Posted 6 hours ago

bondagecorp:

Try not to think about how long you’ve been down there. focus on the fact that it’s where you belong for me.

Posted 14 hours ago
Posted 14 hours ago

Riff Raff from The Rocky Horror Picture Show 

Riff Raff from The Rocky Horror Picture Show 

Posted 14 hours ago
savedher:

Guardians of the Universe

savedher:

Guardians of the Universe

Posted 14 hours ago

iwriteaboutfeminism:

Police escalate the violence. Unrest in Ferguson, Part 2

[part 1]

Posted 14 hours ago

thefandomtolllbooth:

antoinetriplett:

jolivet:

spaceman-v-spiff:

nescientes:

novacayyn:

carry-on-my-otp:

If Stuntmen from the old movies don’t have your full respect then I just don’t know what to say to you

l tried really hard not to reblog this

Yeah, it is indeed really hard not to reblog a fucking thing.

Can we all agree that the man in the first gif is the manliest man in the world?

Are we just going to all silently acknowledge that the last guy is clearly dead and that we just saw him die. 

HOLD UP FOR A SECOND

ALL OF THESE GIFS ARE ONE MAN

THE SINGULAR BUSTER KEATON

WHILE FILMING THE GENERAL

HE SNAPPED HIS NECK ON THE RAILROAD TIES AND WENT HOME AND ICED HIS BODY

AND CAME BACK FOR WORK THE NEXT DAY

HE ONCE GOT HIS HIP RIPPED OUT OF ITS SOCKET BY A MALFUNCTIONING ELEVATOR AND WAS DISAPPOINTED WITH HIMSELF FOR BEING INJURED

HE ONCE HAD TO FALL 100 FEET DOWN A WATERFALL INTO A NET

A STUNTMAN TESTED IT AND BROKE BOTH LEGS AND DISLOCATED HIS SHOULDER

BUSTER DID THE STUNT ANYWAY AND LANDED WITHOUT A SCRATCH

IN ‘THE HIGH DIVE’

BUSTER DID A TRICK DIVE THROUGH A CARDBOARD DECK THAT WAS CAMOUFLAGED TO LOOK LIKE THE REAL DECK

ONLY HE COULDN’T TELL FROM 100 FEET UP WHERE THE CARDBOARD STOPPED AND THE REAL DECK STARTED AND THERE WAS ONLY LIKE A THREE FOOT MARGIN FOR ERROR

AND WHEN HE HESITATED A SUDDEN BREEZE LITERALLY KNOCKED HIM OFF THE DIVING BOARD AND HE HAD TO JUMP ANYWAY

AND HE MISSED THE REAL DECK BY LESS THAN A FOOT BUT HE MADE IT

IN THE SECOND GIF HE’S RECREATING SOMETHING THAT THE ACTUAL GENERAL PURSUERS HAD TO DO IN THE CIVIL WAR

IF HE MISSES THAT TIE

THE TRAIN WILL BE DERAILED AND HE WILL DIE IN THE EXPLOSION

IN THE THIRD GIF AN ENTIRE HOUSE IS FALLING HE HAS ONE TAKE AND IF HE HAS NOT DONE THE CALCULATIONS CORRECTLY HE WILL BE CRUSHED

HE HAS AN INCH-WIDE MARGIN ON EACH SIDE

AND THE HOUSE LITERALLY BRUSHES HIS LEFT SHOULDER ON THE WAY DOWN

YOU CAN SEE HIS LEFT ARM JUMP BECAUSE HE’S FLINCHING FROM THE PAIN

THAT LAST GIF

HE WAS SUPPOSED TO MAKE THAT JUMP

HE WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO FALL AND THEY HADNT PLANNED FOR IT

BUT HE SURVIVED

BUSTER KEATON SURVIVED 100% OF THINGS THAT WOULD HAVE KILLED LESSER MEN INCLUDING WWI, TORNADOS, HOUSEFIRES, ALCOHOLISM, BROKEN NETS, CRUSHING DEPRESSION, THE DEPRESSION ITSELF, THE MCCARTHY WITCHHUNTS, THE END OF SILENT CINEMA, AND ABOUT 900 MORE OF THE STUNTS YOU SEE ABOVE

BUSTER LIVED TO BE 70 YEARS OLD

FATHERED LIKE FOUR KIDS AND EIGHT GRANDKIDS

HE CAME OUT THE OTHER SIDE OF ALL THAT

THINKING THAT LIFE WAS GOOD AND PEOPLE WERE WONDERFUL

BUSTER KEATON IS NOT JUST A STUNTMAN

HE IS A GODDAMN SAINT

BUSTER KEATON’S PARENTS WERE PART OF A TRAVELING SHOW.

THEY WERE ACROBATS.

THEY TOOK BABY BUSTER UP HIGH IN THE AIR WITH THEM.

THEY DROPPED HIM.

LUCKILY SOMEONE WHO WAS STANDING UNDER THEM CAUGHT BABY BUSTER.

THAT MAN WAS HARRY HOUDINI. 

HARRY HOUDINI SAVED BUSTER KEATON’S LIFE.

if you don’t think that’s the coolest shit you can get right out.

Posted 15 hours ago

asleepylioness:

It all started because i forgot my phone. 

She was kind enough to wait in the car for me while i ran back upstairs to retrieve my phone which i’d left, probably by the coffee machine. When i opened the door, i could hear him stirring in the bedroom and i couldn’t resist. I lifted my dress and took off my thong, crawling gently on top of him - i made it clear that i needed him. He was ready for me and for a split second we stared each other down. After that it was a frenzy of fingers, thrusts, kisses, and moans. I don’t think i’ve ever cum so quickly in my life. 

