#like occasionally i see puppies and dogs on here but i think that the demographic

[hauntedwoman]

i feel like tumblr is the social media for cat ppl

[cuntwrap--supreme]

My dog always likes to pick my least favorite walking route because there are almost always other dogs. She doesn't want to play. She just wants to sniff them and keep walking.

So I give in and let us walk the way she likes.

The reason it's my least favorite is not because it's busier. It's not because it's along a loud street. It's not because of the train that occasionally passes by and leaves us stranded on one side or the other for 10 minutes.

No. It's because of the crowd this one local brewery brings in. It's almost all rich white people - arguably one of the most horrific demographics in the US today. Every single time we walk by there, there's some rich, entitled White with their big ass untrained dog sitting right against the sidewalk.

Today, it was two Great Pyrenees that were both highly aggressive. We walk by the first time and both dogs - neither of which is tethered to anything - lunge at my dog. I could tell from the stances they took that they weren't friendly, so I had her practically walking in the street. Sure enough, they start aggressively barking and try to come at her, and some massive guy holds them both back. Doesn't say shit about it except, "Yep, that's my boys," to the other people at his table.

I know I'm gonna have to pass by here again, so I'm already preparing myself to have to fight 4 adults and 2 dogs if anything happens to my dog.

My old ass dog tells me it's time to go home by turning around and retracing our steps. We go by the table again.

Both dogs lunge. They're attached to the table now, but it shifts because there's only one person sitting on it now. And I hate people with untrained dogs, so I turn around and say, "You know, it doesn't take a fucking rocket scientist to know you shouldn't bring aggressive ass dogs in public. Train your fucking dogs. Jesus Christ!"

The woman sitting at the table stands up and yells, "What did you say, you ugly little dyke?"

And I just yelled back, "If your dogs get any closer to me, I'll fucking kick them in the face. Take some out of your plastic surgery fund and use that money to train your fucking dogs."

And this like 45 year old woman starts bawling, in that way that only entitled white women can. That crying where she's not the victim but she'll be damned if anyone else thinks differently. I'm sorry you failed at training your dogs. I can't imagine how awful any kids you have are. Control your fucking dogs or leave them at home. Why is this such a difficult concept?

My dog listens when I say shit. When we're walking, I barely have to move the leash in a certain direction and she knows what that means. She knows when I tell her to wait at a street crossing. She knows to move over if I tell her to get over. She has a very large vocabulary and responds to like 50 commands. And this is with me not having a clue how to train dogs! I was given a puppy when I was 17 and was winging it, and she's a perfectly behaved old bitch. There's literally no excuse why someone dressed as nicely as these people were can't afford to pay someone to train their dogs since they clearly can't be bothered to do it on their own. I have no sympathy for people who put other people and animals in harm's way just so you can see they have the money for purebred dogs. Your dog is not an accessory. That's a living thing that if, much like a child, is not directed on how to behave will be wild and out of control and hurt someone. Your fake ass victim tears mean nothing. I will continue being aggressive with people like this until they stop existing. I will die on my hill of "leave poorly behaved animals at home" until the day I die. Fight me about it.

[trigafy]

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New Post has been published on http://gogetthelook.com/2017/05/07/assessing-the-hiv-prevention-needs-of-gay-and-bisexual-men-of-color/

Assessing the HIV-Prevention Needs of Gay and Bisexual Men of Color

Product Description A 1993 report from the U.S. Conference of Mayors and the U.S. Conference of Local Health Officials on the subject matter. Includes statistics, demographics, assessment of needs and availability of local programs.

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Bi the way, we exist | Viet Vu | TEDxTerryTalks

In this TEDx talk, Viet speaks about the complexities of coming out as bisexual and the positive and negative reactions that he received from his family and friends. While focusing on a group that is rarely talked about in LGBTQ+ rights, Viet explains how anyone can have a tangible impact on someone’s life by choosing to care.

Viet is a fourth-year Economics student at the Vancouver School of Economics. He’s also a researcher at EqualDex, a database that maps the status of LGBTQ+ rights worldwide.

This talk was given at a TEDx event using the TED conference format but independently organized by a local community. Learn more at http://ted.com/tedx

If a mad scientist in a white coat came up to you and said he could make you a better woman with a few bits and pieces from the graveyard and the scrapyard, you’d be well within your rights to be a little concerned.

Of course, white coats are so last season, and we men love you just as you are, but if we could redesign you from scratch we can think of a few things that would make you even more amazing. In all fairness, you’d probably like to do the same to us, but for now, it’s our turn. Here are the modifications we’d choose to make if we had a say in creating Woman 2.0:

Behavior

The Current Model

Unless you’ve spent long, long periods studying her, she can be scarily unpredictable. Even if we had a time machine with which we could monitor her behavior, she’d still be unpredictable.

