It’s been very winter-y here as of late.

I haven’t done anything like this. 

I did, however, make a few snowballs on my balcony just the other day, and stored them in my freezer. The snow was fluffy and light like in this photo. It made my hands red, a kind of dry burn that became more painful when I warmed them up later.

I can only imagine how it would feel packed tight between spread legs, melting against warm pussy lips. Can you?

Okay society, it’s your call.

Sure, you could bemoan the death of modesty, blinded only by the muffin tops that peek out over cheap stretched out g-strings.

Or you could embrace the death of modesty, knowing that a single sophisticated woman sipping espresso with her shirt off in a small European bistro makes up for all the rest of the madness.

I believe in eco-friendly cars as much as the next pornographer… but I want you to fuck me on your knees in the back of a vintage Bentley, not crouched like dogs in some goddamn Prius.

The summer they turned fifteen, Megan and Melanie discovered the cutaway under the bushes, the small patch of grass behind the pool house.

It started with dares, stumbling and innocent articulations of desire. “Take off your bikini top”, “Make a hickey on my stomach”. 

Soon they were kissing, touching, learning that sexuality was far more playground than battlefield.

This is just the most innocent adorable sweet moment.