I wish women knew how often other women were thinking nice things about them. I wish women knew that the catty girl trope is a lie. I wish women knew how much they’re loved by other women.
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Anonymous asked:
Do you believe women can be intimidating to men. If so, how would you describe an intimidating woman?
greyknighterotica answered:
I believe men are so frequently intimidated by women that women can’t even see it when it’s happening in the majority of cases. Just, all the time.
Women intimidate men by being smart, successful, funny, interesting, having done more, having been more places. The list goes on and on and on.
Basically unless you’re a “barefoot in the kitchen” woman, you’re going to intimidate a whole lot of men, and every bit of experience, accomplishment and, dare I say it, soul you accrue over time will only increase the amount of men put off.
Which is your job. You be you, and you naturally keep erecting that fore field until only a decent enough hombre can walk through it. Make it a litmus test of “man enough to date me.”
Oh, what a wonderful perspective. What an amazing perspective. And it goes both ways, you know?
“Women are also rejected. Women also spend their teen years pining after dreamy boys who will never love them back. You don’t see us going around murdering people over it. You don’t see us setting up internet communities for the purpose of talking about how evil and shallow men are for not taking us to pound town. Women don’t go around killing men who don’t like them, because if you’re a woman in this society, a boy not liking you is the least of your problems. It is nowhere near the shittiest thing you’re going to be expected to “just deal with” in your life — one of those things being the fact that we are expected to “just deal with” how men are sometimes going to murder a bunch of people because they felt entitled to romantic attention from women. We are expected to “deal with” that, while never bringing up the terms “male privilege” or “male entitlement” or “toxic masculinity” and why those things so often lead to mass murder, on account of how that might really hurt the feelings of the men who have been gracious enough to not go on killing sprees.”
— That Is Not What ‘Lovesick’ Is | Wonkette (via holyfiiire)
YES.
your audios really speak to me on a deeper level, sex aside I find some of your words particularly relating to DDLG almost healing because I crave them so bad. I know its only fantasy but thank you for being in tune with so many women- usually such words are only found in erotica created by women for other women.
That really is the highest praise I’ve gotten in some time.
I believe that there is a place for M4F erotica. It’s…been a wild ride trying to find it.
Fill your life with women that empower you, that help you believe in your magic and aid them to believe in their own exceptional power and their incredible magic too. Women that believe in each other can survive anything. Women who believe in each other create armies that will win kingdoms and wars.
Nikita Gill
@thespianmickey @wenchofthescullery @highwaydiamonds @poppyloveslove @thingsthatmakemegoooohhh @laura–af @sweetwildgirl @sphinxsmiles and all the others who’s Tumblr names I can’t remember.
SO much love. :)
Anonymous asked:
Honestly, just realised pathetic guys who believe being "alpha" is being an asshole and disrespects women and use words like "beta" and "cuck" as insults need to sit the fuck down and take notes from you. You are what the true definition of alpha is. Women adore you, you make us cum and you respect women and you're not some red-pill creep unlike them. Fuck you're good ❤️
greyknighterotica answered:
But I’m not. I agree that I have what “alphas” want, but I don’t exhibit that/those behaviors. The only way I “size someone up” is if I feel that they are…escalating? Besides that I mostly–and I know this is a bit cold of me–don’t care? People are people and they won’t remember me if I don’t remember them by and large so be polite, direct and honest and you’ll do just fine by at least 95% of them I’ve found.
So I’m kinda the opposite. I don’t believe in pecking orders or winners or losers and if you really pin me down? I don’t even believe in races, just skin tones on one spectrum. On story moving forward. All parts of it working together, with or against one another.
And when you think of it like that it’s really hard to take pride that you’re the biggest, baddest man in the room.
Your enemies aren’t in the room. They’re not outside of it, either.
They’re within. Where they always were waiting for you.
Shit, Jack. Why dontcha just lay it all out in one post there, like a tap from Mjölnir.
Truth.
