I ate a banana out of a vagina last night at a sex show in Amsterdam

(Source: solidlentil)

So I’ve come to a ultimatum that Germany has some of the hottest men in the world..

Duuuuude I’m in this little place in Austria at the moment and it’s so fucking insane. Did a 25km mountain bike ride in the rain and have just been paragliding through the mountains.. This place is too surreal,

I’ve been in Croatia for a few days sailing and checking out some places and I’m heading into Vienna in Austria now. Coming back here on the 31st for a full week of sailing is going to be fucking insane. Sorry for not posting guys, catchya

"Novels are fictions and therefore they tell lies, but through those lies every novelist attempts to tell the truth about the world."

Paul Auster

(Source: theparisreview)

I’m in this little resort in Mykonos at the moment and I’m honestly having the time of my life. The sex is great, the fucking sun and just chilling out is what I need I’m so fucking relaxed and happy right now.. I leave to go to Albania in 4 days so I’ll keep you guys posted

Sorry I haven’t been posting lately guys I have really patchy wifi and don’t have time to come on this app a lot. I’m in the South of France at the moment in Nice. Going to Monte Carlo tonight and darting over to Venice tomorrow.. Keep you all posted

harinef:



“Acting Like It’s Nothing" by Hari Nef
He was fucking me fine. I couldn’t see him, but I wasn’t looking. I heard action movie music: lingering strings. Not the music of climax, but the music you hear when a piece of the mystery slips into place.
The music wasn’t playing.
I’d actually put on Radiohead’s In Rainbows before we started. I still fuck to In Rainbows. “I still fuck to In Rainbows,” I’d said. I think “Reckoner” was on, but I was listening to the action-movie strings. I’d missed getting fucked (eight months). I’d missed the magic tricks: sleeping spells beneath my waist, eyes rolling back like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist. I’m tough and good at it. I think it’s fun.
There should have been a closeup on my face. I wanted him to punch me or tell me that I was the end of the world. I wanted to scream “harder,” but I wasn’t sure. I wanted to cry or something, but I didn’t have to! I thought eight months would flash before my eyes and fade into a wide shot as some fabulous dude grabbed my breasts and let me let him destroy me.
Instead, it felt good.
I came.
I always cum, but that doesn’t mean what it used to mean. Trans cum is weird. It doesn’t really shoot anymore. It just shows up. I still feel it a lot. “Trans cum is weird, but I still feel it a lot,” I told another one. I straddled him, came on him, and waited for the six-part harmony. I’d anticipated a Spielberg fanfare for my first-ever straight conquest, but instead he just smiled and told me how pretty I was. And yeah, he cried a little after I ate his ass, but that happened even before the hormones.
A lot of things happened before the hormones.
“It’s not going to fix everything,” said my doctor, filling the first syringe. “It’s not going to give you the perfect body, alter your past, or change everything in an instant.”
He plunged into my skin and I laughed in his face. “I want this,” I grrred. “I don’t need this! I’m in a very, very good place.”
“Good.” He pulled out. “This is going to be a very exciting time for you.”
Pills and shots had me feeling myself. Boys could feel me feeling myself. They put their hands on the back of my neck and kissed me hard in the back of a club. They scoffed and said, “you know you’re gorgeous.” They liked all my posts. They made me feel good. They never went home with me. I’m used to it.
Red with understanding, I’d cab home, subtweet, and eat a sandwich. My dignity and my coping mechanisms would prevail. If I’m terrifying, which I probably am, it’s not chemical. I’ve been frying testosterone for six weeks, but I’ve been humiliating men for years.
I feel normal. “I feel normal,” I say, to basically everyone. I do, and it’s fine. I’ve encountered zero burning bushes and six adequate orgasms. I tuck my dick and call out the window for Larry Clark or God. Nothing doing.
But I can land straight guys on Tinder. My ass looks amazing.
Wet mouths on new breasts send me into spasms.
I flicker and glow, shrouded in Feminine Event.
In the morning, Carter kisses me. We have morning breath. It’s cute. I thank him for having me and tell him that I will text him. I close his door behind me and my shoulders shoot up into my jaw because I know I don’t like him that much.
Jonah cuts me off, says “What do you want from me?” I don’t understand why he doesn’t realize that I just want to go there with someone I actually like. “I just want to go there with someone I actually like,” I say.
“I don’t know what I can give to you, Hari,” says Jonah. “I just can’t right now. We have sexual tension and you’re so fucking hot, but I can’t.”
Amin looks at the ceiling. “I don’t know where I am in life,” he whispers, eyes welling. “But it’s okay. Don’t worry. I’m glad you’re here.”
“I want to fuck you,” whispers Jonah, “just to prove you wrong.”
“Sure,” says Carter.
“Yeah,” says Carter.
“I like you too,” says Carter.
Carter says: “I’ll text you.”
This morning I don’t mind that I’m wearing to class the same outfit I was wearing last night because I love the outfit. I shove a cigarette into my mouth and try to figure out what kind of New York Morning I’m having, what kind of a Girl I Am. I buy peppermint gum because I’m starting my day. I smoke three more cigarettes and turn on Airplane Mode for no reason. I reach level 176 of Candy Crush. I trip up the stairs transferring from the L to the 1 and my bare hand touches the floor of the station. I register the shape of my body in the window of the train. It looks uneven and extreme. I want to see myself and hear cheeky salsa music, but I don’t. I want to see myself and hear Something By Sky Ferreira, but I don’t. I climb up the stairwell and reach the pavement and teeter on the ledge for a second: I’m very hungry, and I smoked a lot. My phone dies. I walk a few blocks. I want to see myself and hear nothing for 30 seconds before the credits roll, but I don’t.
All boys’ names have been changed.
All photography by Rachel Chandler

Check out the third installation of my sex column for adult-mag, with photos by rachelchandler.

harinef:

Acting Like It’s Nothingby Hari Nef

He was fucking me fine. I couldn’t see him, but I wasn’t looking. I heard action movie music: lingering strings. Not the music of climax, but the music you hear when a piece of the mystery slips into place.

