I'm 13 and and my mom is 33. Things at the school were never great. I'm sorta short so i get picked on some but it was manageable. That was, until one of my classmates showed me a picture of my mom naked. I almost had a panic attack and had to be excused from the classroom. I ended up not showing up to school for a few days (faking sick). I was hoping that things would cool off but they didn't. As soon as I got to school almost everyone was staring and laughing at me. This has been going on for about a week now. I was wondering how my classmates even got the pictures and apparently my mom advertises her onlyfans on her personal Twitter account. Some students from the school follow her and were able to see the nudes and they have been spread everywhere. I don't even have a Twitter so I didn't know about any of this.
The worst part is when I confronted my mom about this she told me that I was overreacting and that sex work is basically the same as working at a bank or a grocery store. She also said it makes her feel good about herself and that I should be happy that she's more confident now. I told the principal but they can't suspend thousands of students or take anyone's phones. I've been crying in my room everyday for the past week. I don't think I can take it anymore.
(▀̿Ĺ̯├┬┴┬┴ Psst... kid, you wanna disable adblock?
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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.
And you thought there wouldn't be any bees in chat
Copy pasters are such idiots.
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Copy pasters are such idiots. Imagine being so dumb you just CTRL + C what other people write? Wasting oxygen for real. Try an original thought please.
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🇺🇸ATTENTION🇺🇸PLEASE🇺🇸
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🇺🇸guys🇺🇸if🇺🇸you🇺🇸receive🇺🇸an🇺🇸email🇺🇸saying🇺🇸"naked🇺🇸pictures🇺🇸of🇺🇸Donald🇺🇸Trump"🇺🇸don't🇺🇸open🇺🇸it🇺🇸it🇺🇸is🇺🇸a🇺🇸virus🇺🇸that🇺🇸puts🇺🇸USA🇺🇸flags🇺🇸between🇺🇸everything🇺🇸you🇺🇸type🇺🇸
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That's not his knee
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( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) that's not his knee ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
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Kripp