Sure, she goes to work and gym at the same time every day, SMSes her girlfriends like clockwork and calls her mother regularly, yet she surprises us with: Sally’s birthday party (‘Of course I told you we were going’); dinner at her parents’ house (‘You told my mother you couldn’t wait to see her again’), spontaneous tearfulness (‘I’m fine, leave me alone’) and, well, you know the rest.

The New Model

She’ll schedule everything, copy it to our PDA, and be perfectly flexible about moving things around if we need them to be moved. And everything includes everything –

18.15-18.35: complain about what a bitch that Angela from accounts is; 19.00-19.15: tell the story about yelling at that tramp at the gym who doesn’t wipe the equipment when she’s done; 20.00-20.10: express gratitude for being with such a fantastic listener; 20.10-00.00: demonstrate that gratitude with an intriguing new position. (Okay, that last one can be a surprise.)

Expectations

The Current Model

Despite how effortless we may make it look, it’s not that easy being a man. Women’s expectations of us range from easy (‘Come here and make sweet love to me’); to sigh-inducing (‘You promised to take my car to the car wash’); mildly difficult (‘Let’s go for a run’); tough (‘Must you go out with those loser friends of yours?’); and really tough (‘Why can’t you be more like [idiot ex-boyfriend’s name here]?’.

The New Model

As we have not yet mastered The Force (that’s the one where we wave our hand in our girlfriend’s direction and murmur something about wanting her to get us another beer), the next best thing is for her to be highly susceptible to hypnosis.

We’ll teach ourselves this ancient mystical art (there must be a DIY website, right?) and, with a click of our fingers and a few choice keywords, her expectations will be met.

Her: ‘Must you go out with those loser friends of yours tonight?’ Him: ‘You adore my friends. To you, they’re like the cutest puppies in the world. You love puppies. When I snap my fingers, you’ll be filled with happiness when I tell you I’m going out with my friends.’ Her (sighing): ‘I love puppies.’

Talking

The Current Model

She has so much to say, to so many people, so much of the time. She knows many, many words, and she’s not afraid to use her gigantic vocabulary. And when she’s not talking, she’s SMSing. Sometimes she’s talking and SMSing.

Like Dr Frasier Crane, we’re listening. Or, we’re supposed to be. You know how you sometimes tell your man, ‘You’re not listening to me’? He’ll disagree but you know you’re right. He’s not.

Often we’ll be contemplating really important things, such as the future of the global economy, the state of the nation, divisions in the ruling party, the elections, KFC or Nando’s, Lager or Lite, blondes or brunettes or redheads … suffice it to say, it’s a long and important list of manly concerns.

The New Model

She will be as chatty as the current model but she’ll have a highly evolved, telepathic awareness of when we’re mulling over the big issues. She’ll play a key role in addressing our dilemmas (‘Blondes, brunettes or redheads – why not all three? I’ll make some calls’) and quietly use her telepathic powers to time our chats when we’re not occupied with the big questions.

Dating

The Current Model

She’s bored silly with dull pick-up lines and flirting that involves our witty friends expressing their support and encouragement from the next table. She knows her vichyssoise from foie gras and her Pinot Noir from Pino Gris. (Foie gras is bad, apparently, but we try not to eat too many things we can’t pronounce.)

She expects us to know that Spur is not her idea of a fun night out and neither is Dros, regardless of what they claim in their ads. She spends more time than her best friend thinks we’re worth preparing for a night out with us. It’s nothing short of miraculous that humanity didn’t fade away eons ago, leaving talking dogs to run the planet.

The New Model

She’s like Mother Teresa (but alive, hot and sexually active) – she doesn’t discriminate. She’s watched enough bad movies to get those obscure but witty references with which we pepper our conversation; she’s mad about sports but will unhesitatingly defer to our learned, beer-fuelled opinion; her palate is refined but not so much that she doesn’t frequently crave something meaty cooked over open flames.

Fashion

The Current Model

The rent or the Blahniks? To a well-dressed woman, only a feeble-minded man would even consider that anything more than a rhetorical question.

To most men, more than three pairs of shoes is unnecessary (work, weekend and gym; sometimes the latter two are the same); the last suit we bought was for Michael’s wedding and we’ve worn it to work for the past two years, and the Levi’s we bought with our first pay cheque are still in pretty good shape, thanks for asking.

