I love when I'm at the location and I hear a faggy little tgirl voice from across the room,,, my ears perk up, my tail starts wagging,

I mean, you’ve certainly earned it

Getting called mommy by 20 year olds is nothing. Getting called mommy by my 40 year old girlfriend... Now that does something for me.

Escape (Part 1)

We'd been talking about running away for a while. But it was always too big, too scary. We were always just a little too comfortable. And then one day, you had just had enough. I don't know if it was that one coworker whose white cis/het male privilege made it impossible for him to see you as his better, or the car breaking down again, or that the anti-trans laws had finally come to our state, probably all of it and more. To be honest, I'd been ready for this day for a long while. It always took you a little longer to reach your limit. You were so good at giving everyone but yourself the benefit of the doubt.

When you walked out the door that morning, heading to what would ultimately be your last moments with any other person besides me, I knew it was the end. I'd had the most incredible dream that night. We were wild cats, living the best lives I could have imagined, not easy, but so much less stressful than the realities of our last 20 years together. So when you came through the door early, throwing your keys across the room, uncharacteristically violent for you, and said flatly "It's time", I was not even a little surprised. I had already made my peace and started preparations.

The last couple of years had been so hard. Too much loss, far more than anyone should ever have to suffer. The way both of our families rallied around us after we lost the twins, we thought we’d always have their support. But time revealed the truth, that like so many of that generation, they loved money more than even their own children. Slowly but surely, then kind of all at once, we lost touch with all of them, and honestly considered it for the best. But fucking hell did it hurt. There may be no pain worse than isolation.

Running away from it all had never occurred to us until our friends Sam and Vanessa (the only friends we’d managed to make and hold on to) told us they had a plan. They'd worked out all the details. As a lesbian couple, they couldn't bare the thought of their marriage becoming illegal again, they wanted to be together more than they wanted anything society could offer them. One night, one of our board game hangs, they laid it all out for us. Vanessa had been learning how to improvise shelters and make a fire with whatever could be scrounged from different terrains, and Sam had been meeting up with a local foraging group for months. Together, they'd been pouring over maps of the region, creating and memorizing routes that would keep them the safest.

It had all started with a story Sam had heard on This American Life or something. A man had evaded arrest for 20 plus years by living in the woods and never staying in one place for more than a couple of nights in a row. And they thought they could do it too. So they had started saving up money so they could quite their jobs and maybe not raise too much suspicion. Slowly but surely, they cut contact with almost all of their friends and family. When they revealed their plan to us, Sam had just left her job "to focus on starting a family", and Vanessa told us she would be quitting hers in a couple of months. Then they would wait just long enough that people stopped checking in, and they were gone.

Sam and Vanessa had left almost two years ago to the day. Of course at first we had thought they were insane. We gave them a month at most before they were back, telling us how much harder it was out in the wild than they thought. But as life dragged on, now minus our only real friends, we wanted to go, we needed to go too. And now we were.

to be continued...

Can you believe the audacity of this woman to say she doesn’t look good in this pic?!?

My gf decided to take a pic while I was lounging at her place...

girls who say ZOMG!!! O_o

a 2000′s internet rave girl who is also an eldritch horror. full of love and glitter 🌈💕

Prudence (2021)

All I want is to be a hot bimbo slutty milf spider lady, but all of these fucking emotions keep getting in the way.

Turns out they don’t go away if you wrap them up and hide them instead of dealing with them

One of these days someone is going to grab me by my long, gorgeous hair and shove me between their legs to service them.

Nyvee ~ BRAT

complaining about being mistaken for a tranny is like complaining about winning the lottery. "oh sorry I thought you were a fertility priestess with a direct connection to the divine. my apologies"

spider!!!!!

OC Spider lady sketch!

After I get bottom surgery, I’m gonna get a rooster.

Call it my replacement cock

Last week I accidentally took an edible at 10x my usual dose. I say “accidentally” but it was really more of a “my friend held it out to my face and I impulsively swallowed it like a python”, which was technically on purpose but still an accident in that my squamate instincts acted faster than my ability to assess the situation and ask myself if I really wanted to get Atreides high or not.

Anyway. I was painting the wall when it hit. My friend heard me make a noise and asked what was wrong—I explained that I had just fallen through several portals. I realized that painting the wall fulfilled my entire hierarchy of needs, and was absolutely sure that I was on track to escaping the cycle of samsara if I just kept at it a little longer. I was thwarted on my journey towards nirvana only by the fact that I ran out of paint.

Seeking a surrogate act of humble service through which I might be redeemed and made human, I turned to unwashed dishes in the sink and took up the holy weapon of the sponge. I was partway through cleaning the blender when it REALLY hit.

You ever clean a blender? It’s a shockingly intimate act. They are complex tools. One of the most complicated denizens of the kitchen. Glass and steel and rubber and plastic. Fuck! They’ve got gaskets. You can’t just scrub ‘em and rinse them down like any other piece of shit dish. You’ve got to dissemble them piece by piece, groove by sensitive groove, taking care to lavish the spinning blades with cautious attention. There’s something sensual about it. Something strangely vulnerable.

As I stood there, turning the pieces over in my hands, I thought about all the things we ask of blenders. They don’t have an easy job. They are hard laborers taking on a thankless task. I have used them so roughly in my haste for high-density smoothies, pushing them to their limits and occasionally breaking them. I remembered the smell of acrid smoke and decaying rubber that filled the kitchen in the break room the last time I tried to make a smoothie at work—the motor overtaxed and melted, the gasket cracked and brittle. Strawberry slurry leaked out of it like the blood of a slain animal.

Was this blender built to last? Or was it doomed to an early grave in some distant landfill by the genetic disorder of planned obsolescence? I didn’t know, and was far too high to make an educated guess. But I knew that whatever care and tenderness and empathy I put into it, the more respect for the partnership of man and machine, the better it would perform for me.

This thought filled me with a surge of affection. However long its lifespan, I wanted it to be filled with dignity and love and understanding. I thought: I bet no one has hugged this blender before. And so I lifted it from its base.

A blender is roughly the size and shape of a human baby. Cradling one in your arms satisfies a primal need. A month ago I was permitted to hold an infant for the first time in my life, an experience which was physically and psychologically healing. I felt an echo of that satisfaction holding my friend the blender, and the thought of parting with it felt even more ridiculous than bringing it with me to hang out on my friend’s bed.