Reiss Autumn/Winter 2013 True to Form Men’s Lookbook
Cantaloupe Tea Daiquiri
dont even think about proposing to me unless you do it with one of these
DLKALKSJ SO BEAUTIFUL I WANT
Oh my god
"it’s what’s inside that makes you beautiful"
*the demon possessing my body blushes*
i was afraid when i first noticed blood was pretty. i was afraid when i first noticed you were pretty. i remember that, the first photograph i saw of you, smiling into the mirror with an orange glow in the bad light and your hair curling around you like fire and smoke feeling gravity. i was so afraid and pleased to find out that you were as pretty as i expected, and maybe that is a shallow thing, but i think i would have found you pretty no matter what you looked like. it is the principle of the thing and that is what scared me, too.
i was wise. the prettier a thing is, the more that it hurts to look at, the kind of hurt that moves your entire stomach, and when this beauty is hidden beneath pain receptors then that is worse. thank goodness you do not need to open up to look at blood, or even touch it. you can rub the undersides of my wrists or my chest where the heartbeat is, and touch my throat and tongue and anywhere you can find a vein and i will like that, but you can bite or cut and i will like that too. they call this masochism and they are half right.
i do not think i feel pain the same way as other people. it is terrible of me to assume that my brain is so special, but there are people all around me who try to avoid physical pain and i do not and they say that makes me sick and maybe they are right. i do not do this out of some desire for self-punishment but because it feels good, physical and not emotional. it is masturbation in the barest sense, it is the intensity of feeling and the release of having stopped and it is good.
when i have good dreams they are often about that, about nerves being played like puppet strings until i am pulled to a breaking point and then released all at once. bad dreams are pain too, but then it is emotional pains or slow cutting pains or aches, stubbing your toes or scraping your hands all up, and those do not have the intensity that i enjoy unless your hands are pressing on my bruises and making it worse. it is vitally important that they be your hands. no other touch will do.
but it is not just blood i like, and it is not just pain. it is insides. i am a funny animal, aren’t i, when i am stuck on this planet. i am red inside, with coldwhiteheavy bones, all symmetrical, like a marble frame with goo poured in. my lungs and heart and everything are so very fragile and curved in just the right ways and swollen and heavy, too. all of me is heavy. all of me would feel good trapped under your hands and bleeding hard, or squeezed until it burst.
my favorite parts of the human body are the hands and mouths. hands because they are where your skeleton shows through. hands lose little density when the flesh is lost, and the padding is enough to make them pleasant to touch or kiss. they are soft and yet when i touch the joints and knuckles there are bones there, just beneath the surface, pretty and hard and so different from the squish squish of the rest of the human body. i would like to kiss your joints, and then your soft parts. mouths are soft, soft and wet, and feel to me like insides, like a gash cut into you where things are internal and intimate. your bones show through there, too. i would like to give you every small bone in my body and let you roll them in your hands like stones and then touch the slick wet warm of my hidden guts. my skin outside is dry and rough and dirty but inside i am beautiful and i do not mean my personality.
i think that is how i am able to enjoy sex with humans despite not wanting them that way. all the openings of a human body are very soft and pink- you put this here, my fingers go there and they call this being “inside” of you and they are right. i can feel your heartbeat through your pink spots. you make sweet sounds, too, and your body strains as though you are truly dying, and yet you like this, and that is what makes it good for me.
that is why they tell me i am not asexual. maybe they are right then, too. i would like to be close to you, i would like my hands buried inside your chest up to the wrists and your hands holding the ribs open or crawling on my back to let me know this is okay, this is okay. i would like to make an anatomy study of you, all broken down and strewn across the table, spilling as though you were packed tight before and it makes me nauseous but it is a good thing. i want things with you that make even me sick. i want to chew you up and eat you, crouching over you like a mad ravenous thing, because i am mad, darling, they call what i have a mental illness, and sometimes i am ravenous for every part of you. i want you to be broken down into proteins and become me and then i will learn to love myself because i will have gotten all this from you, each new cell and organ and the blood and the bones knitted from old bits and pieces swallowed up and stolen. i would have all this reversed, too, because what matters is not me eating you or you eating me or breaking me or kissing me but that it is occurring.
i think this is love. i think this is the sort of love they do not write about, because it has been turned inside out so that the things you take for granted are buried deep inside and the parts that no one ever dreamed of or wanted to see are hanging out in the open asking to be touched and singing like wind chimes. this is the love i write about, and they think it is foul, and they are wrong.
Britain is a strange place.
yOU’RE JOKING RIGHT
No, I’m not. It even has a wiki page.
Oh my god.
Home sweet home
I just asked my dad about this and he goes “Have you never heard of this before? It’s part of your upbringing.”
New Skinny Kitty Collars now in the store!
Well this is fucking adorable and I want one.