#Bill Gray Photographer
Text
click! 4 (e.w.)
SYNOPSIS: you need a roommate, and you love eggplant. [college au]
WORD COUNT: 6.7k
WARNINGS: photographer/roommate!ellie, ocs an artist with a rep and black, angst… these hoes toxic, crazy sexual tension, kissing!!! :), fondling, dry humping, fingering!!, some dirty talk uh oh, slight unrequited love, bad communication… like awful, more slut shaming, mentions of awful parents, brief mention of alc and weed
This eucalyptus face mask is not doing what it’s supposed to!
Ultimate calming effect! Relaxation is at your feet and on your face!
… Yeah, right. Why is your blood pressure touching the ceiling, then?
It’s fucking Sunday and it’s dark outside. It’s not even seven yet. You can hear rustling in the living room and you know Ellie’s prepping for today. Your anxiety is through the roof and in the clouds!
Why the fuck did you accept this much responsibility again? What if you look like a fucking idiot and she fires you? Is this even a job if it’s a one-time thing? Your hands are sweating. Is it too late to jump out your window and plummet to your death?
Meow! Meow!
“Good morning, baby girl! Are you hungry?” You hear Ellie coo through the wall and your heart sores. You'd be smiling so wide if this mask wasn’t solid concrete.
You walk into the living room and are blinded by the bright ceiling lights. Your bill is going to skyrocket!
“Hi.”
Ellie, cat in arms, jumps at your voice, spinning to face you. Your skin is on fire as her eyes glaze over your appearance, cheeks tinting and fingers twitching under the thick fur.
“Hey… you look… you look nice,” She mutters back, and you smile.
“Thank you.”
Meow!
Ellie’s brow arches at the baby. “Yeah? You think so, too?”
Meow! Meow!
Ellie sets her down and lets her roam, shoving her hands into her sweats. She takes a step closer. “What’re we gonna name her?”
“Toothle— “
Ellie rolls her eyes, “Oh my god, that’s so fucking basic.”
“Well, excuse me! I’ll shut the fuck up!” You snark playfully, “What were you thinking, Ms. I don’t fuck with animals?”
“I already told yo— “
“AHT, AHT!” You hold a finger up to hush her and she scoffs, “Toothless is one of the best animated characters of our time! Loyal, cute as fuck! Fuck everybody else in that movie! Show the drag—”
“Pickle.”
“What.”
“I’ve been calling her Pickle! Her name is pickle.” Ellie’s smiling at the pattering kitten, and, for some reason, you don’t fight her on it. She looks so happy; Pickle it is.
She’s clicking her tongue at Pickle who rubs against her covered leg. With those gray sweats on, she’s luring two cats over—
“You ready?” Ellie exhales. Your eyes widen, yanked out of your drifting thoughts. You nod gently, jitters kicking in your fingertips.
“Sorry you had to wake up this early. It takes a while for me to edit and all that, but— “
“Ellie, don’t worry! I’m — I’m excited! Just, uh… Just guide me, I guess. You’re the one with the vision.” You’re not sure if the shoot or Ellie is making you nervous. She smells so good, freshly showered and warmth radiating off of her.
“… Guide you?” She smirks.
Suddenly, the air is hot. “Yeah, like… tell me what to do… f-for the shot.” You awkwardly point at the set.
“Giving me permission to use you?” She wisps and your lashes flutter, head bobbing dumbly in approval. The other cat has made her appearance! She’s meowing! Somebody stop her!
“Alright, then… go sit.” Ellie’s head nods towards the black stool in the middle of the backdrop, and you’re moving like a trackstar, plopping down on the stool. Ellie clicks her tongue again and Pickle meows.
“Gonna put her in my room for now. Don’t wanna scare her.” She scoops Pickle up and waddles into the short hallway, giving kit-kat one last kiss before softly shutting her door.
Your catless roomie is in front of you in an instant, fiddling with that big ass umbrella before adjusting her tripod.
“So, explain. What does all this do?”
“Um…” she looks through her camera lense. Right at you, “Different things. Has to do with light control for the most part. Red is your color, by the way.”
You gaze at your fit; You’re going to cry. “Thanks.”
“Mhm.”
Some silence passes before Ellie grumbles, “You’re slouching.”
Your shoulders instantly straighten. Maybe too much, “No, I’m not.”
A blank look from Ellie as she peeks from behind the lense, “Don’t slouch. You’re the star, remember?” She jabs jokingly. You take a deep breath. Another clumsy adjustment trying to find a pose.
Ellie snorts as she watches you struggle, and you pout. “I'm sorry! I don’t know…” You move like a robot and she laughs. Why is she walking closer? Oh, fuck—
“Here.” Her hands grab your shoulders, and you go lax, right in her grasp, allowing her to move you however she wants. Her touch is melting your skin through your sleeves.
“Just… stay there.” Three wide steps, and she’s behind her camera, “Chin down a little.” She mutters. She’s encouraging with every instruction you follow, and you’re relaxing. Your movements are small, but by the series of bright flashes, they must be good enough to capture. You hope. Please, God.
“Stay right there. That’s perfect.”
“That’s it. Yeah, put your leg there.”
“Twist your body a little.”
I like that look, that’s good. Keep doing that.
You don’t know what your eyes are doing, but Ellie's eating it up. She doesn’t know what her words are doing for your confidence. She’s in your ears, in your presence, encouraging everything you’re giving the flashing camera. Your poses get bolder, eyes going softer the more you inspect her.
“Chin down again. Like… look through your lashes…”
Ellie’s so focused on you and it’s making your mouth water. She’s so calm and controlling, but not overbearing. She lets you take the reins and yanks them when she’s got something. The twist of your wrist, the flutter of your lashes, the doting expression on your face. It’s sparking something in her, you can see it from where you sit. She's so attractive when she’s working.
And then she smiles and your heart leaps. Flash.
“You like this.” She notes.
Another flash when you smile, “A little. This is fun.”
“Oh, yeah? I’m getting booked for your grad pics?”
Not if you fail statistics! “Gonna have to ask my dad! He’s picky!”
She hums with a light chuckle. “You look good in these. He’ll like me.”
More flashes, and there’s scratching at Ellie’s door. She sighs like it pains her to continue, “Hold on, baby! Almost done!” She coos at Pickle.
She mutters, “I’m gonna take, like… ten more. The mood’s gonna change a little if that’s cool.”
You stop yourself from slouching. “Sure, uh… what do I do now?”
“Imagine love as a vice. Think about the turmoil that comes with losing that feeling for somebody.”
Your mind instantly whirls to Dina and your heart cracks. What a turn of fucking events!
“Um… is that like… isn’t that like, a lot?”
Ellie’s unfazed, “Emotions are a lot. That’s the point.”
You don’t like this anymore. Vulnerability. Blegh. “… Okay.”
She’s waiting on you, but you’re frozen. You can’t stop thinking about every moment you and Dina spent together. Everything was so… good. It was filled with happiness. You anticipated every day that came because it meant you’d see her.
“Alright?”
You look up at Ellie’s call. You ignore her.
“Am I emoting well?” You snicker sarcastically. You’re aching inside.
She studies you, all over your face, but you’re stunted. You don’t know what to say.
“Yes.” She whispers, and you nod, mind wandering to the darkest parts of your memory. You miss being happy. The camera’s flashing, but you’re unperturbed. How much will you be able to ruin before you die? If your wallowing is jeopardizing the shot, Ellie doesn’t comment on it. You focus on the clock ticks coming from the kitchen.
Ellie’s gentle voice pulls you from underwater after a while, “Okay… I think that’s it.” Your breath is ragged and your fingers won’t stop twitching. You’re up from your seat with a breathy okay, sliding into the kitchen and stealing a water bottle from the fridge. There’s cluttering behind you but you’re desperately downing your drink.
She's closer than you think. Right behind you, actually! You almost choke when her hand softly closes around your bicep.
