a girlfriend who boxes.

One night, out of nowhere, with my girlfriend, I told her I would fight for her.  At that time I was thinking about kicking the ass of any girl who tried to get a piece of my pie.  Now, however, I see things differently.

The other day at the grocery store, Girlfriend asked, “Why don’t you ever grab the elbow macaroni instead of shells or rigatoni or egg noodles?”  That kind of pasta reminds me of being poor, I told her.  That’s what you got in free lunch and what we had for dinner at least 3x a week.  And the conversation, other than the “Okay” she responded with, ended there.  This understanding and unquestioning and listening, this is where the “worth” in “worth fighting for” comes from.

I work in the sex industry.  Every one of my days is full of sex, and people who film sex, people who have sex on film.  Really, really cute people who have sex with other really really cute people, on film, happily.  If you haven’t guessed it yet, I’m a sexual creature.  And by that I mean: I love sex and I love having it and talking about it and watching it and helping other people love it as much as I do.  What happens when you’re a sexual creature put in a room with other cute, open, and flirty sexual creatures?  You find and strengthen your boundaries because they matter.  Because  the person that’s worth fighting for matters more than sitting on the faces of cute random girls who will let you.

The fight will never be (hopefully) against some chick in a bar.  The fight will be against my own fucking shit up.  The fight will be loving her if she accidentally fucks shit up, and loving myself if I do.  Emotional knuckles are bloodied only by the battles you wage with yourself.  And in the end? Scars look better than battles lost feel.  I trust her, and she trusts me. I love her, and I love fucking her, and I love that she’s the most sexually compatible partner I’ve ever had.  And I’m not going to fuck that up.  But not everything comes easy, and most things that come easy aren’t worth keeping.  The things worth fighting for are those like the gorgeous girl I will someday call my wife.  The cute girl, boy, and trans bodies that are oh so edible?  I’ve got my boxing gloves on, and I’m ready for you.

What would you fight for?

Find it.  And protect it.

jameson.

if you write it down you can’t forget…

august 12, 1993

(actual entry from a recently found diary)

Hey! Waz(up arrow)? My life has changed so much in the last three mos.! for one, I’m in Maine! Two, I have NO friends. And three, the boys in Maine like me! Ya see, no one here knows how nerdy I was in Las Vegas!
This year I hope I become popular!

My rules for 7th grade:
1. DO NOT weigh more than 110 pounds.
2. Keep clear face.
3. get a man.
4. no more stirrups!
5. Don’t be so shy.
6. keep nails painted.
7. eat healthy!
8. Have a Wonderful Year!

C-YA!
Jamie

a tiny wedding post.

As I buzzed about chapel in my ill-fitting bride’s maid dress, the older woman in the back row thought, “Is that one my granddaughter?”  She didn’t remember what I looked like, didn’ t know how I had aged.  My grandmother asked my brother’s girlfriend, “Are you Jamie?”.

Aunts and uncles whom I haven’t seen in ten years or more gave me hugs that ranged from full and warm to awkward and detached.  One uncle merely shook my hand, lightly.  I can’t tell if I scared him off with my girlfriend or if he scared me off with having found jesus.

“What are you doing now?” a few people asked.  More people didn’t, and this to me is delightful, and for this I must thank Facebook.  My entire and extended family, blood related and step and through marriage, are on Facebook.  Thus: being gay = no surprise.  Selling porn and talking about sex all day = not brought up. Only a few stragglers asked what I do for a living and those few got the answer of  “Oh, you know, wholesale stuff.”

I think I swore too much, and too much in front of the children.  I danced, ate pigs in a blanket, and had a bloody mary for breakfast.  I took black and white pictures, and was promised pictures of my mother from when I was a baby.  She died before I would be able to remember her.

White bread and American cheese made their way back onto the menu of my life, if only for a day, and fruit disappeared almost entirely.  We brought back homemade bran muffins from the aunt that bakes, and tasted her first run of low-fat cheesecakes.  There were surprises large and small, and there were subtle hints of how my childhood with these people helped shape who I have become.

Ten years ago, when I saw most of my family last, they were in different lives.  Some have made decisions that made me decide to write them out of my life entirely; could they tell I was erasing them as they spoke?

