I Am A Slut Wife
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I Am A Slut Wife
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SmugMug + Flickr .
Connecting people through photography.
The hottest, most beautiful wife in the world on our honeymoon July 2009.
She drives me crazy! My beautiful hot wife has the most amazing, athletic, gorgeous legs you're ever going to find.
She was just chillin' on the balcony, but she had me speechless just because of these unbelievable legs. My wife is gorgeous, and these legs, my God these legs.
My beautiful hot wife has the most amazing, athletic, gorgeous legs you're ever going to find.
My beautiful wife Rhonda, headed back to our stateroom after a night out in an evening gown on a recent cruise vacation Fall 2010.
My husband said I was the sweetest, hottest, sexiest, most beautiful wife in the world when we were on our honeymoon last July.
(Description written by my adoring Hubby)
My beautiful wife drew quite a bit of attention while I photographed her wearing an exotic bikini while she strolled around the pool at the Loews Hotel on South Beach after a quick evening swim. She wanted to go for an evening swim. I just wanted - needed - to watch her in that unbelievable sexy bikini. We both got our way that night.
My wife is gorgeous and one of a kind, and I couldn't possibly be more proud of my beautiful wife. Of course that didn't stop me from taking compromising pictures while she wasn't looking.
If some of the photos of my hot wife Rhonda in this bikini are blurry, it's because my hands were shaking! With her body, a diamond belly ring and a very sexy anklet, who could blame me?
Just a quick snapshot of our first visit to a new club. maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Bananona/27/81/919
My gorgeous wife Rhonda and I spent five fantastic days at the Mandalay Bay Resort & Casino in Las Vegas in May 2010.
Here I am looking giddy as a school girl!
I put my identities in to four characters. Miranda Red the spy, Miss Molly fifties house wife, Sugar Lips the slut and nameless my inner madness. As you can see These photos are of Miranda Red. I took all the images myself with the use of a timer and a tripod.
Picture the scene and the thought process that subsequently races through your mind you see the long legs first across the cafe, oh yes she is wearing black fully fashioned stockings, can i see her stocking tops? Oh the anklet delicately and teasingly poised over her nylons, what does that suggest and then you notice the cigarette and the long red nails holding it and smoker or not your fetish floods your senses. You check your wife or partner opposite you isn't looking and set your gaze again on that vision indulging your fantasies hoping to catch her eye.....admit it you do don't you as you watch her cross her legs, what thoughts are you thinking? do tell us all....x
Here I am looking giddy as a school girl!
Moments after we renewed our Wedding Vows to celebrate our One Year Wedding Anniversary...in a perfect setting.
My beautiful wife drew quite a bit of attention while I photographed her wearing an exotic bikini while she strolled around the pool at the Loews Hotel on South Beach after a quick evening swim. She wanted to go for an evening swim. I just wanted - needed - to watch her in that unbelievable sexy bikini. We both got our way that night. She garnered a great deal of attention at the pool at the Loews Hotel & Resort on South Beach. My wife is gorgeous and one of a kind, and I couldn't possibly be more proud of my beautiful wife.
If some of the photos of my hot wife Rhonda in this bikini are blurry, it's because my hands were shaking! With her body, a diamond belly ring and a very sexy anklet, who could blame me?
My beautiful wife drew quite a bit of attention while I photographed her wearing an exotic bikini while she strolled around the pool at the Loews Hotel on South Beach after a quick evening swim. She wanted to go for an evening swim. I just wanted - needed - to watch her in that unbelievable sexy bikini. We both got our way that night. She garnered a great deal of attention at the pool at the Loews Hotel & Resort on South Beach. My wife is gorgeous and one of a kind, and I couldn't possibly be more proud of my beautiful wife.
If some of the photos of my hot wife Rhonda in this bikini are blurry, it's because my hands were shaking! With her body, a diamond belly ring and a very sexy anklet, who could blame me?
I love taking these 'self portraits' but I hate the iphone camera!!
Another night my husband was mezmerized, and I (yes, I admit it), I was teasing and encouraging him to keep me in!