“Hey, um… You okay?”
You swallow harshly and nod, blinking away tears; She’s so close, “Love fucking sucks.” You joke wetly.
A laugh that caresses your ears escapes her, “Damn. Fuck that shit, then.”
“Finally, someone gets it! Fuck, like…” You set your water down and wipe away heavy droplets with your free arm. Ellie’s eyes travel over your face, lands of green sparkling in her pupils.
“I really appreciate you doing this for me.” She whispers.
“Of course!” Your smile is delicate, “I hope there’s something in there you can use.”
Her head shakes, smile as gentle as rose petals, “I got it, trust me.”
The silence that follows is heavy, your breaths in sync. “Was… Are you okay?” You’ve never seen her eyes this delicate. You nod, eyes dropping to her mouth on instinct. You’re suddenly back in your car, you and Ellie leaning over the center console to get to each other. Her breath is hitting your face again, and you’re itching for her to kiss you.
She’s reading your body language the closer she gets, checking in, memorizing every green light you’re giving her.
“Ellie…” You can’t even hear yourself. Her hand unravels from your arm, frosting your sizzling cheek like snowflakes. Her warmth is engulfing you, and with one last breath, her lips connect with yours. It's short lasting, though. Ellie pulls away, shock plastered on her face.
She's stuttering and slowly backing away… or something like that. You’re not listening, nor do you want an apology. You grab the drawstring dangling from her gray hoodie and yank her closer, mouth pressing against hers.
Ellie’s stiffness melts, weightless against you as your mouths mold together. She's sighing, arm wrapping around your waist, warmth simmering between your closed bodies. Your arms wrap around her neck as she inches forward, small steps until you're pressed against the marble.
The kiss is slow and steady. You both give in to each other, studying, memorizing every inch of her mouth. Gentle smacks sound in the silent space of the kitchen, clammy hands traveling anywhere they can reach: the nape of her neck, massages on your hips, steadying your stumbles as you push against her. Your fingers inch upwards until they're at her sloppily done bun, loosening the hair tie and pulling as gently as you can, soft strands wrapping around your digits like vines.
Ellie’s humming and her hips push against you, so you pull again, smiling gently into the kiss. She pushes again, harder this time, hips languid as they trap you against the counter. Your thighs widen for her, and she takes the lead, hands digging into your thighs and lifting you onto the granite.
The kiss turns desperate swiftly after, Ellie’s tongue pushing past your mouth, her hands slowly pulling your tucked shirt from your pants. You’re biting at her lip, caressing her thighs over her sweats, trapping her between your legs, keeping her close.
One last wet smack and you’re traveling down her jaw to the side of her neck, littering kisses all over her burning skin. You try not to make your inhales too obvious, but you can’t help it. Her scent drives you up a wall.
She follows your lead, trailing sloppy kisses down your neck, sucking the skin, lightly scratching at the skin on your hips. She yanks you closer, nearly sitting you on top of her, ass barely on the counter—
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!
You both jolt like you’ve been caught, a thin line of spit connecting your bottom lips.
“Expecting someone?” She mumbles dazedly, and you silently deny. “Are you?”
“Be serious.” She says flatly.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!
The pounds on the door aren’t shit to Ellie, apparently; Her lips are back on you in a second. A gasp surges through you, “Oh, fuck! What if someone saw Pickle and they’re tryna— “
“She’ll be fine,” she whines between suckles on your throat.
You whimper wantonly, but the knocks get aggressive. It has to be Carol! You don’t want Ellie to stop, but you push her.
“E—Ellie— “
She releases you with an annoyed huff, giving you enough room to hop off the counter. Scratches and meows alert you once more, and you run to the front door, whisper-yelling to Ellie, “Hide Pickle! Hide her!”
“Okay, okay, damn,” She sighs in annoyance, heading back down the hallway. You can hear Ellie’s soft shushes to the kitty, meows swiftly replaced with purrs. You think Pickle has chosen her favorite parent.
You yank the door open and your heart plummets.
“Hey, uh… hi.” Abby’s voice cracks and her nose is glowing red. Your heart pulls in your chest at the sight of her soft eyes.
“Hi, Abby,” You say softly. She shyly peers at her feet. “How are you?”
A soft smile spreads across her face, “I’m not here to talk about me, I wanna apologize. I, um… I wanted to call but I thought I’d do it in person.”
“No need. I’m sorry, to— “
But Abby isn’t having it, dropping onto one knee in the middle of the complex hallway, taking your hand in hers, “Oh, how I treated Thee, for I am full of regret. What do I owe Thou the pleasure of forgiveness?”
You holler laughter, “Bitch, is that a question? What the fuck do I say to that.”
“… I actually don’t know, what the fuck— “
“You’re actually the fucking worst, get up,” You’re pulling your friend to her feet and wrapping your arms around her neck, pressing light kisses to her cheek. She lifts you and carries you inside, kicking the door shut.
“Was it Carol?”
You barely hear your roommate from behind you. Abby sets you down, and you’re met with a… blank Ellie. This version of her is almost unfamiliar.
“Hm?”
“Was,” Her eyes flicker towards your friend, “Was it Carol?” Your eyes flicker to Abby, confused as ever.
“Um, no, thank God, right?” You laugh awkwardly, “Ellie, this is Abby. Abby, this is Ellie, my new roomie.”
Abby slaps on her signature smile, extending her hand in greeting, “Nice to meet you. I heard a lot.”
Ellie’s eyes flicker between Abby’s hand and her face, eyes squinted. She only nods before murmuring to you, “Pickle’s fed. Lock the door if you leave.”
Your mouth drops, but before you can say anything, Ellie’s door slams shut, lock clicking, barricading herself, shut off from the outside. Pickle scurries into your open space at the noise. A stunned Abby finally drops her hand and turns to you with an expression reading I told you so. Your heart jolts and it’s painful.
“C’mon,” Abby coos, hands massaging your shoulders, “I owe you pancakes.”
You try to smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Not like it should at the mention of a free meal. For some reason, you feel guilty.
IHOP needs to have their holiday menus all year round; These cinnamon roll pancakes are fucking lethal! You shoved your platter down and already want seconds. Abby’s too sweet to you.
“Abby.”
“Hm?” She gnaws at her turkey bacon.
“I’m in a predicament.”
“What’s the matter.”
“I think I like Ellie.”
Your friend pauses before sighing, “Alright. So, what’s the plan?”
“To die, I think. That’s the only plan.”
“Don’t say that,” she chuckles. You shrug.
“We made out and I liked it,” You whisper, “Like, a lot.”
“Did y’all smash?” You shake your head.
“Are you gonna tell her?”
You scoff, “Did you miss the part where I said to die? I’d rather die. She hates my fucking guts all over again.”
“I don’t think she does.”
“You don’t know her, Abby— “
“I know a jealous munch when I see one,” She smirks, “I was one for a long time.”
Your jaw drops, “Really? With who?”
She grins, but it doesn’t meet her eyes, “Don’t worry about it.”
You pout. Why didn’t she tell you?! Poor thing. You place a comforting hand on top of hers.
“Promise to tell me before graduation. I need some shit to look forward to.”
“Like you’re gonna remember.”
“Fuck off! I never forget anything!”
“Yeah, anyway, your roomie was jealous— “
Your shoulders drop and your eyes roll. Ellie and jealousy? Together? Bullshit. Tomfoolery. Fake news.
“Abby, I can't tell her— “
“Can’t or won’t?” Abby arches a brow, “You know what you do and don’t want. You’re creating stupid rules that combat your feelings and wonder why you end up hurt. Cut it out.”
… Either face your fears of abandonment or die alone. Interesting ultimatum. You choose the latter.
“You’re very easy to read, believe it or not. You like her. Accept it or move on,” Abby mumbles around her extra-crispy hash brown.