A lot happens in ten years.  the kids grow up, the adults re-marry, the houses are sold.  But still, all the years that build up a family are still there, pulling everyone into the same orbit.  Around what, I have no idea.  At one point, in whispers to my girlfriend before we went to sleep, I told her how a certain woman could never be the matriarch of this family.  But who could be?  Are there still heads of families, does that still happen?

And now I’m back in San Francisco, away from everyone, happy I saw them, but glad to be home.

to homes and families both given and created,

jameson.

remembering the words.

Found on my computer tonight, written to myself in August, 2005:

“pulled back into so easily the places my memories rest, waiting, like dogs tied to trees ears standing searching for signs of attention.”

Thinking, lately.  Remembering.

I started writing about sex when I started fucking girls, about ten years ago.  Nothing I wrote then ventured beyond the margins of my notebooks, as I tried to pay attention in class. “I want to run my fingers through more than the memory of your hair” and, I know I used words like soft and deep a lot but, I cannot remember more lines right now, bound in books at the top of my closet, they wait while I drink my tea.

My first girlfriend had long hair and I don’t think I ever really pulled it because that’s not what I was supposed to do, somehow.  When we broke up she was surprised and I was not, because I remembered her standing by the bed, naked, the day after her birthday, crying. “I just want you to want me! I want you to fuck me!”  I wrote to her with more feeling than I touched her.  My words were a better lay than my body.

The first time I slept with a butch girl I expected something I did not get.  A friend asked about it the next day, smiling, curious.  “I don’t know,” I said, “I just, I mean, I totally thought she’d be more aggressive.”  Later that year, a high soft femme with dark hair and red lips wouldn’t let me put my mouth where I wanted to, but she watched me dress in the morning, admiring my black boots and black lace bra. “I love that you’re so femme and so not,” she told me.

“I want you to bite through my wrists,” to the train wreck of a girl I let choke me for too long.

To the long ago girl friend with a girlfriend:

“and then what do we expect to gain from what we give.
(pouring myself into what i want to hold me
giving in wanting to be allowed
to give. knowing i’m being
received. fully).
worthy. worth holding and holding
onto.

pushed open from the inside.
fingers finding names that need
to be said and said
again chanting in my body
with the help of yours finding
forming the words within and
echoes vibrating against
all that others have left empty.”

At the bar she asked me if I wanted to go home with her.  First girlfriend, post breakup, time passed.  She’s still hot.  At first I said no, I should get home, it’s late.  Then I called her cell from my car and asked for directions to her apartment.  And in her room, I used what I had learned.  From the boys in high school: how to move my body against another, deep breaths and arching back and ass up curl hips down again.  From the patient girls when I was drunk: how to kiss, how to call a tongue into your mouth with a curl of your own, how slow hands show confidence.  From my mistakes: saying stop for fear of pleasure is counterproductive.  From my successes: relaxing muscles let more in.

At the end of the night, getting caught up in memories of what I’ve done, who I’ve been, and what I told myself (what I wrote to myself, wrote to all the Yous with names that were never written), I drift away, when in the shower, waiting for me, is the girl who is so deeply, truly, and fully worthy of now.

I filled this space so randomly tonight.  For that I apologize.

But only a little.

goodnight.

jameson.

spank the night away.

Last week I bought my first pair of Spanx .  Two weeks ago I purchased a dress that looked fantastic on me in the dressing room (at a store that understands the correlation between good dressing room lighting and actual sales), but the same dress in my home lighting looked more, um, bagel-stomach-y than it did in the store.  Bagel-stomach = when your belly button, and the fat surrounding it, are highlighted by the tightness of a garment, so that your belly resembles a doughy round with a hole in the middle. A bagel.

Quickly making my way to the Bras & Things area of Nordstrom’s, I found a sales lady and asked for help.  Now, being in sales myself, I know that “I need help” is code for “I’m giving you permission to sell me things. Please do so.”  This lingere woman didn’t seem to get that translation, and wandered me over to the Spanx section of the store, then looked at me like “Okay. We’re here. Now what?”

“Well, I bought a dress that clings to my belly too much, and I’d rather that area be smooth” and so my legs and my boobs will be the focus of attention.

“Okay.”

“Um. Okay. Well, I think I want one that doesn’t have the leg-things; I just want it for my stomach.” (You can get Spanx that cover every inch of your body, fyi)

“What do you have against the leg-things?”

What do I have against the leg things?  Hm. Against them. Like I harbor secret anger and bloody emotion against spandex on my thighs.

