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Hallowe'en Dreams by N. Allen Goodreads Author liked it 3.
Foreign Body - The Novel by N. Sexual Exorcist by N. Claimed by the Cricket Team by N. Allen Goodreads Author it was ok 2. Under Her Thumb by N. Allen Goodreads Author 0. Foreign Affairs gender swap by N. Inside My Daughter 2: The Other Side by N. Contaning Geriatric Jollies by N. Why is our generation so unhappy? The standard of leadership has really dropped.
Our society is morally decaying, our kids will have very little to enjoy from communal life. We know it's not getting better. Funny, Scooby Doo, and Shaggy: Frozen, Funny, and Internet: My mind is like an internet browser. Being Alone, Christmas, and Home Alone: Pussy, Relationships, and Texting: Funny, Memes, and Wine: Me when a co-worker asks why l brought a bottle of wine with me to work HA tool that will help us later lt's a surprise tool that willhelp us later. Memes, How, and Gender: Memes, Classical Art, and Art: Memes, Mute, and Mean: Why didn't he just mute the video?
Jokes, Wholesome, and Asks: When your depressed friend asks you why you still making wholesome jokes trying to cheer him up Its my duty, sir. Cute, Girls, and Memes: Batman, Today, and Artist: Dave Barnes and Buster Noble.
Funny, Friend, and Why: Blackpeopletwitter, Instagram, and Iphone: Bruh, Instagram, and Iphone: Fake, Funny, and Boredom: Bad, Bad Jokes, and Doctor: Do you want the good news first, or the bad news? That night was one that ruined me. The one snippet I do remember because in trauma, your body seems to like to snap out of its delirious black-outedness and show you, consciously, what you are going through. Where my skin was cold, and I realized my voice wavered as I said: Maybe it was a way the universe was protecting me because my mind took me right back into my blackout. The last thing I do remember was putting my clothes on and running out of the apartment crying.
I was told I was a mess by a friend I saw later. I was told I gave the whole scene situation of what I just ran from.
I was told I said more about my other conquests, and how fucked up they were. I woke up in my own bed the next day. I learned to pretend it never happened. Like so many girls who I swapped hook up stories with in college, I realized mine was no different from others.
The Rich Bitch Switch Hitch (gender swap) - Kindle edition by N.L. Allen. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. The Rich Bitch Switch Hitch (gender swap) eBook: N.L. Allen: www.farmersmarketmusic.com: Kindle Store.
It was just a bad night, they said. He sold drugs, I think. No matter if he is jailed. No matter if he is dead. I only realized years later what had happened to me was clear and perpetuated assault. If I had been sober or even just a little drunk, I would never have said yes. Not in a million years.
I would have felt the pain in my vagina and heart afterward as my body broke and collapsed in on itself. Like a catalyst of pain built from believing their hands were meant to use me. Like I was something nice to look at, something nice to touch, but nothing more.
Subconsciously, my past sexual experiences had taught me that I was to be used, both emotionally and physically. I only learned to enjoy my own orgasms because my boyfriend insisted. Because he made my body feel not like an object, but something that was mine. That was the first unraveling of my skin being what I owned. My body being what I owned. I could rule the whole sexual experience and not be ashamed of it. I could walk up and out of a room if I were uncomfortable.
It took me years to realize my worth because from my first kiss to my first time having sex, I was taught that my body was used. Who rubbed my back when I was sick, or kissed my cheek and whispered in my ear that I was beautiful. And when I turned to look in his eyes, he was smiling, because he meant it.
Your hands are not entitled to my body when I kiss you. Your words are not meant to manipulate me into taking my clothes off. Your intoxication is not an apology for being too greedy. I hated myself for such a long time. Because it makes my body shake in some post-traumatic terror. I have grown out of it now. But know I will never forget what pain it caused me.
Know I will never be the same after having my innocence and naivety stripped in heinous ways. This letter is to the boys who love or have loved me, because as soon as I began to explain that I was in the statistic of 1 in 5 women are sexually assaulted in their life, their jaws slackened and I explained sharply that while they are afraid of being accused, I will be afraid my whole life of how I was taken severe advantage of.
I want you to know boys and men, that I will not be silenced or oppressed after this. The trauma will hurt until the day I die, but I decided I will not let it define me, nor will I let my sisters live passing that they are worthless to their own bodies too, as I believed for a long time. For the rest of my life, I will keep a guard up as I get on a train, bus, uber, or simply walking down the street.
As long as you are there, you are available to them. Women are sexually assaulted every hour of every day, and this letter is to show you that while we can stand up for ourselves, it would be a lot fucking easier if you stopped being so ashamed of thinking you sexually assaulted, and instead fought against it.
You fight for us; for your mothers, your sisters, your friends, your daughters.
I found that if I fight and believe in something that is right, with every bit of my being, I am not prone to going against it. Thank you for listening to my story. It is a hard one to tell, but it made me realize that I am not alone, nor am I damaged or worthless. I will hold my chin high to the world as I continue to tell it, so a girl who finds themselves in the same situations as me can stop them before they happen.
So that men who take advantage of our skin and bodies and hearts learn that their time is fucking up. Travel is a big one. Save up money, jump to a country, walk around for one week, lose said money, go back to home country, then work again. My thoughts are all over the place. They come and go so fast, it is like sprinting a one-hundred meter race, but like, not even on the track court. You started at the track court. Or to stop pawning after the absurd reality that we live in. But this world is certainly not for me.
Then, by all means, take your morning cappuccino and go for it girl. As simple as that. You get giddy over painting? You weep over food and lose all sense of self when you cook it? Seriously, go for it. The biggest thing for me is that your dreams do not have to be treated as a career or what you spend your entire life doing. They mold and develop, or change completely, over time, and that is in correlation with your personal growth.
As long as you feel, like most of the time, you are doing great, sweetie. I am going to tackle you to the ground and make you mine. With every breath, every beat of my heart, every vibration in my soul. Because the very thing, a little hope, that I hang on to is the fact that our dreams are not at all coincidental.
I have a privilege under my feet and a chance in life to go after the things that make my heart hammer brightly and boldly against my chest. Not a lot of people have this opportunity, and I think it is not something to be hated for. We are all dealt different hands in life. It is what you choose to make of it that morphs you into the person you are today.
A time to find the very things that set our world into an explosion of color, starlight, fire, and dreams. Tired of watching other girls on social media and thinking that their lives reflect what mine should eventually be. I have been falling down the hole of influence too often, and I barely have my hand on the grip of the edge.
Dirt digs into my fingernails and a whispers carry around my ears, telling me of security and safety and acceptance through appearance and clothes and people-pleasing with pretty emojis.
A shadow wraps around my ankle and I lose my grip for a second. I scroll through the explore page on instagram. I click on a picture.