Being a Karen is low key awesome as hell. You get to have sweet ass chunky highlights and drive a big hideous SUV you secretly eat 3 donuts a day in and dont report to weight watchers. You can go to your jazzersize class absolutely fucked up on airplane bottles of rum and a perc you got from your friend who has back issues. Call your daughter a whore in front of her friends when she's 12 then pretend not to remember it when she brings it up deeply traumatized in her 20s. Fucking boss bitch shit straight up. Just blasting "dude looks like a lady" max volume flooring it to a target to cause a ruckus returning a bath mat. Not giving a single shit if its problematic. You like it that way. Making your dumbass kids apologize to YOU when you say racist shit. Getting zooted on your strawberry nosed husbands blood pressure meds. Hell yes queen fucking slay.
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If 700,000 people die in hospitals every year. Why don't we close down these hospitals and prevent those deaths? (つ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)つ
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when you velen's chosen prophet velen he becomes a 9/11, coincidence?
when you velen's chosen prophet velen he becomes a 9/11, coincidence?
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I need you Kripp, love Trump
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Kʀɪᴘᴘ, ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ɢɪᴠᴇɴ ᴍᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ sᴏғᴛ, ᴛᴇɴᴅᴇʀ, ʟᴏᴠɪɴɢ ɪɴ sᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ.... Yᴏᴜ ᴜsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ ᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴡᴀʏs ɴᴏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴇʟsᴇ ᴄᴀɴ. Tʜᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢs ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴍᴇ ғᴇᴇʟ I ᴊᴜsᴛ Kreygasm... ɪ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴋʀɪᴘᴘ. Sᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇs ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴛᴏ ǫᴜᴇʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜʀɢᴇs. ɪ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴsɪᴅᴇ ᴋʀɪᴘᴘ, ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴛʀᴜᴍᴘ
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Kripp
Kittarrian and Pussytron
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It's not gay with socks on
When I was 13 years old a buddy of mine tried to convince me to fool around. I wasn't into it, and he told me it's not gay if you're wearing socks. I didn't believe him, went home, and asked my dad.
That's 'gentleman's gay', hardly gay at all. Don't see it much these days.
The 50s were a different time. What were we to do? We were typical boarding school boys, rich with vigor, skin slick with drying sweat and gritty earth from a game of pigskin.
At night our young, virile bodies filled the dorm with sweet-musky vapors, like game-meat stewed with apple and peppercorn. You'd awake in darkness to the hushed, melodic rhythm of two pairs of white tube socks, barely visible in moonlight, bouncing on the hardwood floor.
The deep bond of male friendship played like a thousand different human instruments. The wet claps of skin on skin, the gentle thud of heads on backboards, frenzied cries in the throes of climax. Wilbur, so fat and soft like tapioca pudding. His breasts were so like the real thing, what we fantasized of our future wives. Unwilling, defenseless Wilbur, so slow and uncoordinated in the dark. 10 of us would glaze his bare, pink flesh like a giant raspberry danish. He once had the audacity to tell Headmaster Redford. But Redford was a Deerfield boy once, he understood. So he joined us on our midnight hog hunts.
Through college and years after we'd find time here and there, away from the wives at a family lake house. But it's been decades now - the times have certainly changed. If you wanted to do something private with another man, in your socks, it wasn’t ‘gay’. It was just two men, celebrating each other's strength.