“Nothing. I just don’t have any problem with my legs.  They’re fine.”

“Even your outer thighs?”

And this is why I resisted the Spanx for so long.  I like my body, most of it.  I have great tits and crooked teeth and small hands and high cheekbones.  Small wrists, nice legs.  There are parts that could be stronger, firmer, smoother.  But my body is my body, and it looks how it looks.  I know in the uber feminist world, I should just accept the bagel-belly and strut out in the night, reclaiming sexiness for myself and my similarly stomached sisters.  But I didn’t want my stomach to steal the thunder of the dress, damnit.

I do believe that each person decides what matters and what does not, to a certain extent. Staying on top of the latest literary trends does not matter to me.  Recognizing porn stars and knowing what titles they’ve been in does.  Having manicured hands: nope.  Perfect red lipstic: yep. Accepting my body for what it is: very much.  Wanting to look pretty in my new dress: almost as much.

Does it have to be mutually exclusive?  Can I say “I love my body!” and at the same time “I’m gonna squish it up into this impossible to put on granny-panty so I look like I’m thinner than I really am!”  Am I cheating by creating the look of being fit without actually being in shape?

If so, what about all the people who are naturally thin, who do nothing whatsoever to keep their tiny-sized body in tact, and still get to enjoy all the benifits that come with having a small waist and trim stomach?  They didn’t have to put in the work.  Why do I?

It’s a messy fight between feminism and fashion, body-acceptance and figure flattering, creating a new view of sexy and inhabiting the sexy widely accepted.

Last week I gave in and bought the Spanx.  I squeezed my happy thighs and bagel belly into the “body shaper”, and let my body be shaped.  My reasoning: Not every day needs to be a battle.  Not every battle needs to be won right this second, and rocking my new dress does not automatically equal selling out.

Also?  It’s weird to fell all sexy and seductive and then realize that impromptu sex cannot happen in the outfit  you’re wearing because the underwear alone is gonna take you ten minutes to peel off.

And that, my dears, is all for now.

take care.

.jameson.

pbr & porn, in public.

Saturday night was the Speakeasy release party.  I put on a dress and teased up my hair.  Being more used to the awkwardness that comes from being tied to a desk all day than the sassiness that comes from an awesome outfit, I arrived through the front door and hung out at the back.

What is a Speakeasy release party, you ask? Speakeasy is a new porn (out Sep 28th, produced by Good Releasing) and the release party was at El Rio, a psuedo-dive-bar in San Francisco.

What this means: porn in a bar full of people who most likely didn’t know a porn was being shown in the back of the bar.

What this looked like: PBR-holding sweatshirted groups of friends wandering through a door which usually offers a live band on the other side.  Instead of musicians on a stage, hipsters found Lorelei Lee (or Jiz Lee, or Cyd, or Lorelei Lee, again) blasted on the screen on the wall, getting fucked.  And not just fucked: roughly fucked.  Spanking, slapping, biting, swearing. Hipsters enter room, glance at screen.  Brains explode. Eyes look at the door.

But wait! Leaving as soon as you come in would be so un-SF (we are the sex positive city, after all).  What to do?! Stand there, blocking the doorway for a few minutes. Obviously.  Then leave. Random couples stayed and about a third of those groped each other randomly, but the hipsters left as soon as it was cool to do so.

I drank gingerale and posted every minute on twitter.  My job: awesome.

For you:

How to be as un-awkward as possible when watching porn with strangers (if you don’t find doing so to be hot).

1. Focus on something other than the porn.  Intellectualize the set, the hair, the makeup, the logistics of everything.  “I wonder how they got permission to shoot in that bar”, “That eyeliner, I wonder if it’s MAC? How much do the makeup artists get paid on a porn? Do they ever re-apply the mascara so it can run more dramatically?” “How much rope did they use in this scene, and where did they buy it from?”

2. Imagine what the porn stars would look like if they were dressed as whichever movie star comes to mind.  Belladonna as Julia Roberts.  Jenna Jameson as Jeanine Garafolo.  Jiz Lee as Meg Ryan.  Make it work, figure out how it possibly could.  Or think of how the pornstar looks in real life.  With glasses, a wool sweater, less makeup, maybe reading The Onion. The trick is to distract your responses from your body to your brain. Think instead of feel, but still pay attention (looking around the room makes you look like the creepy kid who’s checking everyone out while they’re watching the porn. Not good).