The hottest, most beautiful wife in the world, Rhonda being very sensual on our honeymoon July 2009.
My beautiful hot wife has the most amazing, athletic, gorgeous legs you're ever going to find.
My gorgeous wife Rhonda at Mandalay Bay in 2010.
Very sexy hot wife on an erotic tropical vacation. She is perfect in an elegant gown...and more perfect when it is so sheer.
I was on the mezanine level overlooking the pool and my husband kept taking pictures. I got lots of attention.
I uploaded this unbelievably sexy, hot photo of my wife's legs. Whatcha think?
My beautiful hot wife has the most amazing, athletic, gorgeous legs you're ever going to find.
The sweetest, hottest, sexiest, most beautiful wife in the world, on our honeymoon July 2009.
(This description from my wonderful husband)
MIA i do 10 to 12 1 nite stands a week ...
MIA i dont rtemember i dont even my kids daddy there a ...
MIA yes have a few and proud of it ...
You are a Slut – is that something that you've heard before? Being called a slut isn't one of the best things in the world. In fact, it's hurtful and in most cases, it isn't accurate. What does it really mean to be called a slut? I know this topic is a tricky, even controversial one. I've done tons of research around the internet, to see how people can just go off and say 'You are a slut'. I've compiled the best list I could that might point to why other people believe you are a slut, so please read through it because I'd love to hear your opinions on whether these reasons are accurate and what you think about the «ground rules» when you are being called a slut!
Your magic number should be something that is personal to you, but a lot of people think that if you don't share it right away, you are a slut . Just because your number might be high, doesn't mean you are a slut at all! Your number is your number and nobody should ever make you feel bad about it!
A lot of people actually prefer to have one night stands. It doesn't mean that you are slutty, in fact, it just means that you like convenience. Sex is sex and everyone needs it, that doesn't mean that you have to be in a relationship to have it. Sometimes, a one night stand can even turn into a relationship!
From the research that I've done, a lot of people associate real dates and the lack of them with a slut. Well ladies, just because you don't go on actual dates doesn't mean you are a slut . Sometimes, you don't want to date a lot, but rather you want to hang out and see if you find a connection with someone. There is nothing wrong with that.
If you have sex on the first date or as soon as you meet someone, you are a slut . If you invent reasons and justifications about why that's okay, you're also acting slutty. It shouldn't be that way ladies! Just because you're having sex soon, doesn't mean you are a slut, it just means you like what you like. Just make sure that you're practicing safe sex.
Just because you don't remember every single hook up that you've had, a lot of people believe that makes you a slut! Well ladies, I don't agree with this label. I don't agree that just because you might have made some mistakes or don't remember a few of the people you've slept with that it makes you a slut.
In the past, it was very taboo to hook up even before marriage. Well ladies, times have changed and I think that if you hook up whenever you go out, that is your business. Nobody should tell you when you can or can't hook up!
Does this mean that if you show some cleavage or even just some leg you're a slut? No! At least, that isn't my opinion. Society has made it so that if you dress the wrong way, you could be construed as a slut. Ladies, I say that you should be able to dress however you want. What do you think?
Coming home the morning after a one night stand, wearing the same outfit from the night before doesn't mean you're a slut. Almost every girl has done it at least once in their life (even Carrie Bradshaw has done it!) and I gotta say, just because you do the walk of shame, doesn't automatically make you a slut.
I'm sure that a ton of you have had this misconception about a girl that has an STD right? Well, what happens if the woman is in a committed relationship and the guy ends up cheating on her and she ends up with an STD because of that? Does that still make her a slut? Just because a girl ends up with an STD doesn't make her a slut!
Finally, the last misconception that a lot of people have when it comes to the '**you are a slut**' label is condoms. If you seem to have an endless supply of condoms, society will usually label you a slut. Well, to me, it's all about practicing safe sex!
