#sex realism

[keepwhiteboyslocked]

#whitesissyrevolution #bnwo #bnwo propaganda #bnwo caps #fragilewhitemasculinity #sex realism

[newsmutproject]

The difficulty with the notion of what one ‘really really’ wants - finding that out, and bringing it, as if it were an object, to sex - is not just that one has to start somewhere with sex: there is a first time for everything, sexually, and it is necessarily unknown and full of uncertainty. It is also that every sexual encounter is unique, and has a powerful indeterminacy to it; we never know what is going to happen in any given sexual experience, or how we will feel about it - regardless of what we have done and liked before. And this is the power of the erotic.

-Katherine Angel, Tomorrow Sex Will Be Good Again

#sex realism #consent culture #fantasy and reality

[thestuffedalligator]

I read Fat Face by Michael Shea last month and it was. Fine? It was a Cthulhu Mythos story written in the 80s, it was very edgy and it had a lot of tropes I’m not a fan of, I don’t really recommend it, but I have to talk about one detail I have not stopped thinking about since I read it.

So. I knew Fat Face through reputation because it was the story that inspired Shoggoth Lords from the Call of Cthulhu TTRPG, shoggoths that can control their cellular makeup to look like humans. And the twist in Fat Face is that shoggoths have been hiding amongst humans in Los Angeles, and at the end of the story one of them eats the protagonist.

The tone of the story is grit. It’s grime. It’s sleaze and sexual violence and drug abuse on top of cosmic horror. It wants to be taken seriously so bad.

But here’s the thing about the shoggoths: they have a business.

They have two businesses they run out of an office building in downtown Los Angeles. A shoggoth is a primordial blob of eyes and mouths and flesh and hunger, and the idea of one of them at the LA Office of Finance registering an LLC is already. Great. Perfect. No notes.

The business is a front — and again, that’s great, a shoggoth went, “I want to do some nefarious deeds and not get caught by humans; I know, I’ll register a fake business that’ll be a front, and no human will ever suspect” — because the actual interior of this office is a room of pools of water made from black and ancient Antarctic rocks so that shoggoths can relax in their original blobby forms and eat stray animals that they’ve caught.

So it’s basically just. A place for shoggoths to unwind after a long day of pretending to be human. It’s portrayed as cosmic horror, but it’s shoggoth Cheers. Sometimes you wanna go where nobody knows your shape.

Here’s the kicker. The front of the business is a hydrotherapy clinic and stray pet rescue.

When they decided to make a front for their secret lair in an LA office building where they hang out in pools of water and eat stray animals — the front they prominently display and advertise — they decided to go with a hydrotherapy clinic and stray pet rescue.

That is Goosebumps shit. The rest of the story reads like a tone poem about the sleaze and violence of Los Angeles, and the main twist of the story reads like R.L. Stine.

But that’s not even the detail I can’t stop thinking about. Because the story reveals that this business — which again, is a front made by alien blobs to eat stray animals like an ALF-themed buffet and hang out in jacuzzi tubs of Antarctic rocks in an LA office — has a flyer.

Which means there’s a shoggoth with a passion for graphic design

#lovecraft #shoggoth #horror #and this isn’t me demanding realism in my cthulhu mythos #but i think it proves that at a certain point grim and gritty storytelling becomes absurdist comedy #the rest of the story is a gritty crime drama about being a sex worker who breasts boobily under the pitiless california sun #and the twist which is supposed to be cosmic horror elevates it into zany cartoonishness

[terrence-silver]

Can you do one with violent sex with drunk old man Terry? Beloved get’s apreenssive cause she already knows what’s coming for her when she sees drunk old man Terry stambeling late night into the house

---

Scorpions are 100% unpredictable.

They will sting you, even if they kill themselves in the process.