3. If at all possible, be the one who picks the porn.  Some of the best public-viewing titles are the older movies, like Outlaw Ladies or Alice in Wonderland.  The scenes are shorter, the bodies are more natural, the sets are funny.  Sometimes there’s music.  In other words, there’s a bunch to think about and notice and comment on and be distracted by.  There’s more than fucking, so you can keep the hard on off.

Now, my advice is given assuming you are a normal ol’ person who hasn’t seen a million porn movies, and might still have “reactions” to porn that are almost beyond your control.  I know there are plenty of people out there who, like myself, watch lots of porn for work and/or pleasure, and have no issues whatsoever looking all ho-hum when there are a bunch of strangers in the room, watching with you.

Back to talking about porn and writing about porn and selling the porn, at work, with lots of people in the room.

jameson.

sexy shoes and dying plants.

Last night I wore heels while I brushed my teeth.  Not just any heels, my Betsey Johnson heels.  I read somewhere that in deciding whether or not to buy a pair of shoes, you should divide how much they cost by the number of times you think you’ll wear them.  I bought the Betsey Johnson shoes almost a year ago.  Last night’s teeth-brushing date cost me a little over $50.

Yesterday I wrote out a list of questions for a porn starlet I’m interviewing for GV’s online magazine.  This afternoon I started thinking about how few people have seen my body, and how many people have seen hers.  And then I remembered this blog, and stopped walking in the middle of the hallway. Stopped cold.  Within the past three years (or so), I’ve lifted the skirt of my life, pulled back the curtains to my bedroom and my heart.  My body is clothed and wrapped up in some sort of modesty, but still, in ways, I’m naked on the internet.  The woman I’m interviewing is also a writer, a good one.  She bares her body and her words, and I wonder where she feels the most exposed.  Maybe opening everything lets more in.

And when I went to my reunion last month, like I said I would, I was happy.  Twice this year I’ve returned to somewhere I started.  I’m back selling sex toys, and sex videos, and talking about sex and making jokes that only sex people will laugh at (deciding what to name a paddle today, a coworker suggested “Spank the Night Away”; I commented how that name should be reserved for the next version of the Tenga to come out.  We thought it was hilarious.  Perhaps most people would not).  I feel like I’m at home in myself again.  Flying into New England, I was nervous, scared.  Then I saw Dunkin’ Donuts, and remembered eating a whole bagel in five minutes before lacrosse practice on free bagel day.  And I remembered crying on the floor of a friend’s house, crying on the couch in my own, making trails in the leaves behind our yard, having sex in a tent on the side of a road.  Maine holds stories more than I do; staring out the window I wondered how many I had left there, and noticed how good it felt to gather them as they gently welcomed me back.

There’s a plant in my bathroom that’s been dying for the last year.  Every morning I try to remember to remind myself to water it.  And every night I forget.  And now, at the end of this post, the most perfect full circle would be to say that as I brushed my teeth last night in my fancy sexy heels, I shared a little water with the plant.  But that’s not what happened.  I brushed in front of the mirror, yoga pants pulled up past my knees so I could flex my calves.  I caught a glimpse of the brown leaves in the pot behind me, and tensed my shoulders for a second with guilt. How hard is it to water a fucking plant?  And then I relaxed.  In time I’ll be good at these daily pieces of responsibility.  Some day I’ll find a picture of this apartment and remember how young I was, and how many stories I lived between now and then.  Until that day, though, I will write about things only my girlfriend should know, and trust that not everywhere I’ve left needs to stay abandoned.

Here’s to the fancy shoes costing only $25 the next time they’re on my feet,

jameson.

american dream music.

I woke up wondering why Carol Queen interrupted the threesome I was about to join, the two ready and waiting bodies being Madonna and the boy my brain shaped up to be her much younger lover. They were calling to me and Carol was in the red white and blue latex outfit she wore to the Erotic Exotic Ball when I worked the booth with her for GV, years ago (I went to bed last night after having looked at the pictures buried in my computer of that event, and others).
“Jameson,” she said, top hat moving to the side as her head tilted with the question, “why are you doing this? Is this what you really want? Look at me, not at them,” as my gaze drifted to Madonna giving head to her well hung and dark haired man. “You need to think about what you’re doing. Don’t lose sight of what you really want, of what matters.” She looked concerned. Her funky Carol Queen glasses caught the light in their rhinestones and threw it in jumps and jolts across the room.
I woke up excited, then woke up further, confused. Remembered a piece I had forgotten about grabbing some woman’s hips as she straddled mine. Got excited again, then confused more. Madonna? And Carol Queen? In the same dream?
I think the guy was paid to be there, I remember, and there may have been two of them.

