No matter how hard she tried, Brigitte Bardot could never pull off “innocent.”

hoodoothatvoodoo:

Brigitte Bardot with braids a HUGE hat.

There should always be a contingency plan in place. With backup whenever possible.

yourbadgrrl:

Truth!

(Source: sexerella)

maybe-lisa:

… haha …

Since I haven’t done a Retro Wednesday in a while, I give you “…Lorna Maitland! TOO MUCH for One Town!!”

(via at her discretion)

Quickies in New York: Fair Is Boring

quickienewyork:

“Someone pour me a drink. And kiss me.”

Rhyming Jenny was in good form and she got an answer quicker than I could snap my fingers. I didn’t see who kissed her, but two seconds later I got one as well. I closed my eyes and wondered how close it was to two am. How close was it until clothes came…

(Source: bluntlyobvious)

Yours isn’t a body the poet dreams of. Your curves don’t invite metaphor, but beg the brutality of a bathroom wall—sticky, wet, and honest, a collision of needs without regard for one another, primal and bottomless and writhing up from somewhere before language.

—Paul J. Hanlon

(Source: bananaannaaaaxo)

In tight economic times the businesses that survive are those willing to offer more value for your hard-earned dollars…

(Source: monsieur831)

rolledtrousers:

He’d been fucking her all night, from the other side of the room. Boring people made banal conversation around him, and he let the lower part of his brain keep them satisfied, the part that could nod and smile, mutter the odd inanity if the conversation lulled, get a few laughs, and move on. But his eyes were his own, and they would sidle up to her, run over her shoulder and down that exposed back. 

It wasn’t like she hadn’t noticed, but she’d chosen not to show it, keeping her eyes downwards, on her drink, or up at the friends that giggled and laughed around her. That one fact kept him more interested than most. The refusal to accept his attentions, even from this far away. It was a challenge, the gauntlet that slapped with a wet thwack against the tiled floor, cut through the conversation like a faux pas. 

He’d waited, bided his time. He was sure at first the stares had been unnerving, but the fact that she hadn’t retreated, and hadn’t called him out on it, kept him on the good side of stalker. Pervert. Deviant. Creep. The words made him smile. He drank his drink. Interjected into the conversation, and kept it flowing. Greased the wheels to keep himself from drowning in it. Functions made him gag. 

As the people started to filter out, he’d wandered over to the bar. She was already there, already winding down the evening with a neat scotch and a tired smile. The stool next to her was vacant. 

“You’ve been watching me.” 

He didn’t say anything. A finger at her drink, then two at the bartender. Rude as it was, they still turned and started to prepare them. 

“Did you like what you saw?”

His fingers tapped against the counter, and his lips got thin, the muscles around them bunching up in an expression that mixed frustration and amusement. He turned, looked her straight in the eye for a moment with an intensity that made her baulk, dropping her eyes down to the floor. He smiled, and leaned towards her.

“Do you really think I would have spent quite so much time staring if that wasn’t the case?” For a second that hung in the air, dispelling the light air she’d tried to curate. “Don’t answer. That question was as rhetorical as yours.” The corners of his lips downturned, but only to suppress a smile. His hand rested on her shoulder. “Be a good girl and head over to the toilets. It seems just about appropriate.”

He could see her pause, for a moment. Tension personified, the kind of taut musculature you might find in a statue, not a beautiful woman. But he liked that, resistance and hesitation meant that she wasn’t his, not quite yet. The gauntlet on the floor, cutting through. 

And then she moved, fluid like oil, a beautiful coalescence of colour that slinked towards the toilets. He watched her go, letting the pervert have free reign, lingering on the places it’s only natural to linger on. He wondered, for a moment, whether he’d been too harsh, too forward, too much the arsehole she expected him to be. Whether it might have been better to wait, might have been better to draw this out, let it come to the boil before he poured it into something delicious. Whether to rush, like he was, was perhaps the wrong thing to do.

And then he stood up, and he walked over to the door. It swung shut behind him with the kind of finality you only find in fiction.

(Source: simply-black-and-white)

thyinnerslut:

haha

theswami:

Free Mike

Straight from Sweden, a few more Easter witches for you.

(via sexywitch.wordpress.com)

patrix4th:

Happy Easter.