“You must not reduce yourself to a puddle just because the person you like is afraid to swim and you are a fierce sea to them; because there will be someone who was born with love of the waves within their blood, and they will look at you with fear and respect.”—T.B. LaBerge // Things I’m Still Learning at 25 (via yourlifeisyourmessage)
“You love my hands. You stare at them. When they aren’t on you, you wish they were. You love that they are strong. That they can softly stroke, or firmly hold. They write you. They strip you. They play you like an instrument.”—olivertremble (via sub-universe)
1. The idea that romance novels ‘teach women’ anything is more than a bit patronizing. As though women’s brains are sponges waiting to be passively molded by any old thing that comes along. Romance readers are incredibly quick to…
Uhhhh…I’ve written a couple of romances where the woman saves herself and everyone else. Do I get a fucking cookie? Can the cookie be made by a man with a big cock wearing nothing but an apron and a jeweled butt plug? Thanks!
“I wanna go on a roadtrip someday. Alone or with someone I love. I wanna get away. Explore places. Sleep in the car. Stop a lot just to admire the view. Visit museums and try out coffee shops. Listen to my favorite albums while driving. Have a polaroid camera. Take pretty pictures of the sunrise. Take pictures of myself. Run through a forest. Chase fog. Chase the sun. Spend hours on a field making flower crowns. Feel the wind in my hair. Buy souvenirs. Meet people. Take time to observe. I wanna make memories. I wanna feel alive.”—(via lieuu)
“And then here comes love like
August; like a lightning storm,
like your next birthday, or like
the day the birds all come back
in the spring. You’re always one
day closer to falling in love than
you were yesterday. Maybe you
can’t circle it in red on your
calendar, but there it is on the
horizon and there’s no stopping it.”—anne, love as an inevitable thing (via anneisrestless)
omg, you guys, I just wrote something so fun. A conversation between two young whores. It’s historical. And dirty.
“You spread your legs for money. It didn’t kill you. So you pick up and move on like every other whore who got to walk away from it. That’s something to celebrate, not die over.”
Her skin prickled with a feeling close to terror. How could Melisande say that? It wasn’t true. Everyone knew a whore was a worthless piece of nothing. Used up. Ruined. It was worse than being dead, because no one even mourned for you and you had to go on. Keep moving. Keep breathing. Keep pretending to be alive.
“A prick ain’t filled with poison,” Melisande muttered. “It’s just spunk. Men walk around full of it, and look how pleased they are with themselves.”
“Romance writers do what they love, and they get paid for it. They hone their craft, like any other writer. They value their work, and they speak with an honest voice, telling the stories that they want to tell. I can’t imagine anything more feminist.”—
"I believe that the lack of respect for the industry has much more to do with pure sexism than anything else. What could be more frightening to the establishment than an organized group of women with the intelligence and the financial leverage to say what they think? And they think that love wins. How dare they? How terrifying. We must subject them to ridicule."
Here’s a little quote for @Vice writers from my new romance, Looking For Trouble.
If you haven’t seen the ridiculousness yet, a male writer made fun of romance novelists for using the word “fisting” when we DON’T mean a fist up an orifice. Haha! We must not watch porn! Stupid romance girls accidentally using porn words. Why can’t girl writers be as cool as boy writers who know everything and are funny and hip? http://jezebel.com/um-yeah-romance-novelists-know-what-fisting-is-1617149178/all
Yeah. Enjoy this fisting quote, bro. I obviously know nothing about dirty sex and I’d never watch porn. Oh, the vaaaapors!
Her mouth closed over him then, enveloping him in warmth that shocked him even though he’d been waiting. Fuck, he felt like he’d been waiting his whole life for that sweet draw of her mouth on his cock.
She took him in slowly, her lips sliding up and down. Her fist kept the same rhythm, so that by the time she’d taken half of him into her throat, it felt like she was swallowing all of him. Alex groaned and watched the beautiful sight past a haze of lust.
But he wanted more, more, even as he went nearly dizzy from the pleasure. More.
“Touch yourself,” he rasped.
Her gaze flew up to meet his. She drew back in surprise until only her lips touched him.
Alex eased her fingers free and fisted his cock. He slipped his other hand into her hair. “Touch yourself,” he repeated.