Between the sloe gin fizz and fast women
I’m stuck in a place my momma’s King James calls sinning
But it feels so good where I’m sitting
Between the sloe gin fizz and fast women
-Kip Moore - Fast women
This Vote Is Legally Binding
In response to all those articles about talking to women with headphones…
Someone always says it, whenever it comes up:
“I guess I’m just not allowed to talk to anyone any more!”
Well.
Yes.
It is my duty to inform you that we took a vote
all us women
and determined that you are not allowed to talk to anyone
ever again.
This vote is legally binding.
Yes, of course, all women know each other,
the way you always suspected.
(Incidentally, so do Canadians. I’m just throwing that out there.)
We went into the women’s room at the Applebee’s at the corner of 54
and all the others streamed in through the doors
into that endless liminal space,
a chain of humans stretching backward
heavy skulled Neanderthal women laughing with New York socialites,
Lucille Ball hand in hand with the Taung child.
We sat around in the couches in the women’s room
(I know you’ve always been suspicious of those couches)
and chatted with each other in the secret female language
that you always knew existed.
Somebody set up a console–
the Empress Wu is ruthless at Mario Kart
and Cleopatra never learned to lose
and a woman who ruled an empire that fell
when the Sea People came
and left no trace
can use the blue shell like a surgical instrument.
Eventually we took the vote.
You had three defenders:
your grandmother and your first-grade teacher
and an Albanian nun who believes the best of everybody.
Your mom abstained.
It was duly recorded in the secret notebooks
that have been kept under the couch in the Applebee’s
since the beginning of recorded time.
And then we went back to playing Mario Kart
and Hoelun took off her bra
and we didn’t think about you again
except that I had to carry this message.
So anyway
good luck with that
it’s just as you always said it was.
Hush now,
no talking
hush.
You know that article about “How to talk to a woman wearing headphones?” Yeah, that one that’s making the rounds. Well, do I have an update for you.
Anonymous asked:
I just wanted to ask what your opinion on height is. I'm around 4'9" and sometimes it makes me feel kind of inferior to tall women.
greyknighterotica answered:
I’m going to tell you a little secret.
The whole “I have no idea what women are thinking and don’t pretend to” thing? It’s not an act. One of the best parts about me is I really, truly think everyone is the hero of their own story, or at least they think so. That means that everyone is, in their own minds at least time to time, the only person worth a damn in a world gone mad. Right? Because that’s the only way you can tell that story. Is if you’re fine and everyone else is nuts.
Hold on with me for a second, I know this is a bit dense.
So it seems to me that IF everyone is the hero of their own story that the other details don’t matter as much. Oh they matter a lot, of course, what kind of genital you’re rocking, if you are considered a “good” or “bad” type depending on where you are in the world. Money might matter too, I don’t know, just throwing that out there. But none of it matters as much as the fact that everyone is out there saying “it’s me versus all the rest of you” at least sometimes. At least once in awhile.
The weirdest thing is HOW someone says they are the hero of the story. Most people don’t simply have fanfare on a loop that says “I am so amazing, I am so great.” In fact, a lot of people are heroic in the opposite way. “Look at what TRASH I am. I sat around ALL DAY. I’m worse than HITLER.” Sound familiar? I think it does.
It’s self-aggrandizement. We’re all guilty of it, to some degree. Some of us (like myself) more so than others, but it’s a very human thing.
Why am I taking this long route here? Well, buckle up.
If I died tomorrow, would care that I wasn’t Brad Pitt handsome? What line do you think that would get in my obit? Do you think it would be in my eulogy (and, if so, don’t you think it would be a kind-hearted joke meant to break tension instead of a swipe or observation?). Can’t you read it now, just see the words?
The Grey Knight found dead at 35 today. He leaves us too soon, but said while he was living that we should get on with that business instead of feeling sad he was gone–and also try a little bit harder to be kind while we were at it.
Also he was an uggo.
Doesn’t seem likely, does it? Almost comical in fact.
But since so many of clutch your pearls at that line of thinking (as though I wish I were Brad Pitt handsome) let me try it another way.