You sigh. You’ve accepted it a long time ago; That's the issue. The only thing that can help you right now is more fucking cinnamon roll pancakes. Abby better leave this apology tab open.
You’re hit with the usual warmth of the apartment the second you step in, finding Ellie on the couch with her feet kicked up, mindlessly fiddling with your favorite pen. Her silence makes your skin crawl; You never know what she’s thinking.
“So, what,” You shrug, setting your to-go bag on the counter, “Are you just gonna pout or are we gonna have an adult conversation?”
“I don’t think you’re capable of that,” She mumbles.
“What does that mean?”
“It means what it sounds like. You’re fucking immature and inconsiderate.”
Your heart nearly stops, “I’m— “
She slices through your words, “Save that I don’t know what you mean bullshit for someone else. If you and that bitch are still fucking, why the fuck did you kiss me?”
Her accusation makes you snap, “First of all, I haven’t fucked Abby in weeks! And even if I did, that’s none of your fucking business! I can do whatever the fuck I want and I don’t need to explain myself to you! And you kissed me first so don’t start!”
A grin grows on Ellie face, head tipping back onto the couch as she laughs to herself, sighing in disbelief, “I never thought I would regret a kiss so much in my fucking life, oh my god.”
You scoff, ignoring the sudden ache in your chest, “Fuck you.”
“You want to.”
You hate how heat builds in your stomach, “I want to?” You snark, “You shoved your tongue in my mouth a few hours ago. You want to. Don’t fucking piss me off.”
You stomp to your room before Ellie can say anything above her laughter. Your door slams and you pace across your small room. You ignore the stress building deep in your joints; The term is almost over. You don’t need this fucking bullshit on your back right now!
To think you and Ellie were starting to get on good terms. If she wants to play that game, then fine; You’ve mastered the sport at this point! The kiss meant nothing to you either!
You hope her Christmas is fucking awful and she finds nothing but a pile of fucking rocks in her marijuana sock. What a cunt—
Meow! Meow!
Your heart pulls at the small scratches at your door. You need your baby to give you some love since a certain someone won’t. Pickle calls out until you open the door, but your sad smile disappears at the sight of that someone propped against your door frame.
“She wanted her mommy.” Ellie nods down at the kitten rubbing against your leg.
“Fuck you.” You spit.
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you!” You shout and lean closer, but she doesn’t seem threatened. That same sparkle in her eye is back, and, suddenly, your body’s flaming for another reason. The tip of her nose twitches, once, twice, three times, and you refuse to hold back any longer.
You grab her face and kiss her. Kiss her as hard as you can. She’s so fucking aggravating; Why can’t she ever mind her fucking business? You’re sick of her clocking your pussy! The kiss is hot and quick and it sends vibrations down to your toes. It’s not until gentle purring fills your ears that you gasp and separate from your roommate.
You bend down to pick up your little princess. Ellie’s lips reconnect with your neck the second you're upright. “Did she eat?” You mutter.
“Mhm. Twice.” You nod and kiss her small, furry head, “She’s gonna be scratching at the door.” You ponder to yourself.
“We’ll make it quick,” She mumbles in between harsh sucks to your throat, nibbles at your lobe. You escape the attention for a split second to grab Pickle’s small toy mouse from your dresser, tossing it down the hall and into the living room. Her small paws skip across the floor as she slides the trinket all over the hardwood.
“We’re not fucking.” You say harsher than necessary.
“I didn’t ask.”
You gently shut the door and jump Ellie’s bones, releasing all your pent-up frustration and anger into another kiss. The formerly gentle tugs of her hair are replaced with harsh yanks that expose her throat. Seconds pass and she’s pushing you onto your unmade bed, body bouncing before she climbs on top of you, reconnecting your mouths in the sloppiest kiss you’ve ever shared… It’s doing something to your cooter, though. You’re wet as fuck.
Ellie’s fully onto top of you, body almost overheating from the layers of clothes between you. Her hips are sharp when they push into yours, swallowing all your stunned gasps and pleasured sighs. Your body is on fire and it’s making you lightheaded, but she feels so good on top.
Ellie’s cursing against your mouth and she bucks into you, right against the muscle of your thigh, and you just watch the flames spread in her orbs. Not the comforting greenery that you could get lost in for days. The trees are black and surrounded by clustered rubble. She’s grunting against your cheek, her nose hitting yours with every thrust.
A bold hand creeps between both your bodies and slips right into her wrinkly sweats, beneath her underwear, fingers drenched in seconds. You smirk when she whimpers your name between swears, palming the bud that throbs like a beating heart. Blush tints her cheeks the wetter she gets, pooling in your hand as you grind into her clit.
Ellie’s cute. You’ll give her that. So, you rub her harder.
“Agh, fuck, fuck— “
You're snickering to yourself but Ellie doesn’t care. She’s whining like a little bitch and humping you like a dog…
Does she top? You should ask her after this. Post-nut gay quiz.
“Finger me, put your— oh shit— “
“Hmm…” You suck your teeth, “Nah.”
She glares down at you, leaving fiery holes in your cheek, “Don’t f—fucking piss me off right now.”
You halt all your movements. “That’s all you’ve been doing since you got in this bitch. Shut the fuck up and take what I give you…” You pause, “Or get the fuck off me. Your choice.”
A full one-eighty, truly. How she goes from looking at you with intent to kill to a wounded puppy in seconds. Poor thing wants a treat. Your entire hand is drenched in her juices; She can wait a little longer.
“You ate my fucking Doritos.”
“W—What?” She sounds like she’s going to cry. You can’t stop smiling.
Slow circles on her clit, and her body wracks on top of you, “The ones I hid in the cabinet… Nasty little thief. Gonna buy me some more?”
Her breathing is so rapid, “You’re so s—stupid fuck— “
“You’re gonna do more than that… gonna show me what’s in that fucking portfolio like you promised.” You whisper, hot against her face.
This is the strangest dirty talk you’ve ever partaken in, but Ellie’s losing it on top of you. She hasn’t shut up yet. She’s hiding her face in your neck, words vibrating against your skin. You don’t know what she said, so you stop again. She sobs.
You sound sweeter than candy, “What was that?”
Ellie doesn’t answer. Just pants into your skin. You pat her clit a few times and she jerks to attention. “I asked you a question.”
“Feels,” She heaves, “Feels so fucking good— “
“I didn’t ask you that.”
“I’ll show you — fuck, okay? Okay, okay, m’so close— “
Your thumb brushes against her clit, “I wanna see it after you nut.”
She gasps words miles per minute, “I promise, Ipromise, touch me keep touching me— “
Ellie attempts to grind into your hand once more, but you stretch, slippery fingers sliding lower until the tip of your index catches onto her pulsing hole. You can barely hear, but she’s begging. Thank God you trimmed your nails.
You push in gently, Ellie’s teeth grazing the skin right underneath your ear. A shiver runs down your spine. She grins before biting down on it. You moan into the boiling air. Your finger gets swallowed by her walls; She’s so fucking tight and soft and she’s clenching with every moan, your thighs squeezing around her hips.
Ellie continues to grind on top of you, practically riding your finger, her moans increasing in volume.
“E-Ellie, look at me, sit up—“ She doesn’t hesitate, clammy forehead resting on yours as you stare into her glossy, lustful eyes. They’re fluttering with every deep grind of your arched digit and your heart skips a beat.
“Gimme one more, stretch me out,” she exhales onto your lips
“Sure?” You breathe.
She groans, “Yeah, fuck, m’gonna cum when you do— “
“You gotta cute face,” you whisper and giggle when her eyes squeeze shut in embarrassment, middle finger popping past the small entrance
“Fuck, babe, s’right there— “
Your walls clench at the name. Now you’re whining, “Gimme it. Hurry up so I can play with my kid.”
“O-Our fucking kid—“ She chokes.
You hum playfully, “Oddly domestic. Is this what marriage is like? Quickies in the laundry room when the baby’s watching Cocomelon?”