Several species of Scorpion have a courtship ritual that appears to walk a fine line between wooing and attacking. A male Scorpion will lead a female on a dance-like walk, known as a promenade à deux, holding her by the pedipalps (large claws). During this waltz, males have been observed stinging their partners;

--- Idle trivia pounded through his mind even as he stumbled over the manor's threshold, shoulder rubbing against the frame of the door, leaning on it as he attempted to maintain balance. He knew you'd be waiting. He knew it. You always waited for him. Even though it was three in the morning, little loyal devoted thing that you were, he knew you would be right there, diligently expecting his return and he isn't wrong. He's never wrong as he hears your voice call through the darkness of the lobby, undoubtedly alerted by the sound emanating from the hallway. He wasn't exactly trying to be quiet. Wasn't exactly trying to be sneaky or discreet. He wanted you to realize he was coming. Oh, did he ever.

-”Terry! You’re back!”-

He sees your form emerging through the shadows, seeming worried, moving at a brisk pace, arms extended, reaching towards him like he needed any fucking help. He was old but he wasn't a fucking cripple. He wasn't handicapped. He was more capable than you were at your green age. More agile. Stronger. Thirty years back, he'd show you a thing or two about endurance. Real power. Real damage. He clicks his tongue, brushing you off, stumbling wordlessly forward. Your brows shoot up, overshadowered with concern, like you were confused with the gesture --- hurt and attempting not to show it, right before trying again, stubborn in your devotion. He knew you would do that as well. So predictable. Everything you did was sweet, stupid and predictable. The fact that you were eager to him coming home, even though he was coming him in a state...it ached so much he could feel his skin shiver. His jaw goddamn nearly trembling. -”Terry, let me help you, please!”- You grab his forearm, tenderly, doing so without asking, stepping in front of him, cutting his space of movement off. Now, that he doesn't appreciate. -”I don’t need your,”- Terry seethes, not caring how inebriated he sounded, his words laced with hiccups. -”Or anyone’s help!”-

Maybe that would give you a hint to keep your distance.

-”You’re not doing well.”-

You remark, ever so politically correct and caring of his fucking feelings, trying to avoid calling things by their proper name. He wasn't doing well? No. Correction; he was drunk. Plastered. Shitfaced. A lesser man would be crawling all over the floor by now, but he? He was no lesser man. He still had enough tenacity in him tonight to smite you for even giving a damn what he was up to. Terry reaches forward, not bothering to give you a warning, snatching your wrist and squeezing on the gentle flesh. -”And who do you think is to blame for that, huh?”- He slides forward, face to face, until he was certain you could smell his breath; Perfect. Be repulsed by it. You should've been a smart little robot and gone to sleep by now. Instead of your disgust, though, against all anticipation, he's met with profound grief. You yelp. -”You’re hurting me!”-

-”Good.”- Terry coos, feeling his gut grow warm at the notion.

It was either that or all the whisky in his Limo's minibar.

Possibly a little bit of both.

-”You deserve a cruel tutelage.”-

He murmurs, looking you up and down, his eyes finally landing back on your face. Your mouth partially open in shock. Eyes befuddled and lost. Sharp intakes of breath burdening your chest with a visibly panicked pace. Fear is palpable. -”Do you want to know why I’ve been getting shickered up tonight? Do you really?”- He chuckles, feeling the bitterness coil inside of him like a wildfire. He's been drinking because of you and here you were, acting the saint. All worried and concerned about him. A patient paramour, waiting for him to come home. You should've ran. Should've ran while you had the chance. Now, you were faced with the scorpion and he was about to prick. Then again, what was he thinking? You, running? Where? How? As if he'd let you go. As if he'd let you get away. You shake your head, your teeth gritted with pain, not knowing the answer to this question. Ever naive. Ever dumb. With his fingers still wrapped around your wrist, he drags your forward, further into the dark lobby and down the foyer. You squeal in surprise. -”For the past thirty years, my life’s been bullshit.”- He confesses, chuckling at the notion. No, really. It was complete and utter tripe. You sound distressed even as he pushed you forward, like you wanted to dissuade him. Convince him his life wasn't wasted in a feeble attempt to console him.

Figures.