Even if the local Mall is her Manhattan, she firmly believes it’s her right, no, duty, to re-create herself in the image of Carrie Bradshaw, a fictional, middle-aged woman who dresses like a, uh, character from a TV show. (Jack Bauer, Braveheart and those guys from 300 didn’t worry about labels. Neither do we. Grrrr.)

The New Model

She still looks as pretty as a picture but has the good sense to pay the rent first and lust after Manolos later. (Seriously, babe, this is why we have to spend so much time contemplating that global economic crisis.)

Self-Image

The Current Model

Despite her fun, fearless ways, she occasionally manages to surprise us with her insecure and vulnerable side: ‘Does my bum look big in this?’ ‘It’s fant-ass-tic … come to daddy.’ At that point, insecurity is replaced by seething, uncontrollable rage, despite her prior insistence on our complete honesty, regardless of the circumstances.

Similarly, well-meaning and innocent compliments often go awry (‘That shirt makes your boobs look huge. Are you wearing a Wonderbra? Come to daddy’) without us even being aware of the potential for that rather un-sassy, seething, uncontrollable rage.

The New Model

She will utilize her telepathic powers to know that we’re rather fond of her bum/breasts/legs/arms/hair/bits and pieces, even if she’s convinced they’re too big/small/short/thin/fat/hairy/ hairless/dark/light/even/uneven.

Sex

The Current Model

Sassy, sexy and sometimes a little too cocksure, she knows what she likes and how she likes it – and she likes it with real orgasms. Which, hell, is rather a lot of pressure for us.

We’re all for showing a girl a good time. We read those get-fit/quit-smoking/be-the-world’s-greatest-lover articles in those men’s magazines with the pictures of Lee-Anne Liebenberg so we’re pretty good at trying new tricks and not tweaking, tugging, grabbing or groping when we should be stroking, fondling, teasing and tickling.

We’re not gynaecologists, however. We’ve mastered the G-spot but you’re on your own (or with your bi-curious friend from varsity) for the rest of those alphabetized spots we’re convinced the girls are making up to puzzle us.

The New Model

She’s every bit the confident hottie but, to her, our extensive bathroom reading has made us the greatest lover in the world, her bi-curious varsity friend often joins in without any of that post-threesome awkwardness and orgasms always come after just a few satisfying minutes of penetration.

Sandra Prior runs her own bodybuilding website at http://bodybuild.rr.nu.

[manchattanskyline]

So, real life got in the way and all too soon I was thrust back in to the drudgery of every-day life. Actually, that’s unfair, as I quite like my job and being home with my cat and my own bed was very welcome. Anyway, after a bit of a hiatus, here is Day 6 of our travel diary.

After last night’s discovery of the gorgeous olde- worlde South Street Seaport area, we’d decided to abandon our plans to head all the way to the Upper East Side and instead we went back to South Street, and to the Paris Cafe for brunch, consisting of a Bellini, French toast and coffee. From where I was sitting, I could just see the top of the Brooklyn Bridge, out of the window, and the Stars and Stripes flag fluttering  proudly, in the bright sunshine and the light breeze. Bizarrely, there was a Manchester United football match on the TV, in the bar area. I almost felt like we should be watching it, to represent my home town, an’ all. We didn’t.

  Paris Cafe, South Street, Est 1873

After yesterday’s unexpected snow, the city was gradually beginning to thaw, in the day’s bright sunlight. Dripping from awnings, scaffolding and street lights, the night time’s snow and ice was collecting in puddles on the ground and splattering the occasional unlucky bystander. After brunch we would tackle our nemesis – the New York City Subway ticket machine. Being a Sunday, I was hoping that there would be no queues and that we’d have time to read the on-screen prompts and figure out which coins were which, without just chucking a twenty dollar bill at it and hoping for the best. Once we’d found the correct way in to Fulton Street subway station ( to as easy as you might think ) we located a machine and set to work. We both managed to find the correct change and top-up our Metrocard and then we took a number 2 train uptown to 14th Street, to walk The Highline.

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Water street, old & new

Lovely old Con Ed drain cover.

FDR meets Brooklyn Bridge

The huge variation in landscape, atmosphere and demographic from area to area of New York means that, often, a trip on the subway is just like having a bit of a sit down and then emerging into a completely different world. This can certainly be said of this journey. As we emerged from the subway and figured out which direction we needed to walk in (another ‘have we come out of the right exit’ situation – we hadn’t!) I was aware of the wider avenues, less built up blocks and lower buildings , compared to lower Manhattan. With such a huge variation and a wealth of different experiences to be had, in a relatively small geographical area, you can fully understand how many Manhattanites notoriously rarely, if ever, leave the place. We located where we thought The Highline began but as we approached the metal staircase, it became apparent that it was closed. The sign read ‘due to snow and ice’. This was really disappointing and meant that we had to come up with a plan B. We decided to make the rather long journey up to Times Square (28 blocks to be exact!). This is a journey that no New Yorker in their right mind mind wold decide to walk but being tourists, and British , and trying to save out subway rides, we confidently strode up 8th Avenue.