“No — fuck, do you ever shut the fuck up?” You can’t even move from hard her walls are choking you, “M’cumming, Jesus fucking— son of a— “
Ellie’s walls grip your fingers as she trembles on top of you, lips crashing onto yours as she groans in your mouth, and you smile. You should’ve spit on her tongue, but you held back. She’s not ready. Fucking gremlin.
Her orgasm rocks her into exhaustion, her body going completely limp on top of you as her hips twitch into your touch. You stare up at the ceiling, mind racing.
You technically didn’t fuck! Your pussy is quite convincing. You didn’t, but you want to!
“We didn’t fuck.” You mumble.
She huffs dryly, voice low. Here comes the goosebumps! “Sure.”
“We didn’t,” you bemoan and pull out, slick smearing on both your clothes before you present the wet digits in front of your face. Ellie finally lifts her head to join the inspection of your drenched, wrinkly fingers. She smells good.
“Go wash your hands,” she croaks.
“Mind your business.” You suck them clean and she snorts, rolling off and onto the bed. You sit up to open the door for Pick-Pick, but Ellie grabs your bicep.
“What?”
“You… You don’t want to…?”
You look around blankly.
“Do you want me to do something… like an exchange?”
You’re not sure how to answer, but thankfully, curious meows and light scratching distract the both of you. You’re moving like a robot into the living room, Ellie right on your tail, cooing at the baby who rubs all over her.
You take a seat on the… lavender-scented cushion. She bought a new freshener.
“Ellie.”
“What.”
“I don’t like you.”
A scoff from her, “I don’t care.”
You pause. “… Wanna sniff my punani?” You mock.
She takes a seat, swiftly followed by Pickle, and turns her head in your direction, lip between her teeth, “Can I?”
“What.”
“Just a whiff.” She hums between snickers. The sensors in your brain are on fire. Ellie is so confusing.
You scratch your ear, stealing her habit, “You… You want to?”
She grabs your discarded pen from the coffee table, “You want me to?”
Yes. “No.”
Ellie nods and continues to fiddle with it, obnoxiously clicking it over and over. She doesn’t fight you on it. How embarrassing. You really need head.
Your eyes meet your sock-covered feet, “… I was just kidding,” You mumble.
More pen clicking. “Come here for a second.” Your feet carry you at her grumble, plopping down onto the lavender-scented cushion. New freshener.
“Is this gonna be… a regular thing?”
Your head shakes a ton. It most definitely will not. You can’t take your eyes off how Ellie flips her pen. Her hands are bewitching. You need them in your throat again.
“I think we… just needed to get it out of our system?” You suggest. Unfortunately, it seems neither of you are convinced.
Pickle climbs up your sweatshirt, head rubbing against your chin. You peck her nose, “Why do you think that.” Ellie asks.
“I’m not fucking someone I live with.” Your words are blunt, but Ellie doesn’t seem shaken by them.
“Why.”
“Because.” You say with finality.
She sighs, “Because you’re scared of getting your feelings hurt by someone you care about again?”
The bomb she drops is unexpected, but causes even more damage. Your shoulders immediately tense, on guard, “What the fuck…” How did she…
Ellie winces, “Don’t uh… don’t be mad…”
“Why the fuck— how do you even know that?”
“Dina told me.” She blurts and you jump from your seat, glowering at the girl who sheepishly taps her fingers on the couch.
“The fuck do you mean Dina told you— “
More word-vomit. How long was she holding this shit from you? “S-She was my roommate. She’s the reason I got evicted— “
Your throat is closing, “…Is this a fucking joke?”
Ellie cowers at your tone, “Not really.”
“When the fuck were you going to tell me that you’re friends with my fucking ex?!”
“We’re not friends!” She says meekly. “And you weren’t official— “
“It doesn’t fucking matter, Ellie! What the fuck!” Your efforts of holding tears back fail, as usual. You’re sick of crying in front of this broad. “She fu—fucking ruined my life!” The stares you get will never fail to make you sick.
Ellie’s eyes remind you of glass. Breakable. You holler through sniffles, “Is that why you called me a fucking slut! Because that bitch told you some fake ass, fucked-up story about me whoring around campus?!”
“Dude, I’m— “
“I fucked over the sweetest fucking girl on campus, right? The world’s best fucking pitcher got her heart broken by some low-life fucking artist with no future!” You rant until your breath is short, “I was fucking in love with her! I-I wanted to be with her, I would’ve died for her! I’m— “
Your hands desperately grasp at your chest to get your heart to ease the knocking against your ribcage.
“You think I-I’m fucking easy, right? That’s why you came onto me earlier? ‘Cuz I’m a fucking whore?! A desperate sl—slut with no self-worth— “
The space you found comfort in is rapidly filling with darkness; You’re being sucked into a void of nothing and you can’t think. Ellie doesn’t move, just stares over you with feeble pupils, hand clutched around that pen, the end of it leaving an indent in her sweats.
Pickle plops down onto your feet as you cry. You take her into your arms and hold her as close as possible, scurrying into your room. You fall back against the door and it slams, sliding down the wood as Kit-Kat nuzzles your chin. She’s the sweetest fucking thing in the world. How could such an angel be left in the snow to die?
Time moves in a blur as you weep. Your mom would’ve held you if she were here.
What you would give for some parental guidance. You almost called your father.
Almost.
Click, click, click, click, click—
One, two, three, four. Breathe in, Breathe out. Five, six—
Thank God for your fucking custom pen. The noise is enough to distract her from breaking down in your tiny living room. She should’ve snagged Pickle before you did; She needs a fucking hug.
Ellie hates being yelled at. More than anything. More than you. God, she fucking despises you.
You look and sound nothing like her mother, but you’re oddly alike. She pondered whether or not that was the reason she was drawn to you; She always finds herself trapped in spaces with fucking deflectors.
She hasn’t even begun editing the photos from earlier. At this point, she doesn’t even want to use them. It’s a shame your eyes are so expressive; She would’ve burned the pictures she took of you the second you left with that bitch if she wasn’t so crunched for time. She needs to submit them so she can get the fuck out of here.
You’d be an excellent actress; You have emotions down pact on camera. The dark part of her brain convinced her that you were thinking of her with that doting, yearnful look in your eye.
The photography company keeps sending her emails about completing her work profile and her fucking portfolio submission. That’s the only form of motivation she has left, and even then, she hasn’t revisited those photos. She doesn’t have much time to make them perfect.
Ellie swallows the lump in her throat over and over, thumb pressing down, down, down. She can’t stop clicking your fucking pen. Just don’t cry.
Your sobs almost get her there, almost push her over the edge, but she shuts her eyes and counts each click, matching them with every heave she releases. You, somehow, sound just like her fucking mom.
And Ellie, despite the backwards relationship between the two of you, still fucking kissed you. She should’ve died right there in front of you. What a fucking joke.
But she couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to. She’s never experienced affection like that; It was passionate and made her itch with a desire she hasn’t felt in a long time. All she wants is for someone to love her, hold her like you did, touch her like you did. She’s never felt that euphoric in her life, never witnessed so many bright colors at once.
Whoever told her being alone was easy was a fucking liar. No one should wake up and want to die every day, so why does she? Everyone thinks she prefers silence, but she doesn’t. Ellie craves contact in all forms. In any form. Desperately.
Why did it have to be you? Why the fuck did it have to be you.
Her brain is telling her she can’t wait to move out, so why is her heart amidst decay whenever she thinks about it? She’s going to suffocate in here, so she rises, pen still in hand, and snags her puffer and beanie from the couch. Her feet shove into her boots and she’s out, the front door slamming shut. She didn’t even bother to lock it.
Ellie takes the stairs and leaves the building on autopilot, no destination in mind. Just stomping through the splintering cold like a fucking yeti. Every breath oxidizes in a cloud before her as she recalls where she fumbled with you.
