Several times a month, I will be in a store aisle reaching for something and feel a hand going up the inside of my thigh. When I turn around to find myself alone with a woman, and ask her if she would prefer me to hold still so she can get a better feel for the situation, oftentimes she will act "shocked" claiming nothing had happened, it must be somebody else...
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Just a bit.
He was pretty clever, though, in pointing at "bad apples", rather than the bushel. Considering when and where he published.
I kinda of want to find a copy of the trippy Pasolini movie from the 70s.
That orbèd maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent’s thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the sun’s throne with a burning zone,
And the moon’s with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-coloured bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,
While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain,
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams,
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.
The eternal regurgitation of the same, roughly
though they feel good rolling in the hand.This one's for Roger, found it on the beach last night :heart:
Mine don't look like that.
right-on, once again.
It was Milo Manera
His art is gorgeous, but I don't think he has ever done anything other than erotica, Looking at this and his Scarlett Witch cover, they are really good.
I mean, that's why we performed Babylon working, to prepare the American audience.The female audience for comic books is 47%?
In vaugely related news, I seem to recall something about Marvel switching genders around on a few of their bigger names. So it's actually increasingly likely you'll see Thor and co waving their spandex arse at you soon. It's a kind of equality, I guess.
Thor Girl is a real thing. There's a prophecy that Odin has hidden away from the Asgardians that a woman will usher in the New Asgard. Also Thor does something Anti-heroic that pisses off the hammer (moral spag), and the the hammer flys off to Thor Girl. Thor now will wields his old childhood axe.