The Grey Knight found dead at 35 today. He is remembered by his small but adamant fandom which has pledged to make the world a kinder place.
Also his feet were very weirdly shaped.
Or.
The Grey Knight died today after having too much sex with his fans. Ironically “My Heart Must Go On” was playing in the orgy room as his gave out. In lieu of flowers, he’s asked that everyone go sky diving instead because that would be way cooler.
Also he didn’t dress particularly well.
Is it starting to seem silly yet? Is the cosmic sense? In the grand sense? But even more importantly, in that hero narrative you tell yourself day-in-and-day-out sense?
Some guys are going to reject you because you are short. Some people are going to infantilize you because you’re small. There will be cutting remarks.
But the only way it matters, truly matters, is if you think it matters. If you tell yourself, while you are busy being the ONLY person in the line who would rather not be there and has something better to do–how much it matters.
So you tell me.
What is your opinion of the height of a 4′9 girl who isn’t you, but is quite nice, and likes baking, and has a kind word for everyone. Or a 4′9 girl who isn’t you but is currently being shit on by her surgical peers in her second year of Residency? Or the countless other 4′9 girls who aren’t you. Who you’d like just fine even if you didn’t have your height in common.
You tell me.
What is YOUR opinion of a girl who’s 4′9? Or 6′2? Or stunningly pretty? Or very plain? Or asexual? Or desperately lonely?
What would you say to all these heroes in their own minds?
I’m not waiting for an answer. I’m waiting for you to tell it to yourself. Because nobody can tell it to you, not in a way that’s worthwhile.
That goes for the rest of you knuckleheads, too.
Goddamn it, yes.
Real, true humility, the kind that puts ego aside in another room and lets you do the work and play you were meant to do, unimpeded – that isn’t a matter of saying how bad you are. Cutting yourself down still puts “you” at the center.
Humility is about being unflinchingly honest about your own strengths, weaknesses, goals, needs and desires. It’s about seeing yourself without the filters of ego (up or down, dark or shiny), insofar as you can. When you can be that frank with yourself and others, you are in the very best position to be an active, effective agent in the world, whether it’s trying to research the furthest stars or dance with the purest abandon.
Go on being the hero of your story. Be the best damned hero you can be: be big, be bold, be quiet and still, be whatever it is you are and you want to be. Don’t be distracted by the noise; follow the melody.
Much love. :)
a secret code between women: are you safe? in a contact of eyes. i’m here if you need me, the littlest shift of a skirt, of an inclined head, of watching the man who is asking you to smile, bitch. you aren’t alone on the walls of restrooms, i was where you are too. the quiet doling of emergency numbers, the shelters. the space between two women in a largely empty train station. the waiting game of two women strangers who walk, quietly and quickly, to their cars in abandoned parking lots, who watch to be sure the other leaves safely. text me you get home safe. the tally marks of drinks on hidden wrists, carefully disguised as other things ever since men picked up on what it meant and used it to target the “weakest link.”
my father tells me we have nothing to worry about. last night he sent me one of those email chains that say at the top “Safety Tips For The Women In Your Life!!!! Don’t Let Her Die!!”
me, and the stranger on the train. she is asleep and the man is asking me who i am going home to. i feel tears pricking the sides of my eyes. i am 13 while he towers over me. he reaches out one hand, and while i don’t know how she knows, she speaks up without opening her eyes: “If you touch my daughter, sir, I will murder you.” Whatever he grumbles is lost in history, because this moment I am so grateful for the existence of other people that I cannot breathe.
I am 19 and on my phone when i become aware of a 13 year old girl is smiling nervously at a man who’s saying disgusting things. I grab her arm. “There you are, cindy,” I say, and then look at the man like he is bile. “Do you need something from my sister?” i ask, and i walk away with her. she cries later.
this is the way of things: a silent, secret web. our promise to each other that despite our differences, when it comes to the wire, we become family, instantly. the unspoken promise. i’m here. i’m watching. i’ll witness.
This is beautiful.
This is what it is to be women in our culture.
This is not what it should be to be women in our culture.