Wow, WOW. Did you just really use a copypasta to respond to me? Instead of giving a proper response or ending the conversation like a sane person, you just use a copypasta and think you're a smartass? Guess what, i'm the one who is smart and you are the one who is an ass; because you just think copy and pasting something will get you to be in 1st place. Fucking speak to people properly instead of using one of those shitty lines of text.
(▀̿Ĺ̯├┬┴┬┴ Psst... kid, you wanna disable adblock?
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I answer all of qt's questions he is asking himself
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my mom always asks me who I am skyping with, cause I answer all of qt's questions he is asking himself, am I weird?
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imaqtpie
Beavis
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Okay, listen up mods. I’m done with your oppressiveness
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Okay, listen up mods. I’m done with your oppressiveness. I try day in and day out to spam dank copy-pasta in chat and what do I get in return? Just the same old, 10 minute time out from you fun-suckers. Chat is filled with just meaningful dialogue and constructive feedback. I’m done. I’m out. And I swear to god, don’t even think about deleting this message.
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It's not gay with socks on
When I was 13 years old a buddy of mine tried to convince me to fool around. I wasn't into it, and he told me it's not gay if you're wearing socks. I didn't believe him, went home, and asked my dad.
That's 'gentleman's gay', hardly gay at all. Don't see it much these days.
The 50s were a different time. What were we to do? We were typical boarding school boys, rich with vigor, skin slick with drying sweat and gritty earth from a game of pigskin.
At night our young, virile bodies filled the dorm with sweet-musky vapors, like game-meat stewed with apple and peppercorn. You'd awake in darkness to the hushed, melodic rhythm of two pairs of white tube socks, barely visible in moonlight, bouncing on the hardwood floor.
The deep bond of male friendship played like a thousand different human instruments. The wet claps of skin on skin, the gentle thud of heads on backboards, frenzied cries in the throes of climax. Wilbur, so fat and soft like tapioca pudding. His breasts were so like the real thing, what we fantasized of our future wives. Unwilling, defenseless Wilbur, so slow and uncoordinated in the dark. 10 of us would glaze his bare, pink flesh like a giant raspberry danish. He once had the audacity to tell Headmaster Redford. But Redford was a Deerfield boy once, he understood. So he joined us on our midnight hog hunts.
Through college and years after we'd find time here and there, away from the wives at a family lake house. But it's been decades now - the times have certainly changed. If you wanted to do something private with another man, in your socks, it wasn’t ‘gay’. It was just two men, celebrating each other's strength.