The music wasn’t playing.

I’d actually put on Radiohead’s In Rainbows before we started. I still fuck to In Rainbows. “I still fuck to In Rainbows,” I’d said. I think “Reckoner” was on, but I was listening to the action-movie strings. I’d missed getting fucked (eight months). I’d missed the magic tricks: sleeping spells beneath my waist, eyes rolling back like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist. I’m tough and good at it. I think it’s fun.

There should have been a closeup on my face. I wanted him to punch me or tell me that I was the end of the world. I wanted to scream “harder,” but I wasn’t sure. I wanted to cry or something, but I didn’t have to! I thought eight months would flash before my eyes and fade into a wide shot as some fabulous dude grabbed my breasts and let me let him destroy me.

Instead, it felt good.

I came.

I always cum, but that doesn’t mean what it used to mean. Trans cum is weird. It doesn’t really shoot anymore. It just shows up. I still feel it a lot. “Trans cum is weird, but I still feel it a lot,” I told another one. I straddled him, came on him, and waited for the six-part harmony. I’d anticipated a Spielberg fanfare for my first-ever straight conquest, but instead he just smiled and told me how pretty I was. And yeah, he cried a little after I ate his ass, but that happened even before the hormones.

A lot of things happened before the hormones.

“It’s not going to fix everything,” said my doctor, filling the first syringe. “It’s not going to give you the perfect body, alter your past, or change everything in an instant.”

He plunged into my skin and I laughed in his face. “I want this,” I grrred. “I don’t need this! I’m in a very, very good place.”

“Good.” He pulled out. “This is going to be a very exciting time for you.”

Pills and shots had me feeling myself. Boys could feel me feeling myself. They put their hands on the back of my neck and kissed me hard in the back of a club. They scoffed and said, “you know you’re gorgeous.” They liked all my posts. They made me feel good. They never went home with me. I’m used to it.

Red with understanding, I’d cab home, subtweet, and eat a sandwich. My dignity and my coping mechanisms would prevail. If I’m terrifying, which I probably am, it’s not chemical. I’ve been frying testosterone for six weeks, but I’ve been humiliating men for years.

I feel normal. “I feel normal,” I say, to basically everyone. I do, and it’s fine. I’ve encountered zero burning bushes and six adequate orgasms. I tuck my dick and call out the window for Larry Clark or God. Nothing doing.

But I can land straight guys on Tinder. My ass looks amazing.

Wet mouths on new breasts send me into spasms.

I flicker and glow, shrouded in Feminine Event.

In the morning, Carter kisses me. We have morning breath. It’s cute. I thank him for having me and tell him that I will text him. I close his door behind me and my shoulders shoot up into my jaw because I know I don’t like him that much.

Jonah cuts me off, says “What do you want from me?” I don’t understand why he doesn’t realize that I just want to go there with someone I actually like. “I just want to go there with someone I actually like,” I say.

“I don’t know what I can give to you, Hari,” says Jonah. I just can’t right now. We have sexual tension and you’re so fucking hot, but I can’t.”

Amin looks at the ceiling. “I don’t know where I am in life,” he whispers, eyes welling. “But it’s okay. Don’t worry. I’m glad you’re here.”

“I want to fuck you,” whispers Jonah, “just to prove you wrong.”

“Sure,” says Carter.

“Yeah,” says Carter.

“I like you too,” says Carter.

Carter says: “I’ll text you.”

This morning I don’t mind that I’m wearing to class the same outfit I was wearing last night because I love the outfit. I shove a cigarette into my mouth and try to figure out what kind of New York Morning I’m having, what kind of a Girl I Am. I buy peppermint gum because I’m starting my day. I smoke three more cigarettes and turn on Airplane Mode for no reason. I reach level 176 of Candy Crush. I trip up the stairs transferring from the L to the 1 and my bare hand touches the floor of the station. I register the shape of my body in the window of the train. It looks uneven and extreme. I want to see myself and hear cheeky salsa music, but I don’t. I want to see myself and hear Something By Sky Ferreira, but I don’t. I climb up the stairwell and reach the pavement and teeter on the ledge for a second: I’m very hungry, and I smoked a lot. My phone dies. I walk a few blocks. I want to see myself and hear nothing for 30 seconds before the credits roll, but I don’t.

All boys’ names have been changed.

All photography by Rachel Chandler

Check out the third installation of my sex column for adult-mag, with photos by rachelchandler.

(via drghd)

lonequixote:


Pine Trees against a Red Sky with Setting Sun ~ Vincent van Gogh

lonequixote:

Pine Trees against a Red Sky with Setting Sun ~ Vincent van Gogh

(via lonequixote)