Gather No Moss

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BEFORE

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It’s very difficult for an artist to survive especially his first change, which is inevitable.  I mean, you can go on being the same as you started, but you’ll die inside.  And the time that you make your first change, like when Dylan went electric at Forest Lawn, you have the wrath of your fans because they don’t want you to stay the same, and yet they don’t know that if you don’t change, they’ll get tired of you.  You have to change.

~ Joni Mitchell

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AFTER

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Find your lesson.

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Live it.

Sliver

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icy pine needles

Needle-sharp icy

shards pinprick memories of

unkept promises.

.

In the night, even in dreams,
she no longer speaks his name.

Elust #86

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Elust 86 Header
Photo courtesy of Modesty Ablaze

Welcome to Elust 86

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #86 Start with the rules, come back October 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

On Self-Objectification

Female Orgasms – Addressing Women’s Sexuality

Migraine – A Sexual Spiritual Explanation

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Can You Train a Sub to Orgasm on Command?

Rupert Campbell-Black and me…

 

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Yes I’m a Sexblogger and No I don’t care about your dick

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

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Follicular Particulars

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my-hair

When I was in elementary school, my mother and I had a morning ritual.  Every a.m., before I left for school, she would do my hair.

My mom ran an in-home daycare during those years, and one-on-one time with her was especially hard to come by.  But there was always time – always, regardless of how many rugrats were underfoot or who was throwing cereal at their sibling or which kid was having a screaming fit – there was always time for her to do my hair.

She would meet me at the couch (a horrid orange-ish affair in wool berber plaid with matching pillows and solid wood arm rests that would knock you unconscious should you be so unfortunate as to whack your head on one while mucking about the living room pretending to be an elephant) every morning, pluck the proffered hairbrush and ponytail holders from my hands, and say, “What will it be?”  Sometimes it would be simple – “a high ponytail” (as opposed to a low one – they are two very different things), “pigtails,” or “a low braid” (see previous note re: high/low) – and other times it would be more complicated.  “High pigtails with three braids each,” for example, was quite an undertaking.  So was a french braid, if only because my mom wasn’t highly skilled at the feat.

She’d gamely create whatever ‘do I requested though, and off I’d trot to suit up for the walk to school, sporting a high-ponytail-with-three-braids-made-into-a-bun, or occasionally just three barrettes.  Of graduated monochromatic tone.  Only on the right side.

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