged from $11.27 to $43.88, with an average cost of $25.80.

On average, that meant a single cow that produced 24,000 pounds of milk brought in about $4,457. Yet, it cost $6,192 to produce that milk, meaning a loss for the dairy farmer.

More efficient farms are able to reduce their costs of production by improving cow health, reproductive performance, and feed-to-milk conversion ratios. Larger farms or groups of farmers—cooperatives such as Dairy Farmers of America—may also be able to take advantage of forward contracting on grain and future milk prices. Investments in precision technologies such as robotic milking systems, rotary parlors, and wearable health and reproductive technologies can help reduce labor costs across farms.

Regardless of size, surviving in the dairy industry takes passion, dedication, and careful business management.

Some regions have had greater losses than others, which largely ties back to how farmers are paid, meaning the classes of milk, and the rising costs of production in their area. There are some insurance and hedging programs that can help farmers offset high costs of production or unexpected drops in price. If farmers take advantage of them, data shows they can functions as a safety net, but they don’t fix the underlying problem of costs exceeding income.

Passing the Torch to Future Farmers

Why do some dairy farmers still persist, despite low milk prices and high costs of production?

For many farmers, the answer is because it is a family business and a part of their heritage. Ninety-seven percent of US dairy farms are family owned and operated.

Some have grown large to survive. For many others, transitioning to the next generation is a major hurdle.

The average age of all farmers in the 2022 Census of Agriculture was 58.1. Only 9 percent were considered “young farmers,” age 34 or younger. These trends are also reflected in the dairy world. Yet, only 53 percent of all producers said they were actively engaged in estate or succession planning, meaning they had at least identified a successor.

How to Help Family Dairy Farms Thrive

In theory, buying more dairy would drive up the market value of those products and influence the price producers receive for their milk. Society has actually done that. Dairy consumption has never been higher. But the way people consume dairy has changed.

Americans eat a lot, and I mean a lot, of cheese. We also consume a good amount of ice cream, yogurt, and butter, but not as much milk as we used to.

Does this mean the US should change the way milk is priced? Maybe.

The FMMO is currently undergoing reform, which may help stem the tide of dairy farmers exiting. The reform focuses on being more reflective of modern cows’ ability to produce greater fat and protein amounts; updating the cost support processors receive for cheese, butter, nonfat dry milk, and dried whey; and updating the way Class 1 is valued, among other changes. In theory, these changes would put milk pricing in line with the cost of production across the country.

The US Department of Agriculture is also providing support for four Dairy Business Innovation Initiatives to help dairy farmers find ways to keep their operations going for future generations through grants, research support, and technical assistance.

Another way to boost local dairies is to buy directly from a farmer. Value-added or farmstead dairy operations that make and sell milk and products such as cheese straight to customers have been growing. These operations come with financial risks for the farmer, however. Being responsible for milking, processing, and marketing your milk takes the already big job of milk production and adds two more jobs on top of it. And customers have to be financially able to pay a higher price for the product and be willing to travel to get it.

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[stereax]

why do people hate vegas so much?

Do you want the Stereanalysis version or the short one?

The short answer is basically this: The Vegas Golden Knights entered the league and were expected to be hot garbage. Despite this, they had what many assumed was a "miracle" run in the 2018 playoffs, making it all the way to the Stanley Cup Finals, and have since established themselves as a consistent contender. Many haters of the Knights claim that Vegas was "gifted" a championship team from the onset (revisionist history at best), that Vegas didn't "go through years of pain" like most expansion teams (which, it's not their fault they're good?), and that the refs and Bettman want Vegas to win (which is said about 32 out of 32 teams in this league). Additionally, it's believed that a lot of Vegas fans are "fair-weather" and that they'll abandon the team when it doesn't do well, which ties into the theory that the NHL is "rigging" it for Vegas. Winning the Cup last year, over the undercat Florida Panthers to boot, angered many, especially due to Vegas's owner's bold prediction of "Cup in six [years]" made before their first season.

Additionally, Vegas's front office has a history of big deals. From trading fan favorite Fleury with no prior warning, leaving him to find out online; to the story of Haula, who literally showed up to practice and his keycard didn't work and that's how he learned he got traded three days before his wedding (but we don't talk about that one because Fleury is Fleury); to every single Vegas trade and trade deadline where they seem to acquire every big free agent and give up fairly little in return (Hertl, Hanifin, Quick, Barbashev, Eichel, Stone, Pacioretty, the list goes on). Many people can't divorce the front office from the team itself and get very upset when Vegas "poaches" the players they want.

On top of this, you have the "cap circumvention" narrative, claiming that players such as Stone are "faking" injuries so Vegas can do cap magic and add more players than they should be "allowed" to. First of all, the idea that players like Stone are faking injury is bullshit, especially in a league where players like Stutzle and J Hughes have outright stated that they played injured for long stretches of the season. Fun fact, the NHL does have doctors that run checks on LTIRed players and verify that they're truly injured. (The Leafs got into some hot water last offseason when they were LTIRing Murray and then later with Klingberg as well, as the NHL was suspicious that they had moved Murray's surgery date and recovery time to allow themselves to "bury" Murray's contract on LTIR for the season.) If anything, Stone was probably still hurt in the playoffs. The man is seemingly incapable of playing an 82-game season and yet people are screaming that he's faking injuries when he does get hurt. (Also, on cap circumvention: Nobody remembers Kucherov anymore but that was so much more blatant. Additionally, the league has considered closing LTIR "loopholes" several times now and several times has decided against it. Your team doesn't do it? Okay. It doesn't give you a moral high ground, though, as it is patently legal in the NHL rules to do so.)

Plus, there's definitely some disdain for the glitz and glamor of Vegas. Sparkly gold uniforms, City of Sin, pink flamingos, shiny golden helmets, elaborate pre-game shows where knights slay dragons, slot machines, glitter, all of that. I'm not going to bring up my personal theories here, but I'd advance the question to Vegas haters why they dislike the spectacle of Vegas, and whether that dislike also may apply to other areas where men may be associated with glitter, pink, sin, sparkles, and all that, such as, y'know, drag queens, or gay men more generally.

But hey, that's just a theory... a stereax theory.