Dina.
Ellie’s cold hands frost her face as she wipes it, making sharp turns and stumbling on ice. She wants to go home; She misses her dad.
Dina seems to be the only thing you two have in common. You both might hate her more than each other. The horror she felt when her ex-roommate taped that eviction notice on her door is incomparable. Ellie was a struggling entrepreneur and practically fucking homeless overnight. All because Dina’s new fucking side piece.
Ellie and Dina, friends. Wait until she tells you about how she almost beat her and her girlfriend’s ass. If you’re even willing to listen at this point.
Ellie continues to walk, hands tucked under her armpits. At least she’s not simmering anymore in her rage anymore. She blocks down the way when she realizes she forgot her fucking phone. This would’ve been a perfect time to cry to her old man.
You’re not out of Ellie’s system at all. You’ve, unfortunately, claimed residency inside of her.
You’re scribbling with spilled wine on your shirt, outside noise muffled by the plugs in your ears. You don't recall leaving your room, grabbing a bottle and downing its contents, but the remnants of broken glass acts as a decent reminder.
Your hand is cramping from its grip on a new pen, but you can’t stop gliding the tip across the sixth sheet of printer paper. You hate what you’re drawing; The details are perfect, inked scratches practically muscle memory, and you despise it. It’s always her.
You’re going to be alone for a very long time. You’re too destructive for companionship, you’ve learned. How ironic: the one aspect of life you crave is becoming your demise, and your downfall is going to be tortuous. Recovery is never long lasting for you.
So, you sketch. And scratch. And erase, start again, hoping, praying, for an outcome that doesn’t feel so lost. You’re destroyed and desperate to find comfort. Was your father right when he called you sick at age twelve? Maybe something is truly wrong with you. Maybe one of the reasons why you constantly push and mask and hide.
Every insecurity you’ve garnered in high school is flourishing in adulthood, thick as vines and as strong as tree bark. Deflection is an art that you’ve mastered out of preservation; Too bad it’s trapped you in isolation.
The green in Ellie’s eyes holds stories. Somehow, this month feels like centuries. Centuries of studying the mass area of blossoming, healthy land beneath her pupils. Her eyes are sacred, almost too sacred to manipulate, but you draw them anyway.
You want to touch her again. You want her to touch you. Just one last time. You’re already a fucking failure; One last mistake wouldn’t hurt.
A teardrop musses the paper, so you scrap it like the others and start again. Ellie’s eyes are too pretty to be smudged.
You can’t stay here anymore. You hope Amaya understands. You hope Ellie understands.
You’d give anything to be able to call your mother.
You hear the front door open and close for the hundredth time tonight, followed by swift clicks of a pen. Guilt floods your system. You peer at a sleeping Pickle on your mattress before standing, opening your door to see Ellie entering hers. Your intoxicated brain notes the sex lighting in her room; Red LED. You talk before thinking.
“I didn’t mean to yell at you.” She jumps and turns at your cracked voice, eyes red. She smoked; you can smell it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to— “
“I’m submitting my portfolio in the morning. I’ll be out by Christmas.” She says, monotone. Lifeless.
A dry huff escapes your closed throat. Your heart is breaking. Just a little, “I guess, uh… I can’t see it anymore, huh?” She doesn’t answer.
“Do you regret taking those pictures?” She mumbles.
You don't hesitate, “Not at all.”
She nods. The silence that follows is thick, weighing at both of your shoulders, holding you in place. Ellie’s breathing is finally steady, and it’s calming.
“Go to bed.” She whispers before entering her room, gently shutting it behind her. Some tears fall before you follow her lead.
Pickle is sitting on the edge of your bed, just watching you. You smile sadly and whisper, “At least you love me, right?”
A gentle blink from her. You sob; Another pair of green eyes to bring you comfort.
“I love you, too.”
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I logged my 200th bird species for Wisconsin! I got a great tip from a close friend, who knows about these things, that a Hooded Warbler had appeared in a park near my house.
[ID: A male Hooded Warbler perches on a mossy branch in the forest. His body is just a couple inches long, with green feathers on back, wings, and tail, and dull yellow for the underparts. His "hood" is a black cowl that covers almost his entire head save for a bright yellow mask that extends in an oval from the middle of his face to surround the eye and ear on each side. He has a pointy dark gray bill shaped for picking insects off of trees, and his eye is a reflective jet black that stands out against the yellow mask. End ID]
The next morning, I packed up my camera along with my work bag and took a break from my commute to check out the park. I arrived to find several people wandering the trails, here to do the exact same thing as me. None of them had seen the Hoodie yet, but they had a wealth of information from other birders on the movements and general behavior of the bird from the past couple days. I spent at least 45 minutes wandering the trails, squishing through the damp and the mud in my work slacks and sneakers. I logged five firsts for 2024, but no sign of the elusive Hooded Warbler.
[ID: The Hooded Warbler perches on the same mossy branch, this time facing away from the camera and looking up into the treetops. His wings are neatly folded behind his back, making a pleasing pattern with the tips of the primary flight feathers. End ID]
So I left the park for work, but decided I should come back in the evening. I knew from the sighting reports in eBird that this guy is active all day. When I got back to the park, it was cloudy and drizzling. I met a pair of nice young women with binoculars and a camera lens as long as mine. I asked, "Are you here looking for the Hooded Warbler too?"
One of them said very casually, "Oh yeah, it's right over there across the creek. Just flittering around." So of course I had to get eyes on him and try to get a photo. It was only a couple minutes before he came out again and started working the far bank of the creek.
[ID: The same Hooded Warbler, this time perched deeper in the brush and looking toward the camera. This angle provides a better view of the black hood and bright yellow mask, looking delicately fringed around the edges. End ID]
I probably followed the Hoodie down the creek for like 10 minutes before he decided to cross over to our side to do some more foraging. I froze. He was almost completely hidden in the brush, but I could see bits of movement and kept him in the frame the whole time. I knew I couldn't make any sudden moves without scaring him away. For a brief moment, he came out to take a closer look at me, which is where all the photos in this post came from. I only managed to shoot three bursts while he was completely out in the open before he took off for the far side of the creek again.
[ID: The Hooded Warbler looks directly at the camera, only partially obscured by a twig. His posture suggests being ready to leap forward and continue the hunt for insects. End ID]
I was left feeling incredibly amped. The other photographer and I had to share back-of-the-camera shots and gush over how cute he was and how close he came to us. It seems it's always a special event when a rare or unusual species shows up in town. I love these brief moments of connection with birds and the people that care about them.
#bird photography#birding#photography#birds#bird#birdblr#birdlife#birdwatching#original photography#original photography on tumblr#warbler#hooded warbler#close encounter#migration#spring
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Heyyy so yk the series that you were doing where what it would be like to be Tom or bills daughter? Sooooo I thought maybe do one where Tom and bill both had daughters young and both moms are not in the picture and the daughters are total bffs like they are always together?? Just a suggestion I don’t know if you still do that anymore you don’t have to tho anyways bye!
(this would actually be so dope if it was real)
Mini Thems
They raised mini thems! They raised mini thems!
From birth you and your cousin were practically twins
You guys were born mere days apart, same age and everything and even as they grew up they were attached to the hip
Since Bill and Tom are identical twins their kids would most likely have a lot of the same features from their dad's
You and your cousin are confused as twins all the time and it's so funny
You guys wouldn't call yourself twins though
Bill and Tom were so surprised when they found out they were having kids at the same time
But Bill was actually so excited and Tom was just as stoked as well
Bill wanted to raise you guys side by side as well
You and your cousin have sleepovers all the time
You guys are gonna put Bill and Tom int cardiac arrest as well
You guys LOVE defying then
Oh my god and tease them about you guys having boyfriends or girlfriends?