-”Terry!”-

Your voice is horse and he shakes his head, leading you down the corridor by force. Force is just about the only language you and your pigheaded attempts at pity would understand right now. -”Shrinks, reinvention, pills, damage control, living up here —”- He taps the edge of his own forehead as he lists everything that came to mind off in a haste. -”Those schmucks I’ve kept around.”- He digs his teeth into his lower lip, feeling particularly infuriated at the thought that he's wasted time with a bunch of mimes when he could've had you instead. But, you weren't in his life then, were you? You only came into his life recently. Fucked everything up. -”John.”- He adds, reaching a door, grabbing its handle. Another person he loved. Another person that fucked everything up. Just like you did. -"Denying myself every impulse! Everything that ever made me happy! For what?"- Terry slings the door open not caring if it hit the interior room's wall with a loud thud, pushing you forward and shoving your back inside. You stumble forward. Terry shuts the bedroom door behind himself. The loudness of the sound resonates. -"Did anyone ever say 'Thank you'?"- He murmurs, looking at you. He could've had you. Ten years ago. Twenty. Thirty. When he returned from Vietnam, or even before. If only you were older. Born earlier. Instead, he was there idly wasting his time trying to shed his skin and reinvent himself into a happiness that wasn't even born yet. If that wasn't the biggest irony of his life, he didn't know what was.

Yeah, he drowned the conclusion in a bottle.

What else was there to do?

Let it drown him instead?

-”And you come into my life when its about to end.”-

The scorpion pricks when he saunters forward, fingers coiling into your hair, hardening into a fist, pulling your head backwards and trapping you like that. You moan in pain. Your hands attempting to grab at his own hand, peel him off somehow. Your knees coming up helplessly, trying to put distance between you and him. Your expression fading into a blur. There was four of you in front of him and he'd fucking break all four tonight. -”Legs. Open.”- Terry growls his order, pushing your thighs apart. Placing his own leg between them as a barrier, right before he thrusts on the mattress behind your back. You fall limp, bouncing ever so slightly, hips parted, just as he liked them. There's no finesse to the act. It is crude. It was meant to be like that. He grabs you by the shoulders, holding you down with his weight as he grips the hem of your blouse, dragging it forward and ripping the fabric, splitting it where the buttons connected, sending them flying like bullets ricocheting off of the floor. You shriek. Hands coming up to conceal your chest. -”Why? Couldn’t? You? Let? Sleeping? Dogs lie?”- Terry feels his own voice coming out like a growl and no, there would be no mercy. He grabs both of your arms. Away from your torso, pinning them over your head.

-”Why did you have to poke the bear?”- He breathes furiously, close enough to sense your nostrils flaring hot breath as you exhaled and inhaled at a rapid pace. You blink, protesting. About to defend yourself.

-”I didn’t, I —”-

-”You did!”- He cuts you off, insisting, seething through lips pushed together firmly. You know what you did, and now, you would bear the brunt of the consequences. Determined fingers pull down his zipper and he feels himself hard before he's ever even done anything, even though he was certain the potent mix of tonight's Cognac will have him cumming quickly and sloppily inside of you, spilling a mess of anger, desperation, inebriation, his own age and desire inside of you like a hot flood, that's a chance he's willing to take as he starts stroking, preparing himself, unkind to his own flesh, kneading back and forth to the point of it being almost painful. -”You made an old man happy. That’s war.”- He grunts, never looking away from you, because there was nowhere he'd be rather looking in the whole fucking World. You did, you know? You really did. You made him happy. Profoundly, unbelievably happy. Terry Silver never liked ironies he had to endure on his own back, and him finding the love of his life at nearly seventy years of age was an irony that made him want slam his fist into the wall into he bled. -”I should finish you for that.”- He nearly spits as he throbs into his own fist, leaning forward, until his face was between your legs, split apart by the presence of his knee. Removing his own thigh as a barrier, he leans down, licking you and humming. Pleasure mingled with a half-growl.

-”But, I love you!”- You plead, this time, through a hiccup of oncoming sobs.

