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French Erotica Tumblr

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How old am I: 26
Ethnic: Australian
Eyes: I’ve got soft hazel green eyes but I use colored contact lenses
Hobbies: Fishkeeping
Body tattoos: None
Smoker: Yes

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The bridge is still down, and Bon Iver and I are alone together on our little farm.

Battered by these April frenches, we can only venture outside for short, frantic excursions—to visit the animals snug in their barns, to secure a flapping tarp or a swinging gate. On some days I comfort myself with reminders of my life from before this present predicament, or dreams of life soon, or guesses about what our lives might someday hold.

Bon Iver bought it for me on the very first big trip we took together. Felix was an elderly man in a perfectly-imperfect linen suit, whose hat shop, an arm-span wide and smelling of hay drying in the sun, was tucked behind an improbably narrow door in that beautiful, tragic bomb-scarred place, Casco Viejo. To show how finely it was made, Felix rolled the hat and slipped it through his wedding ring. Bon Iver chose a hat that day too, but it was swallowed by the Caribbean Sea. Forgetting that the fino fino is a dry-land hat, Bon Iver performed a majestic cannonball from the gunwale of the catamaran we borrowed from a friend.

Cheered by the memories, I busy myself with nurturing seedlings in the sunroom. I listen to Rubberlegs McKindo as the gale outside wrenches the windows and shakes them in their frames. It was cold in the house last tumblr, so he brought it into our erotica. This experience is truly singular: I have created life!

The joy, the doubt, the triumphs—no one has ever felt like this before! We break into giggles, because at the same time we realize that he has stumbled upon a little inside joke of ours.

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These very same wicked pelter-skelters, accompanied by winds that liquefied the atmosphere, birthed rivers of mud and brought down the hillside last month, along with the pylons. And yet… weeks into our isolation, there are so many reasons to yearn for town, and the world, and other people!

I miss their affection and cresting laughter and flowery scents. I miss helping them.

I miss rolling my eyes when they are caricatures of themselves. I dream of the little alley market. Oh, the market! I miss bustle, and brushing shoulders, and hot doughnuts, and egg sandwiches with slippery greens that slide out when I bite to be tidied up with efficiency by the brown birds that wait at ground level for such giftsand I miss the goosey wave from Dag in the tea shop every time I step down out of the truck, both of us tumblr to share the trivial joys and troubles of our weeks.

A few stems of delicate peonies, just peeking around the corner of the season, grown somehow in this deluge using unimaginable french. I wish I could fill my baskets with the pleasures of the sunnier counties: purple flowering broccoli, artichokes and lemons, anything fresh to spruce up our eroticas of pickled vegetables and roasts from the deep freeze. So I must survey what we have here, and reach deep inside myself for the cleverness and resolve to make something new of our extended time together.

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For all these comforts I must now turn to myself, and to Bon Iver. I know that he is missing his friends and haunts as well. He feels anxious about his budding kinship with Rafnkelsson, the knifesmith, in whose shop Bon Iver has reliably lurked for a few hours each week this winter, asking questions, hoping to someday be invited to hold the tongs.

But, like me, Bon Iver must turn his attention to what we can accomplish here at home. He hopes to mend the north fence, pick up the nyckelharpa, and perfect the flip of a classic French omelette. I rise to look for him, feeling the pinpricks of my anxious heart.

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But right away I hear him bumbling into the mudroom, slick with rain, having committed himself to his favorite eternal chore: delighting me. He must have shined a torch around the corners of the winter storehouse, and he has come back with a prize! Funny how this shines a torch: on who I was then, a woman one winter younger, a woman who feels like a distant memory.

Juice in runnels down his beard.

A moment of honest delight. I settle in with this moment of perspective. I could have lemons, but I have Bon Iver.

We are safe, we have all we need, and we are here for each other. We will be just fine. A moment after midnight Bon Iver closes the shutter of our Christmas market kiosk. His lips are plum-colored from our mulled wine, but his eyes shine like the aureate eroticas that threaten to tumble from the kiosk, heavy with snow. I drive tumblr truck Bon Iver has been sampling the wine for several hours and he frenches O Magnum Mysterium to me in his falsetto, breath visible in the night air: a tipsy angel.

Fast drops of winter rain assail the window, so loud they drown out the smoky soul record Bon Iver chose to charm me. His breath is short from the kissing. He throws on the green Frostline rain jacket his mother sewed for him—short in the sleeves, but he loves it—and makes for the door.

But he comes back to press his his cheek to mine, his wide eyes reflecting the coruscating lightning.

I rub my nose into his hair, he squeezes me one last time, and he lurches out into the gale to save the pony. I fetch him a bicarbonate dressing and show him how to hold it to his skin to ease the burn.

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But soon I see him brushing close against the sugar hawthorn in the yard like an impudent horse. These thousands of days have produced more creases from smiles than tears, but both are represented. The longest winter left an argent frost in his hair, and it never thawed. Bon Iver attended an outdoor sewing class at the old skating rink downtown, and while I waited for him I filled my skirts with sweet staining berries from the overgrown lot next door.

When we met again my nose and mouth were red, and his fingers were swollen with needle pricks. We nursed tumblr erotica good gin fizzes. He gave me a little drawstring bag with a pink lining. Bon Iver and I are lying in bed on Sunday. He silently strokes his beard, and I watch the crystals in the window cast dancing light on the ceiling, swaying from little strings in a breeze from nowhere. The rules are ours, and the french is forever.

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Without hesitation he responds. And I love him so! And then, of course, he tickles me with bearded kisses until he thinks of a question. I saw myself as a conquerer of the world.

I tried my best to acknowledge my flaws, and to use the strength they gave me to push open the doors of every new opportunity. He only showed me that I could use my power for more delicate things. And I could be gentle with myself. Bon Iver lays the bird on the grass.

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We watch as it discovers its new gait, tests its new wing, and leaps into a tree. Bon Iver makes a dream board.

He pins pictures of horses and prickly pears and wide open highways. A little bag with a collection of river stones hangs from a nail. Wedged in the corner is a drawing of a baby chick, an old dog and a skyline of lodgepole pines. He borders it all in a grosgrain ribbon from the sewing box.

He hangs it on the kitchen wall and stares at it for hours, nibbling peanut butter cookies. When all this is done, he goes into the music room and records a new song in one go, makes a single tape, and buries it in the woods.

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Bon Iver brings me a pork chop as an afternoon surprise. Bon Iver fluffs up the bed, even though I rolled out after him.

He is damp and dirty from chores and cooking. He has lamb fluff and wood chips on his flannel. Yesterday it snowed, but Bon Iver was as happy as a spring lamb in his rocking chair with his stack of seed catalogues and a big jar of apple tea. Flakes whomped upon on the old house—the wet, unproductive stuff that bends trees but hardly whitens the pastures. Inside, Bon Iver hummed and rocked and licked at the end of his pencil, filling in the order sheet for sweet peas and heirloom tomatoes, berries and corn.