 |
| A book slut threesome. (In your dreams) |
This morning I woke up from a sex dream with Carrie Brownstein. Due to an influx in Brownstein media I think I've developed a bit of a crush on her. I recently finished Transparent season 2, I am reading Hunger Makes Me A Modern Girl, leading me to listen to a lot of Sleater-Kinney, and Portlandia sometimes plays in the background at night when I'm working. I have a lot of stuff to get done today, like run through my powerpoint and write up a quiz, and don't have time to spend wondering if I'm a lesbian.
I think this might fall under what millennials call, Gender Fluid. However, I don't have any question about my gender, it's more of a question of who I'm fucking's gender. I am Woman, thank you very much, and I have a nice wet hole, that couples as a partial mitten after waking from sex dreams, to prove it.
Maybe I can modify today's lecture. "Class, today we will lecture on Subjective Probability, then lets make a prediction of the probability Professor Alicia is a lesbian."
All their hands shoot up.
"And no one is allowed to say 'gender fluid'."
Their hands start to drop, slowly like leaves from a tree, except for the lady in the back of the room, whose closer to my age than the other students.
"Umm, professor, could your love of oversized suit jackets factor into our analysis?"
"YES! Very good. Were moving in the right direction, Elsie!"
I'll probably finish Hunger Makes Me A Modern Girl tonight, then I'm moving on to the next book in my Tsundoku, After Many A Summer Dies A Swan by Aldous Huxley. It has been sitting on my bedside table for a while so I've built up quite a story for Mr. Sexy-pants Huxley. I'll caress the cover a bit before diving in to the pages. Maybe my sex dream with Aldous will play out like this, he's perched on a stage with an audience of people screaming and applauding him. I tear through the crowd like I'm hacking down sugar cane with a machete. The people I'm passing are pulling at my clothes and hair. Once I get to the base of the stage, I crawl up and over to Huxley, where I lay my head on his lap. At this point my hair is ratted to a giant cotton candy cloud on my head, and my clothes have been shredded to a barely-there bikini. It helps that I started out wearing head-to-toe leopard print.
Then I look into his eyes, and say, "Me Alicia. You Aldous. Take me to your cave. Lets fuck and then Barbecue a steak."
Then he grunts, and tosses me over his shoulder and we walk off stage to live out the rest of the story.
At this point, you might be thinking, "Alicia, you are reeeeee..."
And I'm going to stop you, "Don't say it, fucker. That shit's not politically correct! I'm personality fluid."
I think this might fall under what millennials call, Gender Fluid. However, I don't have any question about my gender, it's more of a question of who I'm fucking's gender. I am Woman, thank you very much, and I have a nice wet hole, that couples as a partial mitten after waking from sex dreams, to prove it.
Maybe I can modify today's lecture. "Class, today we will lecture on Subjective Probability, then lets make a prediction of the probability Professor Alicia is a lesbian."
All their hands shoot up.
"And no one is allowed to say 'gender fluid'."
Their hands start to drop, slowly like leaves from a tree, except for the lady in the back of the room, whose closer to my age than the other students.
"Umm, professor, could your love of oversized suit jackets factor into our analysis?"
"YES! Very good. Were moving in the right direction, Elsie!"
I'll probably finish Hunger Makes Me A Modern Girl tonight, then I'm moving on to the next book in my Tsundoku, After Many A Summer Dies A Swan by Aldous Huxley. It has been sitting on my bedside table for a while so I've built up quite a story for Mr. Sexy-pants Huxley. I'll caress the cover a bit before diving in to the pages. Maybe my sex dream with Aldous will play out like this, he's perched on a stage with an audience of people screaming and applauding him. I tear through the crowd like I'm hacking down sugar cane with a machete. The people I'm passing are pulling at my clothes and hair. Once I get to the base of the stage, I crawl up and over to Huxley, where I lay my head on his lap. At this point my hair is ratted to a giant cotton candy cloud on my head, and my clothes have been shredded to a barely-there bikini. It helps that I started out wearing head-to-toe leopard print.
Then I look into his eyes, and say, "Me Alicia. You Aldous. Take me to your cave. Lets fuck and then Barbecue a steak."
Then he grunts, and tosses me over his shoulder and we walk off stage to live out the rest of the story.
At this point, you might be thinking, "Alicia, you are reeeeee..."
And I'm going to stop you, "Don't say it, fucker. That shit's not politically correct! I'm personality fluid."
No comments:
Post a Comment