Just because some of these are justifications for the '**you are a slut**' label, doesn't mean that the justification is true. Remember ladies, there is typically an explanation for everything and you should never slap that 'you are a slut' label on someone unless you know them. Has anyone ever said that you are a slut because of any of these reasons? Share how that made you feel, why you think other girls are slutty, or why you think the term itself is just totally unnecessary.
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Why I'm So Proud to Be a 'Promiscuous' Slut
Life is like a cock. You have to grab it with both hands.
ORIGINAL REPORTING ON EVERYTHING THAT MATTERS IN YOUR INBOX.
I can't remember the first time I got called a slut—probably around the time I started cocking my leg up in alleyways and acting like one. But I never had a problem with that, about being a slut or announcing myself as such. The problem I've always had is other people thinking that being a slut is a bad thing. Because it's not; being a slut is glorious.
This debate about promiscuity is about judging and shaming people—thinking that you know what's best for them. Well, sluts don't need your disapproval or advice on how we should live our lives. We're quite capable of making our own, terrible drunken decisions. What I can deal with, though, is your disapproval. It's hot. I don't know why, just like I don't know why other people's boyfriends taste better—they just do . And there are more and more people like me these days—come and find us on Tinder, Grindr, and all those other hook-up sites that, like, EVERYONE (even your mom) is on. We're all sluts now.
I prefer the term "fun" to "promiscuity," because I'm a fan of good, clear English. I can only speak from my own (admittedly vast) sexual experience, but if I get into a car with a strange man, for example, and I'm pouting and he's looking at my legs and tits and stuff, he doesn't drive me off for a "bit of promiscuity"—he drives me off for a "bit of fun." I even looked up how the Oxford Dictionary defines promiscuity, and it says, "The fact or state of being promiscuous; immorality."
The word is defined as "having or characterized by many transient sexual relationships." Of course, it doesn't tell us how many is many , because—like so much of this debate—the exact amount of people you need to sleep with to qualify as promiscuous is an arbitrary judgment imposed by other people.
Also, where does time fit into all this? Let's say an 80-year-old has had ten sexual partners over the course of her life. Is she promiscuous? Would we consider her to be a promiscuous person? Probably not. But what if she had slept with all ten of those people in the same week—back in the summer of '69—and then never had sex again for the rest of her life? Would that "equal it out"? And if so, why? What does the gap do? Why does spacing your booty calls out lend to respectability?
None of it makes sense because it's just an idea, and a shitty one at that. Promiscuity doesn't exist. It's just a word people came up with to describe and judge certain human behaviors. It's about as real as doorism. Never heard of doorism? That's because I just made it up. It describes a tendency to open doors. I opened the bathroom door this morning to take a pee, and I also opened several doors to get me from my bed to my breakfast table. And when I finish writing this article I'll open lots more because I'm a dirty, door-opening doorist, and I'm pretty sure that you are too.
We don't apply any particular significance to how many times someone opens a door on a given day, but we do tend to have an opinion on how many times someone her their legs. I don't see why. Unless you're the lucky dude I'm opening my doors, legs, and heart to, what has it got to do with you? And all this shame is almost always directed at women. This is an ancient point, I know, but it's time to point out yet again that when a guy fucks around he's considered a stud, but when a woman does the same she's a slut and a whore.
Do you remember when you were very small and learning to read? I do. I love to read. Reading is what I did before I discovered fucking. Like fucking, though, reading is something you have to "work on" until you "get there." Getting there means when you can read a book like an adult and it doesn't feel like a chore anymore. That it comes naturally. I was always pleased, as a kid, when my reading age improved, but I remember—when I was about 13 or 14—noticing that some people in my school just gave up. They never made it to the place where you read for the joy of it, and that made me sad. It still makes me sad today when I meet people who say they haven't read a book since their school days. I feel like they're missing out on something that's been such a profound and pleasurable part of my life. And I feel exactly the same way about fucking around.
I was invited to speak at the Oxford Union last night, debating the notion that promiscuity is a virtue, not a vice. I was "for" the notion, obviously. I was going to come up with lots of clever reasons to back up my position, but the truth is that there aren't any. Promiscuity is neither a good thing nor a bad thing… It's just a thing. Some people aren't promiscuous and are fine. Some people are promiscuous and are fine. Some people are promiscuous and have horrible lives. Some people aren't promiscuous and have horrible lives. Whatever.