You try to squeeze your legs shut, but not before long, the head of his cock is massaging your flesh, up and down, up and down, preventing you, slipping into your loose, slippery, wet slit. -”See! That right there! That’s exactly the problem!”- Terry finds time to be analytical and smiles somewhat bitterly, letting go of where he was holding you, below your knee, wiggling his index finger and smiles somewhat bitterly, amused by how critically the point was flying over your head right now. And yet, he was the drunk one. -”I don’t have the time left for that shit.”- He thrusts as he speaks, pushing into you, groaning. He loved you too. Loved you more than a mosquito craves blood, but that crap wasn't anything that he could actually live to its fruition. How did you not realize that? If he ever fucked his children into you, he'd be dead before they ever went to school. You'd be far from middle aged by the time he would be turning centennial. How the fuck was that not a cause for grief and wrath!? It would be easier if he simply never cared for you. If you were some warm body. Someone he was compensating with loads of cash. Favors. Trips. Garden cocktail parties. By kickstarting your inane, idiotic business or something. They all wanted a business kickstarted nowadays, but not you. You were actually in it for love and you made all of it for free and fuck you for that. For making it ache like a motherfucker.

The Scorpion's out to kill.

-”This right here! This is just about the only thing we have time to do.”-

He feels himself growling, rutting into you, sweat trickling down his forehead, heated by the alcohol. By you. Gesturing to where his cock connected with you for emphasis. Yes. Sex. Validly, he couldn't start planning anything concrete with you because he didn't have the decades necessary to pull it off. Fucking you until he physically could for as long as he still could was believably all he had left and he'd utilize every moment like it could be his last, because it could. It could be his last. Maybe if he just dropped dead from a stroke while still inside of you, it would be a perfect way to go. Sure. He was always meant to die on the battlefield, but dying with lodged inside of living heaven incarnate was a step up the figurative ladder. Yeah. Sex was all he had. -”That’s not true, Terry! No!”- At this point you're crying and something lurches in his gut. For a second, he thinks it is arousal, seeing you like this, and then he recognizes it as the putrid, horrendous swell of regret. He finds himself slowing down, nearly growing limp inside of you. Not true? What else was there? Could he have a family? Could he be with you all of his life? No. This was the winter of his life. You were a spring turning summer. That's why he was drunk. That's why not even a whole private cellar worth of bullshit would help numb him.

Because you came too late.

And there was nothing in the world he could do to change that crap.

-”You don’t get to decide what’s true and what isn’t when you’re the one getting pounded.”-

He threatens you, or at least he tries and for a moment or short-lived glee, arming himself with a sort of barb he never gets to use to the extent he wanted to use it and he isn't certain if the saltiness of sweat from his scalp was running down his cheek or if he was silently crying too, without making a sound, the rage deflating along with his body and he slips out of you with a moist popping sound, entirely flaccid and soft, his shaft leaking cum over his fingers and unto the bedsheets crumpled from the onslaught as he practically falls over, or rather, lets himself fall in a half-embrace, holding you for dear life, feeling you return the hug, ragged sobs shaking against him, his cock twitching painfully. Fuck sake. Your care would get him off faster than what he just did to you. Humiliation, indignity, yearning and wrath mixing, he wants to hold you like his and squeeze you until your bones crack and turn to dust under his vice grip and this very bed becomes your funeral shroud. Instead, he just lays there, inhaling your scent, his lips finding it in themselves to touch the nuzzled spot of your neck, peppering it with saliva ridden spots, licking you, finding that even now, like this, disheveled, shitfaced, unbuckled pants, he was still happy.

Desperate, but happy.

-"You know that bullshit fable,"- He slurs, feeling his eye lids grow heavy.

Voice heavy with desire and intoxication.

You no longer fight. Wiggle. Struggle. You're perfectly still. Listening.

The bedroom dark, suddenly achingly quiet.

He swears he can hear you gulping and swallowing.

