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Prompt, we were both former to find new person for the very memoirs of our totally messy Drink. Yet this meaningful is something archetypically insoluble, the damp darkness of the review. The junior of my appreciation computer was peppered with our enjoyable encounters and continuing — at times radioactive — adventures.
Without thinking I took off everything.
Went to speech on table with boys, got naked and had big ass, and still tipped about it all. The funds I nett from this relationship were crying. The vouch from potentially being made was also something I concluded; there's just something so unlovable about being grinned red headed.
As soon as the underwear came off I knew I had made a big mistake. Every guy at once was commenting on my butt, my boobs, etc. Drujk I started to call everyone else a chicken. So after a little bit, we were all completely naked and drunk in the cottage. It was the most embarrassing moment for me, but it was also really surreal. Then we all ran out of the cottage and onto the beach, skinny dipping in the ocean. Rachel taking pictures and videos the entire time we were out there.
Everyone stayed naked and we sat around on the floor in a big circle. Everyone was sharing sex stories, and telling really personal details. Rachel and I even measured all their dicks to see who was the biggest. One of the guys shouted out that he was horny, kind of in a joking, but half-serious manner. I got really nervous by that point, because I knew something was probably going to happen. Then another one said we should have some fun. There were six guys and only us two girls. A few more words were exchanged and the next thing I know Rachel is jerking off two of our guy friends at once, while a third is starting to finger her. Guys this is so weird! Than I felt a finger slip right inside me.
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I let out an uncontrollable moan, and all the guys stopped and just watched me. Three other guys came over, and now I had four of my friends squeezing, touching, and fingering me. One of them put me on my stomach and everyone started to grab my butt. Then I was lifted just a little bit, so I was bent over on my knees, legs spread apart. I felt so many fingers inside me from behind I was moaning and panting so much. I heard one of the guys say he could see my tiny asshole, and I went back to panicking. I destroyed my housemate's bouquet of flowers, which they weren't too happy about. I used them to shower myself in petals, which felt and smelt really great.
I never told my housemate's what their flowers were used for. What a liberating and subversive experience, I want to do it all again. I'm in a spunky and sassy mood, blasting Erykah Badu and feeling untouchable.
Today I am the ex wife you can't Drunk college nudes thinking about. I've reinvented myself and moved on to bigger and better things. After taking a few pics I feel collegd more connected with my divine temple Druk a body. This is my definition of the exquisite female form! It's the one place in the world where we should feel comfortable to Druhk ourselves however we please, without the ever-criticizing eye of society pressing down on our every move. Surprisingly enough, nature can also give us this privilege. Before this shoot I had never been naked Drknk before, and it was very primal and intimate. I sensed a connection with the plants nues me, and I colldge really dollege the shy stillness of the college quietly embrace me.
I've recently undergone a lot of personal change and growth, from leaving my parent's home, to finally coming out as a lesbian, and deciding to fully commit to a plant based diet. All these choices and changes have come from me truly listening to my own heart and not just going for the most cold and calculated analysis of every situation. The smoke comes out of Daddy's cigarette, but it never goes back in. We cannot go back. That's why it's hard to choose. You have to make the right choice. Ronald Grant Archive This piece is part of our Formative Years serieswhere writers reflect on their college experience.
Like so many wide-eyed college kids before me, I had a crush on my professor. I slept with him, repeatedly, over the course of several years. It all began 10 years this week. I was 17, and he At first it was innocent enough. I bummed a smoke off him at morning lecture break. We chatted about the Epic of Gilgamesh, or something similarly innocuous and liberal-artsy. He wore Ray-Bans before they made a comeback, plaid before it became a hipster trend, and he had a nervous, charming, rambling beatnik-meets-Tom Waits aura about him like he was on the verge of either mental collapse or genius. We drank, we smoked pot, we drank some more.
All of a sudden it was just him and me left on his scratchy tartan couch. Surrounded by empty bottles of red wine and smoky stacks of collected rare books, you can imagine what happened next. The rest of my undergrad experience was peppered with our sexual encounters and spirited — at times dangerous — adventures.