Your dad's are freaking out and denying you guys are growing up
You guys share clothes all the time and sometimes fight about it but still lend each other stuff
More like stealing because you guys never ask, just take
You guys are the literal definition of sibling, but you're cousins instead
The Tokio Hotel Fandom loves you guys
There may be little dicks of fans but the older fans were so excited when you guys came!
So many tabloids and paparazzi were dying to take pictures of you guys
You guys were so alike that sometimes people couldn't tell y'all apart until one did something the other didn't
You guys were the center of attention and absolutely dolls growing up
On stage and off you guys were stars
Your dad's would take you guys on tour as well just because you guys wanted
Tom and Bill gave you guys whatever you could ever please and gave you everything they didn't have
Your uncle's, Gustav and Georg as well?
You guys learned how to give your dad's gray hairs from them
Gustav and Georg would babysit you guys and suddenly you were screaming bitch, ass, shit and so much more
You got your sassiness from Uncle Gustav 1000%
You guys were taken out and photographed in so many cute outfits because Bill dressed you guys to match or be the opposite and it was so cute
Tom basically made you guys mini hims when he had you guys as well
You guys were blinged out and fashionable with makeup as well when Bill dressed you guys
Tom was baggy clothes for his daughter and niece, Bill was makeup, skirts, large tea shirts, shorts, sunglasses, painted nails and bags and so much more
So safe to say, y'all raid Bill's closet a lot
You guys love spending time with Heidi as well
You guys take her dresses and clothes as well and she loves doing your guys' hair when asked
Great step mom and step aunt if I say so
Your cousin and you could talk like telepathy without words and it's so cool
Just subtle looks and you guys know exactly what the other means
You guys are one of the most iconic familial duos to live
You guys are often compared to your dad's and a lot of fans hope you guys take after them
Gustav and Georg were so surprised at first as well but actually were one of the first to meet you guys when you were born
Georg is the kill for you uncle and Gustav is the ride or die and knock a bitch out uncle
They pick you guys outta school without your dad's knowing all the time
They made you guys little mini thems for your dad's for revenge on Bill biting Georg and spraying him with hairspray
Tom was collateral as well
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
@billsjum6ie @bigbootahjudy @ilovebill-and-gustav @r3dheadedw0rld @kiwitsune @V4mpyboyy @novaaisstupid @billybabeskaulitz @yas-v @iischafer @dilfverz @ahswhore0 @graciegizmo3184 @sweetpuffy12 @80s-tingz @ryiana @yuriayato5 @bunnysenpai31 @banshailey @bellastoner420 @victryzvv9 @stxngnr @killed-kiss @stilesandjames @m00nzyblogs @sylisan @lyzit @trixiekaulitz @laylasbunbunny @5hyslv7 @limaswife @nyxwritesshit
#tokio hotel#tokio hotel imagine#tokio hotel x reader#bill kaulitz#bill kaulitz imagines#bill kaulitz x reader#tom kaulitz#tom kaulitz imagines#tom kaulitz x reader#gustav schäfer x reader#gustav tokio hotel#gustav schafer x reader#gustav schäfer#tokio hotel georg#georg listing#georg#georg listing x reader#heidi klum
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GQ Magazine - July 2007
The Summer of Jessica Biel
To celebrate Biel’s being in a movie actually worth seeing, we sent Adam Stein to play carnival games with her.
When I told various friends I’d be interviewing Jessica Biel, I got the responses you’d expect—jealousy, mild rage, a plea to give her a phone number because she’s the one person that a friend’s wife would give him a free pass to sleep with. The uncanny thing is, when I asked these guys what they thought of her as an actress, most of them drew a blank. They hadn’t seen a single motion picture of hers. Okay, one or two had girlfriends who’d brought them to see The Illusionist, but otherwise, nada. As my friend Taj put it: “I’m obsessed with a girl I’ve never seen move.“
Well, that’s about to change. Later this month, men across America will see Jessica being very good in a very funny movie, and the nature of their love for her will…deepen. She’ll still be inhumanly beautiful, sure, but now they’ll have to contend with genuine talent, too, and that one-two punch can be disorienting. You know what else can? The fact that despite her recent tabloid exposure, she’s actually sweet, funny, earnest, occasionally a little crude, and—if my time playing carnival games with her can be used as evidence—uniquely driven to conquer whatever stands between Jessica Biel and what she wants.
I am waiting for her at the Santa Monica Pier, sitting on a stool next to one of those games where you shoot water from a gun into a clown’s mouth. I haven’t shaved for a week, because I read somewhere that Jessica Biel likes guys with beards. I’m inspecting mine in the reflective back of my iPod when a nice-looking young woman materializes in my view.
“Excuse me,“ she says. “Are you Adam?“
“Jessica?“ I ask, ridiculously.
Of course it’s her, in wraparound sunglasses, an open gray sweater over a white blouse, and faded jeans. She wears checkered Vans, like Jeff Spicoli. On the pier, no one recognizes her, which I suppose makes sense: There’s little resemblance between the pinup girl and the sneaker-wearing civilian out on a Monday afternoon. She doesn’t stick out as we walk the wooden planks of the amusement park; she blends in. She is, you might say, a very chill girl.
“Can we get a photo next to a star?“ she asks, stopping in front of a booth hawking photographs with huge cardboard cutouts of celebrities. It’s an impressive, eclectic array: Bill Clinton, Mini Me, Michael Jordan, Hilary Duff, Enrique Iglesias(!), Jean-Claude Van Damme, DiCaprio in Titanic. “They’re all kind of old,“ she says. I don’t know if she means the cutouts or the celebrities themselves (because to me, Mini Me will never age). She’s only 25 years old, so it could go either way. I ask her who she’d most want to pose with. She scrutinizes the assembly and makes her call: “I’d probably pick Van Damme, cause he looks the coolest.“
She takes the Muscles from Brussels over Leo—a victory of might over sensitivity. Nice.
Then she decides it’s time for the games to begin. She passes up the Riptide Ring Toss (“That one is impossible,“ she says) and focuses her attention on the Pier Plank Plunge. The PPP is basically a rope ladder suspended horizontally over an inflatable mattress. The trick is to climb, perfectly balanced, to a taunting red button placed approximately ten feet away. Press the button, win the prize—an enormous Sonic the Hedgehog. I ask her if she’s ever Pier Plank Plunged before. “Yes,“ she says, assessing the structure, looking for its weaknesses. “But I’ve never been able to achieve it.“ She begins barraging the bored-looking carny with questions. “Do you have any tips?“ (It’s all about balance.) “Have you done it before?“ (Nope.) “Has anyone ever won?“ (Yeah.) “Has anyone won today?“ (Not yet.)
She turns to me, and I have to say she seems genuinely excited. “This is our chance,“ she says. “It’s our chance to win.“
I’m beginning to get the distinct impression that winning is important to Jessica Biel.
“Ladies first“ being the imperative, I take the initial go-round. It’s harder than it looks. My arms shake. Everything shakes. I can feel her hopefulness—Do it, get there—but I fall off within seconds. The shame is truly surprising. I wanted to do it for Jessica and failed. She throws me a “good try“ before stepping up herself.
Jessica was a gymnast when she was younger, and the training appears to be paying off as she mounts the unstable rope ladder. (It also occurs to me that the view I currently have is one the paparazzi would kill for.) She deploys a disciplined crawl, gets tantalizingly close to the red button, reaches for it—and loses her balance, flips over, and lands flat on the cushion, laughing. “Holy shit,“ she yells. “It’s so hard. That’s so frustrating.“
The carny asks if we’d like to try again. She pauses for a moment, looking at the button, and then, with obvious reservations, demurs.
“You were really, really close,“ I tell her.
“I know,“ she says, still staring at it, reluctant to move, apparently, without conquering the damn thing. “That’s how it gets you.“
Next up is something called the Hi-Striker, a game in which you swing a mallet to test your strength. I take three feeble swings, each one less successful than the last. A huge Hispanic man laughs every time I bring the mallet down on the metal block, and when I exit the cage and hand it off to the female attendant, she takes one exhibition swing and makes my emasculation complete. Up goes the projectile. Ping goes the bell.