It was all such a blur. 

So, i confess i had sex with him while you waited in the car.

Posted 15 hours ago

dirtylittlechemist:

lalalana13:

dirtylittlechemist:

lalalana13:

Girl you can’t be this cute because you’re too busy being hot.

If this is about my tag then man oh man you’re too nice to me!

(If it’s not then… I’ve decided it’s about me anyway)

Of course it’s about your tag silly girl :)

:3 teehee. Thanks sweetie, thought I should check before embarrassing myself! xo

(Source: sexysexnsuch)

Posted 19 hours ago

I could talk about the PE teacher in my town who was asked to resign due to his harassment of female students, who was then hired as a school bus driver for a rural route with both primary and high school students. I could talk about how, from the age of seven, I refused to wear skirts or dresses, and from the time I entered high school at 10 to when I moved at 16 I always wore bike shorts or CCC shorts under my dress, because he was not particularly subtle about the way he looked at us – and those bus steps are high. I could talk about how this was common knowledge and was never denied by any authority figure we ever raised it with, but rather we were just kind of brushed off. I could talk about how, sometimes, I was the last person on my bus in the afternoon and I was never quite sure if something bad would happen to me, even though for a long time I probably couldn’t have articulated what it was that I feared.

I could talk about how I spent ten years of my childhood believing it was perfectly normal and acceptable for a seven year old child to stop wearing her favourite clothes because a grown man she relies on to get to and from school from a relatively remote location gets a thrill from looking up her skirt.

I could talk about the art teacher at my high school who used to run his hands up and down our backs, right along the spot where your bra sits. Considering most of us were fairly new to wearing bras in the first place, this was a decidedly uncomfortable experience. I could talk about how he used to get just a little too close for comfort in the supply room. Nothing overt, nothing nameable – just enough to make you drag someone else along with you if you needed a fresh piece of paper or you ran out of ink. I could talk about how the odd comment or complaint that was made was completely handwaved, that we were told to be very careful about what we were saying, that we could get someone in a lot of trouble by “starting those kinds of rumours”, and did we really want to be responsible for that?

I could talk about the first time I was made to feel ashamed of my body, at twelve or thirteen, getting into a water fight with my stepfather and uncle in the height of summer. I could talk about my grandmother completely flipping out, talking about how disgusting it was, how grown men should be ashamed of the way they were behaving with a girl. I could talk about how she then spent the next few hours trying to convince me I was being somehow victimised, while I was mostly confused about what had taken place – it took me a long time to work it out. I could talk about the unvoiced but ever-present fear for months afterwards that my grandma would bring it up again, that she would bring it up in the wrong place or to the wrong people and that my uncle, a schoolteacher, would suffer for it.

I could talk about how that destroyed what had been a fantastic relationship with my uncle, and how, ten years later, he still won’t hug me at Christmas.

I could talk about being called a frigid bitch and a slut in the same breath in high school. I could talk about multiple instances of sitting in a big group of friends, hearing someone trying to get into someone else’s pants, starting off sweet enough but quickly descending into emotional manipulation and thinly veiled abuse. I could talk about the time I went off with someone willingly enough and being followed by someone I considered a friend, someone who would not leave no matter how many times I said “no”, who only went away when the person I was with said that he “didn’t feel like sharing”.

I could talk about the family friend who always made me feel a little bit off for no discernible reason. The one who if I was left alone in the room with him, I would always find an excuse to leave. The one time I expressed this, I was told I was being a drama queen, and that I needed to grow up and stop being so precious, that one day I was going to have to deal with people I didn’t like and I might as well get used to it. I could talk about how he never did anything untoward, never gave me any specific reason to feel unsafe – but years after I last saw him, when he was found guilty of four historical sexual assault charges, one of rape and three of indecent assault on girls under twelve, I was, for reasons I still don’t entirely understand, completely unsurprised.

I could talk about my boyfriend justifying his rape of me with “you could have fought me off if you really wanted you, you slut”. I could talk about how, when I tried to tell people, I was told I was being a nasty, spiteful, vindictive bitch. I could talk about how selfish it was of me to say such things, that he’d overcome such a hard life and was going to go on and make something of himself, who the hell was I to try and stand in his way?

I could talk about how my response to being raped was to sleep with anyone and everyone because I rationalised that if I never said no, then no one could force me. I could talk about how I have been told time and time again, by people who should know better, that this is a sign that I wasn’t really raped at all.

I could talk about how, when I finally worked up the courage to make a formal complaint of sexual harassment against my boss, I was asked why I had let it continue for so long, and what I had done to make him think his behaviour would be welcomed.

I could talk about how when a much later boss got me completely wasted at my leaving party, to the point where I couldn’t walk, and fucked me in a back alley, he waited until I was sober the next morning to tell me that he had a pregnant wife, because he heard through the grapevine that I was very strict about not sleeping with married people or straight women, and he thought I should “learn my place” and realise that I’m “not such a high and mighty bitch with a moral high ground after all”.

I could talk about these things, but I very rarely do. Since I was seven years old, I have been told that my body is not my own, that my consent is not my own, that my feelings of discomfort are not my own. I have taught myself to suppress my gut instinct upon meeting people. I have been taught to smile, to be polite, to suck it up if I feel unsafe. When I complain, I have been told I’m being irrational, oversensitive, and selfish. The underlying message is, how dare I try and ascertain any kind of control over my own body?

I should talk about it. But I don’t actually know whether I can.

An anonymous guest post on The Lady Garden. This is the reality for so many women. #YesAllWomen (via takealookatyourlife)

(Source: youtastelike-sunlight)

Posted 1 day ago