A few years ago I walked into a nightclub. It was a kink night with a freaky crowd. I asked a guy if he wanted to come back with me. He did. I asked him if he minded extra company. He didn't. I invited his friend to join us. And another. And another. We got a cab. I invited the cab driver to join in too, but he was too scared (he did take my number, though, and we did the dirty at a later date). If two's company and three's a party, five's definitely an orgy.
It turned me on, standing in the hotel reception with four hot guys, aware that the chap at reception knew that we were booking into one suite and what we were clearly planning to do inside—me, in a word. It must have been obvious that they were all going to fuck me. I wonder if he fantasized about that. I've fantasized about him fantasizing about it. It was good, dirty fun. One of them was inside me. One of them was working on me. One of them gave me something to shut me up. One of them gave me something to keep my hands busy. It worked because I was the center of sexual attention. I wanted it. I was in control. I was shameful but not ashamed. I was wanton, almost a caricature, a porno fantasy, a make-believe slut. I came with their hands all over me, their eyes watching me, their dicks prodding me. I was drunk. I was high. It was fantastic—fantasy made flesh. Like my genitals were eating a pot of honey.
And that's why I'm so passionate about people's right to be promiscuous. If that's what floats your boat, stiffens your penis, creams your vagina, go for it. Wouldn't you rather be on a beach somewhere right now, with beautiful people, coming? Coming is brilliant. Why shouldn't we strive to do it as often as possible and with as many people as possible? So much of our lives are spent taking the bin bags out, brushing our teeth, waiting for the microwave to end, wondering when we can take our shoes off because our feet ache.
Life isn't fun or glamorous. It's dull and tedious and savage and cruel, and you have to go to work and feed your kids and send people birthday cards—all that old shit. Those moments of pure release, though—that hedonistic abandon—they're the bits that make life worth living. Sure, you can have special moments with the person you love, but don't look down on those of us who like to rub genitals with anyone and everyone. Like you, we just want to feel alive.
Life is like a cock. You have to grab it with both hands.
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The first time I was raped I was 16 years old. The night exists for me in a series of flash-bulb images that I can neither piece together nor erase from my memory, despite years of trying. I’m still not sure if it was my fault, even though I know it wasn’t.
I don’t think about it very often anymore, but every few years I revisit the spiral of shame, and guilt.
My last clear memory was stumbling away from the crowd, looking for a place to sleep. I was drunk… really drunk. I was being a typical teenager: acting out, rebelling – trying to distance myself from a goody-two-shoes image. Before that night, I had only been to a couple of parties, most of my wild stories were embellishments. My parents were known for being strict, so I didn’t get invited out very often. I w anted desperately to be part of the cool, older crowd who drank and smoked cigarettes. I was thrilled to be at the party, drinking cans of Coors and tossing them in the back yard of the kid whose parents were out of town. I realized m y ride had left without me, I was feeling sick and disoriented and needed to sleep until I could walk home. I found an empty bed, it was a child’s bedroom, I was going to lie down for just a few minutes.
I’m awake and it’s dark. He is inside me. I feel sick. Who is on top of me? “What are you doing?” He grunts. I try to push him away but my arms are weak. “I don’t want to.” I try to pull my underwear up, they’re around my knees. He pins my arm down. “Please.” “Shhh.” “I’m going to be sick.” “Shhh.” He’s getting angry. There’s a crack in the door and I can see wood paneling in the hallway. He finishes on the child’s bed, next to me. He wasn’t wearing a condom. He gets up and walks out. I want to run away, but I’m ashamed and I don’t want anyone to see me. I cry myself to sleep.
I’ve known my rapist since childhood. He was one of the cool kids at my school, a popular jock who was older than me. The next morning, his friend called me a slut and said “don’t worry, I won’t tell his girlfriend.”
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