J.B. watches, rapt. “Look at her awesome stance,“ she whispers, absorbing the details, memorizing the motion. Some actors “find“ their characters via a process of internalization—investigating emotions, plumbing psychology, creating an “inner life.“ This is known as the inside-out approach. Other actors work outside-in—developing a walk, a gesture, a physicality. Look at, say, Hilary Swank in Million Dollar Baby. Look at Jessica Biel in the Hi-Striker cage.
Mimicking the attendant’s, her first swing easily skunks my best effort. And she improves with each attempt. She’s getting into character. As she exits the cage, there’s a look of satisfaction on her face. She returns the mallet to the attendant, who looks at me and says: “She did better than you.“
As we leave, I ask her: “Is it more technique than strength?“
She shakes her head. “Brute strength,“ she says. “You just throw it up and slam it as hard as you can.“
On our way off the pier, we pass Zoltar, the animatronic fortune-teller who turned that kid into Tom Hanks in Big. Zoltar senses us and speaks: “Destiny is not a matter of chance; it is a matter of choice. It is not a thing to be waited for; it is a thing to be achieved.“
Zoltar makes Jessica smile. She digs his philosophy.
Jessica Biel’s destiny, at least of late, has led her to a prominent place in the trashy supermarket gossip rags. First it was snapshots of social excursions with second-banana studs (Chris Evans, Ryan Reynolds). Then, upping the ante, there was a beach fling with a sports icon (Derek Jeter). And then, in February, she grabbed the tabloid brass ring for reportedly nabbing the world’s most eligible bachelor, Justin Timberlake. Unsurprisingly, it’s not something she’ll discuss.
One thing she is happy talking about, though, is the unladylike girth of her knuckles. We’re getting dinner at an unassuming Italian trattoria across the street from the pier when she flashes those meaty joints and describes her nascent production company. “It was almost called Fat Knuckle Films. Because I have fat knuckles. See?“ she asks. “They don’t really look that way until you start putting rings on them, and then it stops right there.“
I have to say, Jessica Biel’s chunky midfingers are endearing, human, attainable—a word she uses a number of times in our conversation, as if to remind the world that she’s just a regular girl from Boulder, Colorado, who happens to have been called, by Esquire magazine in 2005, the Sexiest Woman Alive.
“At first I felt really embarrassed about it,“ she says. “You know, it’s a weird thing to talk about. Like, Hey, guys. Guess what?’ You don’t just go telling everybody that.“
She shifts her weight forward and goes on: “But after I got over that, I just started to embrace it. I started thinking, If I ever do have kids, and if they have kids, I can tell them: You know what? Your grandma in 2000-and-whatever was the Sexiest Woman Alive. How about that, kids?’ That’s what I started to think about. I’ll always have that picture to say, That’s what Granny used to look like.’ “
Before coming out here to get my ass handed to me at the Hi-Striker, I immersed myself in Jessica Biel’s Collected Works. She got her start in the mid-’90s on 7th Heaven, the WB dramedy that made a splash with the moral-values set, before leaving around 2002 for bigger (and badder) things. It’s been a grim scene ever since: Summer Catch (2001), which starred Freddie Prinze Jr. and stands at number forty-nine on Rotten Tomatoes’ 100 Worst- Reviewed Films of All Time. The Rules of Attraction (2002), notable only for Fred Savage shooting heroin between his toes and saying things like “I can feel my dick.“ (Remarkably, Biel comes across as fresh and charming, despite the astonishing pointlessness and nihilism of the flick.) The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (2003), which was Biel’s first top billing and is her biggest box-office performer to date, with a take of about $80 million. J.B. screams her head off throughout the movie and is entirely believable in distress, but you can’t help thinking as you watch her, There’s got to be better material than this. Sadly, no. There was an atrocity called Cellular, in 2004, and Blade: Trinity that same year (in which Biel kicks much undead ass as a midriff-baring vampire hunter). But the nadir has to be London, in ’06, a delusional piece of trash that starts off with a sex scene, Biel on top, saying, “Are you coming? Are you coming?“ before she proceeds to another not-quite-dignified act and then dips out of the frame to, presumably, swallow. Like I said, a grim scene.
And then, just in the nick of time, salvation arrived. A script called The Illusionist, to star Edward Norton and Paul Giamatti. There was a problem, though. The filmmakers didn’t want to give Biel an audition. They weren’t convinced the vampire-hunting Hollywood creation could rearrange herself into the role of a refined fin de siècle Hungarian duchess.
But Jessica Biel has a hard time taking no for an answer. And when another actress “dropped out“ of the film, her tenacity paid off. They finally brought her in. She arrived wearing a full period costume. She made them take her seriously, she says, and three days later, an offer arrived.
The Illusionist wasn’t what you’d call a “hit,“ but it got good reviews, made decent money, and changed the industry’s perception of her. Doors that were closed began to open. They just weren’t opening fast enough for her taste.
She sets down her after-dinner tea and says, “I want choices. I want options. I want to lay out all the directions I could go and have the ability to choose. I’m slowly starting to have that now.“
It’s the “slowly“ that kills her.
One film that will almost surely expedite the process is I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry, which will be released this month. It stars Adam Sandler and Kevin James as two Brooklyn firefighters who pretend to be a gay couple in order to receive domestic-partner benefits. J.B. plays the female lead, their hoodwinked attorney who falls for Sandler by the end of the picture.
Chuck and Larry is Jessica’s first real shot at popular, mainstream film success. Unlike her previous big-budget endeavors, it doesn’t rely on CGI or fetishistic weaponry to make its points. It is also—apologies to Freddie Prinze Jr. —her first comedy.
“It was a little bit intimidating,“ she says. “I really admire Adam and Kevin, but then, I didn’t try to equal them or one-up them, and the character I created didn’t have to be that. She’s the straight woman, but very fun and very cool and just—attainable. That’s the kind of part that I’d like to play more. I mean, a vampire hunter? Is that really attainable? I’d just like to play something a little more quirky, interesting, outrageous. And uninhibited.“
“You’re not worried that she can do comedy,“ the movie’s director, Dennis Dugan, tells me. “You can tell she can do comedy. So we just met her and cast her. I really think she can have one of those diverse, Oscar-winning careers. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no horizon to her talent.“
The sun has gone down, and we’re standing on the sidewalk in front of the Italian joint, across from the pier. I’m holding a small stuffed Spider-Man doll that Jessica won as a prize back at the amusement park and which she’s given to me to give to my son. I ask what she’s doing tonight, and she says she’s playing chaperone to a girlfriend on a first date. “Basically, I’m her wingman tonight,“ she says. “I’ll probably slip away if it’s rolling along well.“
She graciously agrees to a photograph with me, which I would include except for two reasons: (1) I don’t want to make Justin Timberlake jealous, and (2) you never quite understand how unattractive you are until you see yourself in a picture with Jessica Biel.
I watch her as she walks toward the pier. I know it’s where her car is parked, but I have this image of her heading straight back to the Pier Plank Plunge. The carny won’t know who she is, nobody on the pier will recognize her, and she’ll just hand over her fiver and go at it. That red button, almost within her reach. Attainable.