And what it means, to me; my guess:
Parts of my life feel like selling out, giving up on what I want to do and where I want to be for what I’m doing well and what I could continue to do well. I create a dichotomy, quickly, in my head, of corporate world vs. sex world, and in that contrast the sex world is where I belong and the corporate world is where I am.
But that dichotomy, like all dichotomies, holds little truth. Madonna –to me– is as grossly corporate sex as you could get, like ten marketing and PR people at the top of their game meet once a week and decide what her next move will be to keep her reign supreme. And Carol Queen, dear sweet idolized-by-yours-truly-for-years, Carol Queen is as uncorporate sex as you could get. Both are technically a part of the sex world, but are so different from each other.
The sex world is big and wide, and I don’t fit well in some parts of that world, just as I don’t fit entirely in the corporate segment I’m in now. Perhaps the corporate world deserves room for variance. Perhaps there is an in between that would let me do what makes me happy and push further what I’m already doing well. Maybe I don’t need to sell out the part of myself that’s good at being smart-business-pants the same way that I’ve sold out bits and pieces of being smart-sex-pants.
Lessons for me: recover what I’ve lost, relearn what I’ve forgotten, remember what’s important. Write, love, read, cook, fuck. Don’t be afraid to succeed, don’t be afraid to let go of successes I might not want.
Lessons for everyone: Remember what makes you happy. Love, read, feed yourself what nourishes you most. Don’t have a threesome with Madonna. Remember your dreams.

have sweet ones tonight,
jameson.

that girl, with the long hair.

My ten year high school reunion is this summer. I hate that I’m excited about it, nervous about it, already regretting the drunk sentences that I know will fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. “You always got more attention than you deserved, but that’s okay now because it’s obvious you’re not getting it anymore.” “I never understood why you didn’t like me.” “I always thought you were a bitch and knew that someday that bitchiness would catch up to you. I’m glad it finally has.” “I have missed you so much.”

I know I’ll end up talking more about what I’ve done than what I’m doing now. “For three and a half years I sold sex toys and porn and helped people feel okay feeling dirty,” instead of “I take dealer calls and manage an order file for a messenger bag company.” To my former classmates, I will look just like I did (plus about 25 pounds) when we spent every day together in the Middle Of Nowhere, Maine. They won’t know that for a minute I had really short blond hair, or that I went through a long black skirt phase in college. They won’t know that I have long hair now because I stopped being afraid of not looking gay enough, of not being visible. I grew it out with the knowledge that the long hair might make me invisible to those I want most to notice me. High school classmates won’t know this, and if they did know, they might not understand or care. They will just see that I have long hair now, just like I did then.

And I will see their children and their spouses, and I will not know the details that make their normal hetero lives not so normal, and maybe not so hetero. I will not know who got married against the wishes of their parents, who is currently cheating on their partner, who has a kid they don’t understand in the slightest and don’t know why. I will not know what has happened in their lives from then til now, and they will not know what has happened in mine.

And I will remember that I didn’t really know any of them that well back in high school. Who knew or cared that I didn’t eat much if at all my junior year, or that my parents forgot to pick me up after every lacrosse game, or that I had an abortion halfway through my senior year? These experiences affected my life more than fourth period study hall or the party at Sam’s cabin. What happened to you, then? What did I miss while I was trying not to hate my body, trying to love my family, and trying to feel something, anything, about going from pregnant to not pregnant in ten minutes on an exam table?

So why then do I want to go and see again people that knew as little about me as I knew about them, people who have lived as much as I have in the ten years since we’ve been in the same room, and who will know just as little about where to start their stories? Why am I going to spend money to fly out and rent a car and most likely a hotel room?

Maybe because there was a point in time when these people mattered to me. I wanted to be liked and to be listened to. We all did. We all still do. Maybe I feel lost as to what I am doing now, in my life now, and remembering who I was then will help me remember parts of myself I may have forgotten. Maybe I just want context for my memories; to see the places and people that I know exist only because there are still pictures of them in my head. I want to validate my own history to myself.