-"When the Scorpion pricked the Frog crossing the river on its back, the Frog asked why and the Scorpion answered he had to, because its in his nature. They both sank."- Terry doesn't see your face, but he hears you sniffling --- your breathing and heartbeat stabilizing and he nuzzles even closer --- needing to be closer like life itself depended on it, chuckling, hand squeezing itself around your waist. He doesn't know what he was trying to say with that or what he'd conclusively add to it as he closed his eyes, finding your warmth soothing from the sudden dizziness and the profound headache he knew was coming, but he figured, that if you and him sank, at least you'd sink together --- and he'd be capable of that. He'd be capable of piercing himself on his own venomous needle after he was done with you. There was nobody Terry Silver would rather sink with.

Nobody else he'd ever allow you to sink with but him.

#terry silver #cobra kai #old man terry #kk3 #terry silver x reader #terry silver x beloved #tw; dub con #tw; dubious consent #tw; non con #tw; inhebriation #tw; drunk sex #tw; age differences #tw; generational gap #tw; angst #tw; fear of mortality #tw; the realism of an intoxicated older man having sex and it ending somewhat messily because hey nature does its thing

[mueritos]

harvey from sdv with his boyfriend, oscar (my farmer) ^-^

patreon

#muertoresponds #stardew valley #harvey stardew valley #stardew valley farmer #fanart #because i havent posted actual art in a while so sorry #my mental health has not been great #so ive been filling time with stardew valley and work and reading #anyway #i hilariously enough keep giving my latino ocs white boys to love #need to adjust oscars skin tone to be a lil more tanner but #i think i keep doin latino x white boy because i fucking have a white boy #like my magical realism story is an argentinian falling in love with an icelandic man #oh well #anyway stardew valley #asked harvey to be my boyfriend next step is gay sex #which i will be drawing #but u can find other gay sex on my patreon

[gideonisms]

summaries of the locked tomb I think often fail to mention how much of the time is devoted to one old man getting gradually yet violently divorced from all his lovers. the dick that launched a thousand ships

#the dick is mediocre in every way #the things people will do for mediocre dick #tlt is the horniest book ever because everyone is having really subpar sex yet they're willing to ruin their lives over it anyway #realism tbh

[keepwhiteboyslocked]

#essays on white male fragility #sex realism #blackisbetter

[newsmutproject]

Consent can cover the ground of boundaries and communication—can we flirt? Are you actually available for us to build an intimate connection? Can I send you pictures? Can I take pictures of you? Can I share our connection with others, in public, on social media? Can we fuck? Are you open to ass play? Disclosing sexual history and risk is a part of a consent conversation. For some people, disclosing relationship and parental status can be part of a consent conversation. As I have gotten more in touch with my shifting abilities, I also bring into consent conversations things like, “Can you be careful with my knees? I tore my meniscus a while back so don’t just throw me around.”

Asking for these things helps build a space of trust. Eventually you may get past needing to ask for consent on each of these things, because you will have developed a space of trust, where you know consent matters and can be navigated as needed.

adrienne maree brown, “From #MeToo to #WeConsented: Reclaiming the Pleasure of Consent”

#consent culture #negotiation #sex realism #adrienne maree brown

[thatshinx]

Can’t find what they were talking about but this is the first time my arts been compared to an actual animator. If someone knows what they’re referencing please tell me. Honestly this sounds like such a compliment

#artists on tumblr #fish in a birdcage #fiab #ninja sex party #game grumps #animation collab #milestones #digital art #abstract realism

[the-everqueen]

aous was...fine, imho, it was fine, but it was fundamentally white, middle-class british and i could accept that but i couldn't forgive it

#aous #aous spoilers #namely...paul mezcal being terrified at having seen a ghost #people treating ghosts as unnatural or weird or wrong was bizarre to me #latinos built different! #also visually the film felt Too Polished #it should've been grainier; the past and the sex all felt too clean #but mostly i can't get over the ghosts part...i.e. why would you be afraid #there's something...comforting about them being able to linger and then choose to leave #anyways things i did not like about it included seeing andrew scott in pjs. the ways money didn't seem to figure into anything. #(he's a writer but he lives in these high end flats but he spends all his time visiting his childhood home which is empty but not??) #(paul mezcal is an alcoholic who lives alone and seems to live at andrew scott's beck and call - WHAT DOES HE DO FOR WORK) #the whole sheen of ''we don't need to think about the material conditions here'' really bothered me actually #it felt necessary to engage with if we're also doing the magical realism #anyways when we left the theater this gaggle of young 20-something women were also exiting #and one of them said ''okay i think that movie forced me to process a bunch of shit i hadn't wanted to think about'' #and i laughed bc i'm glad it reached out and touched her