At the top end of TriBeca, we walked past a pet shop where we actually saw doggies in the window. Really small puppies were frolicking about, in what I would class as a rather small clear perspex pen. I’m pretty sure that you’re not allowed to do that in the UK and although all the tiny dogs walking about in shoes prove that New Yorkers are obviously animal lovers, I think their animal welfare laws may leave a lot to be desired.

Times Square was pretty much I remembered it. A couple of blocks of giant illuminated bill-boards, hot-dog stands, a sea of tourists and souvenir shops make for one of the most commercial areas of New York and it is still one of my least favourite. I’m glad we went but it’s really not a place I’d want to spend much time in. Finding ourselves near the top end of Broadway and the theatre district, we decided to have a walk up and down the streets. As we both studied and work in theatre, and I’m a big musical theatre geek, it would have been remiss for us not to. I had planned to find the Richard Rogers Theatre, which is showing the huge global sensation Hamilton, but we found the merch shop first. This could have been a huge finical disaster but I was very restrained and opted for just a classic black T-shirt and a pin badge. A little further down 46th Street and you can’t fail to see the glorious theatre, shrouded in the recognisable amber and gold , with various black silhouetted characters on each door. We were outside the home of Hamilton, An American Musical, and I was beside myself. If you’re not familiar with the show, shame on you! If you are, you’ll be as surprised as I was by the relatively small size of the theatre. It felt like there ought to be a huge neon sign proclaiming the accolades, awards, reviews and hype that have surrounded the show since it opened at The Public Theatre, but no, it’s just a theatre, albeit it with ticket prices listed in the lobby at $500 +. Seriously, who is paying this? It’s not even the original cast, anymore! Would I pay that if I had it? Well, yes, of course I would.

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Stairway leading up from the stage door

I did not throw away my shot.

The room where it happens

After a few crazy-fan photos outside stage door, I took a moment to try and absorb some of the show’s legacy, and then we cut across town to Fifth Avenue and Tiffany’s.

As always, the place is stunning. The pure Deco design, the immaculate staff and the diamonds… Oh my goodness the diamonds! I sought out the the range that they designed in collaboration with The Great Gatsby, knowing that it included a few pieces set with massive yellow diamonds. According to the Tiffany employee who handed us a heavy-weight embossed  store guide, none of the items in Tiffany’s have prices on display. This is so that, on paper at least, every item is as priceless as the next. The theory being that if you fall in love with something, it as as priceless to you as any other item in the store, regardless of actual price. This is, of course, ludicrous, as only the top 1% of the world’s population (of whom, admittedly,  a lot of them probably do live in New York) would ever be able to just walk in to Tiffany’s and pick out what they want, without asking the price. This was my third visit to Tiffany’s and on the previous two occasions I’d bought myself a bracelet from their (almost) reasonably priced sterling silver collection. The bracelet I want to make it a trio was, unfortunately, beyond budget, so having a vague idea of the price and therefore not having to embarrass myself by asking, I headed to the stationery department and handed over my debit card, in return for a tiny Tiffany blue and gold pen. Don’t worry, I checked first that it was fully refillable. Once nestled in it’s iconic blue box with white ribbon bow, I carried it down the stairs and back out of the side exit, away from the vile barriers around the front entrance, to keep people clear of the neighbouring entrance to the Tr*mp T*w*r.

Tiffany, Fifth Avenue

Main staricase

corridor leading to elevator

We’d decided to travel back via Grand Central Station and have coffee in the underground food hall. After the Tiffany splurge, my budget didn’t quite stretch to the iconic Oyster Bar. We took the Times Square shuttle to, funnily enough, Times Square and then the number 3 train back downtown to Fulton Street, popped into a little Italian restaurant, Il Brigante on Front St, for pasta and then strolled back to the hotel via Pearl Street. It was quite late by the time we got back so we spent the rest of the night relaxing, with our feet up. After such a trek, that day, we were glad of it.

Grand Central

Fancy

Coming and going

NEW BLOG POST: NEW YORK TRAVEL DIARY DAY 6 So, real life got in the way and all too soon I was thrust back in to the drudgery of every-day life.