Why ever I go, and how ever I get there, I will be there nonetheless.

Here’s to the potential awkwardness and laughter,

jameson.

with confidence.

When I worked at Good Vibes, I sat in on an after hours class taught by Midori. The class was called something like Fierce Femmes or Tapping into Female Sexuality or something like that, with the basic aim of teaching women how to be more confident in their sexuality, specifically in their topping-ness (I use the big words, I know).

I won’t detail all that Midori discussed –you should take any class she offers, she’s amazing, and tiny, and powerful– but I do want to share one lesson I got from that after hours class that has proved quite useful. At one point in the night, Midori had us write down our favorite female characters, from movies and books and songs and real life. She wanted us to list the women we thought were strong. Needless to say, most people in the room had vastly different versions of what female strength was, and thus had quite different lists. Mine included Scarlett O’Hara and the mean cloud girl in Rainbow Brite. Other participants had politicians, and their mothers, or Angelina Jolie. After reading our lists aloud, Midori asked us to think about what connected the women on our individual lists, and for us to use the women we chose as our examples of power and female sexuality. Instead of needing to be the porn star or the movie star, practice embodying the traits you already connected with fierce femininity.

I liked this exercise because it basically validated the tiny mean streak I have, and helped me let go of a value system that didn’t do what I needed it to. The whole “coy = sexy” thing doesn’t work for me. I’m sure it works for some people, but I feel fake when I’m not being direct. And I don’t feel sexy when I feel fake. As much as Scarlett used her coyness to dance around an issue, when push came to shove, she stood up and pushed back. Yes, I can do that.

And, in the spirit of topping-ness (don’t you love just slapping suffixes onto words whenever you feel like it?), a friend recently brought up the question of how to look like you know what you’re doing when you’re really nervous and might not really know what you’re doing. This is such a great question because it applies to everyone, not just little tops or big ‘ol bottoms. Most people have a nervous phase of sex. Whether that’s when they’re just starting, or just starting something new, or just starting someone new. Or even doing something they’ve done a million times before, but in a different way or with a different person. Nervous is natural.

So how to be un-nervous (prefixes, suffixes, I use what I want). The easy answer is to read about what you want to do. Some activities require actual prep and research (many things that fall under the BDSM umbrella), and some activities have books with tips and tricks and maps (Ultimate Guide to Fill In The Blanks by Violet Blue). But in addition to reading, you could also practice by yourself. And by this I mean:

Be hella sexy while you’re at home alone. Seduce yourself in the mirror. Know what your face looks like, and fucking love it. Wear your fuck me heels doing the dishes. Practice your lines in the shower. “When I say bend over, I mean bend over, now.” If you want to sound like you mean it, you have to mean it, which means taking any nervousness out of the sentence. Words are words and can be practiced all the time. Driving to work. “If I let you suck me off, what will you do for me?”

More than words:

Checking in during sex can be really boring and mood killing. Unless it’s not. There are a million different ways to say “does this feel good” without saying “does this feel good, cause I’m not sure if I’m doing it right and I’m really nervous and what if you’re afraid to tell me cause you know I’m nervous and shit that makes me even more nervous cause now I have to pretend to be cool. Fuck.” If you’ve practiced being sexy, and you own your sexy badass self, then you can say things like “I want you to move my hand to make you come. Then I want you to fuck me.” Or ” If you don’t say yes, please, when this feels good, I will stop, and I will pleasure myself. And you will not be allowed to watch.” Or “Our goal tonight is to get you as wet as possible.”

Personally, I think watching your partner masturbate is a) hot, and b) a great way to learn how they get off. If they’re nervous and can’t handle watching you watch them, you could hide in the closet (this would be rad) and they would feel like they were alone and would know that they weren’t, and there could be this whole “someone’s in the house” fantasy thing goin’ on, and you could feel all pervy and peeping tom and be totally diddling yourself and….I love this game. Sex is fun.

And yes, the answer always begins with “talk to your partner”. But after the talk? Own being hot. Sex mistakes are less noticed when they’re made by someone fucking sexy fucking you. I know this isn’t a complete answer to “how to be sexy and know what to do”, but it’s a start.

It’s raining now, and I’m gonna nap,

jameson.