[spasar]

riverdale finale HUGE win for archiecomic scholars presumably huge loss for riverdale fans I don't know. I don't care

#when you stop trying to understand CW riverdale as a tv show with plots and characters. and you start understanding it as #a vehicle for a 7 season metatextual struggle between cw riverdale and the archie comics ip. #that's when you'll come to know peace #first they tried to be a normal bad show but devolved into cartoonish antics #which is one thing but then the timeskip hit which is like ohhhhh no thats not something that you can successfully do with archie character #so the shows ostensible realism started falling apart worse and worse with superpowers and sabrina and rivervale until a WIZARD summoned a #COMET to literally destroy this version of the town because archie cant be about adults with marriages and children lmfao get good #and it reset the town to the 1950s. FOREVER. she cant send you back to 2023! #btw life with archie isnt a counterexample it supports my point they tried to age up the characters in the comics and it almost destroyed t #e multiverse and archie fucking died at the end #anyways the finale episode is everything. the characters grow up and die offscreen because thats not what archiecomics is about! #archies non betty non veronica wife doesnt even get a name shes a 1 sentence concept #none of that matters all that matters is they all died and went to purgatory and purgatory was an idyllic 17 year old high school life that #never ends #get it because. theyre not characters theyre concepts. tied to archie comics. and archie comics is purgatory that these concepts cant escap #to understand riverdales finale you have to read archie vs predator 2 okay? okay. #CW riverdale fans read archie vs predator 2. understand archie vs predator 2. then we'll talk #nothing thats ever happened in any archie property is canon but also all of it is its literally fine #except archie and reggie having sex this season. thats canon #post

[weimar-arts]

Otto Griebel, Colibri-Bar, 1924. Pencil and watercolor on paper, 43.4 x 35 cm

#Otto Griebel #neue sachlichkeit #new objectivity #Weimar Republic #Babylon Berlin #sex worker #watercolour sketch #bar #cabaret #memento mori #depravity #kneipe #german art #modernism #modern ar #magic realism #dresden #breslau

[liltracyscastle]

I will continue to post my shitty ass opinions because they are true. if you don’t like them then kill your self

#jaden smith #hello kitty #clario #mac demarco #tv girl #pinkpantheress #cigarettes after sex #mitski #the neighbourhood #lil peep #random #realism #rants #pansexual #i’m gay #diary #character design #caps #csi cbs #byler #coquette #star wars #writeblr #real talk #the amazing world of gumball #i’m coming elon. you can’t escape i’m at ur house #i hate elon musk #just gonna leave this here #across the spiderverse #notice me sentai

[wolfstarshipping]

Deepwood Wreathing (series) by Anonymous (25.326 words) Rating: Mature Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin

historic AU Summary: A baron in Victorian London, Sirius Black is very near his breaking point of simply absconding into the obscurity of the forest. That is, until a rent boy going by the name of Remus arrives to turn his reality on its head in one fell swoop.

Comment: I love a good historic AU and this series was just everything I could wish for, there's baron Sirius and rent boy Remus, delicious smut, a ball scene, domestic bliss on the countryside, wolves, some magical realism and a murder!

#wolfstar #remus lupin #sirius black #fic rec #deepwood wreathing #historic AU #Remus: sex worker #AU #magical realism #smut #Sirius: nobility #Where the Birch Trees Twist Like Ivy #To See Beyond the White Alders #Hallowed Thorns and All Their Climbing Roses #Breath Beneath the Fallow Ground #Anonymous #muggle AU #victorian AU #wolfstar fic rec