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Gray-banded Kingsnake (Lampropeltis alterna), family Colubridae, from West Texas, southern NM, and northern Mexico
photograph by Bill Whaley
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o 625 words to know in your target language o
There is a really interesting blog called "Fluent Forever" that aids foreign language learners in tricks, tips and techniques to guide them to achieving fluency "quickly" and efficiently. One of the tricks is to learn these 625 vocab words in your target language, that way you have a basis to start delving into grammar with ease as you can understand a lot of vocab right off the bat. Plus this list of words are common across the world and will aid you in whatever language you are learning. Here is the list in thematic order
• Animal: dog, cat, fish, bird, cow, pig, mouse, horse, wing, animal
• Transportation: train, plane, car, truck, bicycle, bus, boat, ship, tire, gasoline, engine, (train) ticket, transportation
• Location: city, house, apartment, street/road, airport, train station, bridge hotel, restaurant, farm, court, school, office, room, town, university, club, bar, park, camp, store/shop, theater, library, hospital, church, market, country (USA,
France, etc.), building, ground, space (outer space), bank, location
• Clothing: hat, dress, suit, skirt, shirt, T-shirt, pants, shoes, pocket, coat, stain, clothing
• Color: red, green, blue (light/dark), yellow, brown, pink, orange, black, white, gray, color
• People: son, daughter, mother, father, parent (= mother/father), baby, man, woman, brother, sister, family, grandfather, grandmother, husband, wife, king, queen, president, neighbor, boy, girl, child (= boy/girl), adult (= man/woman), human (# animal), friend (Add a friend's name), victim, player, fan, crowd, person
• Job: Teacher, student, lawyer, doctor, patient, waiter, secretary, priest, police, army, soldier, artist, author, manager, reporter, actor, job
• Society: religion, heaven, hell, death, medicine, money, dollar, bill, marriage, wedding, team, race (ethnicity), sex (the act), sex (gender), murder, prison, technology, energy, war, peace, attack, election, magazine, newspaper, poison, gun, sport, race (sport), exercise, ball, game, price, contract, drug, sign, science, God
• Art. band, song, instrument (musical), music, movie, art
• Beverages: coffee, tea, wine, beer, juice, water, milk, beverage
• Food: egg, cheese, bread, soup, cake, chicken, pork, beef, apple, banana orange, lemon, corn, rice, oil, seed, knife, spoon, fork, plate, cup, breakfast, lunch, dinner, sugar, salt, bottle, food
• Home: table, chair, bed, dream, window, door, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, pencil, pen, photograph, soap, book, page, key, paint, letter, note, wall, paper, floor, ceiling, roof, pool, lock, telephone, garden, yard, needle, bag, box, gift, card, ring, tool
• Electronics: clock, lamp, fan, cell phone, network, computer, program (computer), laptop, screen, camera, television, radio
• Body: head, neck, face, beard, hair, eye, mouth, lip, nose, tooth, ear, tear (drop), tongue, back, toe, finger, foot, hand, leg, arm, shoulder, heart, blood, brain, knee, sweat, disease, bone, voice, skin, body
• Nature: sea, ocean, river, mountain, rain, snow, tree, sun, moon, world, Earth, forest, sky, plant, wind, soil/earth, flower, valley, root, lake, star, grass, leaf, air, sand, beach, wave, fire, ice, island, hill, heat, nature
• Materials: glass, metal, plastic, wood, stone, diamond, clay, dust, gold, copper, silver, material
• Math/Measurements: meter, centimeter, kilogram, inch, foot, pound, half, circle, square, temperature, date, weight, edge, corner
• Misc Nouns: map, dot, consonant, vowel, light, sound, yes, no, piece, pain, injury, hole, image, pattern, noun, verb, adjective
• Directions: top, bottom, side, front, back, outside, inside, up, down, left, right, straight, north, south, east, west, direction
• Seasons: Summer, Spring, Winter, Fall, season
• Numbers: 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 21, 22, 30, 31, 32, 40, 41, 42, 50, 51, 52, 60, 61, 62, 70, 71, 72, 80, 81, 82, 90, 91, 92, 100, 101, 102, 110, 111, 1000, 1001, 10000, 100000, million, billion, 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th, number
• Months: January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December
• Days of the week: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday
• Time: year, month, week, day, hour, minute, second, morning, afternoon, evening, night, time
• Verbs: work, play, walk, run, drive, fly, swim, go, stop, follow, think, speak/say, eat, drink, kill, die, smile, laugh, cry, buy, pay, sell, shoot(a gun), learn, jump, smell, hear (a sound), listen (music), taste, touch, see (a bird), watch (TV), kiss, burn, melt, dig, explode, sit, stand, love, pass by, cut, fight, lie down, dance, sleep, wake up, sing, count, marry, pray, win, lose, mix/stir, bend, wash, cook, open, close, write, call, turn, build, teach, grow, draw, feed, catch, throw, clean, find, fall, push, pull, carry, break, wear, hang, shake, sign, beat, lift
• Adjectives: long, short (long), tall, short (vs tall), wide, narrow, big/large, small/little, slow, fast, hot, cold, warm, cool, new, old (new), young, old (young), weak, dead, alive, heavy, light (heavy), dark, light (dark), nuclear, famous
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"Your hair is getting longer." You ran your hands through the locks, little slivers of gray catching the light.
His finger traced the line of your kneecap, dragging over a scar you're not sure you know the story of.
Maybe a childhood thing? Fell off the monkey bars or scrap it on a tree, maybe. Did you climb trees as a kid?
Seb hummed, moving his head to look up at you, "Yeah, growing it out for Bucky."
That makes sense.
Bucky had good hair. Oily hair.
You contemplate your next words but decide to land at, "That's hot."
He snorts, rolling back over to bury his face in your thigh and ignoring the cackle you let out.
It'd be raining all day for the last three days and the air outside had a humid heat that made it difficult to breathe. The two of you decided to stay inside — lounge around half the day and get some work done the rest.
That lasted for about one day before Seb declared feeling restless and needed to move. He went to the kitchen, paused, looked up the stairs, went back into the kitchen then out, and decided on working out for a few hours.
You'd brought your laptop into the spare room to body double and realized that instead of editing any photos, you spent hours watching him — sweat.
Maybe more than sweat, the man was a walking Romanian God (despite what he says. It doesn't matter.) Ogling him turned into fondling him which turned into being fucked against the wall of the gym wondering if you could spend your days tasting his skin.
Who could blame you — it's Sebastian.
Which meant for the last three days any work you were supposed to get done got pushed to the back burner for the opportunity to glue your eyes to Sebastian or the TV — with him splayed across your lap.
It wasn't a bad thing, except for your photographer who trusted you.
You still had Sebastian wrapped around you with sleepy eyes and a warm smile.
Your photographer would understand.
They like Seb.
He stretched, "You want to watch another movie?" Seb kissed your thigh, sending a zing of adrenaline through your body.
"Sure what are you thinking?"
"Something light-hearted." Kiss, "Maybe a comedy," another kiss, "You're obsessed with that Pedro guy, how about one of his movies." A nip of teeth, and you gasped.
"Or," He kissed your thigh, moving slowly, his hand following the path as he turned onto his stomach and slid off the couch, "We could have an early lunch."
You gasp when he nuzzles you, his nose pressing in, the thin material of your shorts warming as he breathes against you.
"I was thinking we could watch a buddy comedy-" Seb trailed his fingers up your legs to the waist of your shorts and gave a little tug until you lifted your hips and helped him pull them down.
He left your underwear where it was but pulled you closer to him.
"Which one?"
His fingers traced you, stroking up and down, dipping in enough to make you squirm, then back out, "Baby."
"Ah-" He moved them to the side and slowly slipped his fingers inside, spreading them, curling them, starting a slow stroke.
"What are you thinking?"
You hiss a moan in response.
"Baby, I need you to use your words."
"I — shit — uh — Superbad." Bill Hader's glasses popped into your head, which distracted you from him, slipping two more fingers in, and Seb huffed when you yelped in surprise.
"I could be down with that." He pressed the hell of his hand against you, "What about that Seth Rogen movie, uh, oh, Sausage Party?"
You gasped, jerked, almost hitting him with your knee, "Too crude. It's a slow day — the movie doesn't fit the vibe."
He hummed again.
Both of you focused on his fingers, the prodding curl, how he spread them out and made a hissing noise when it squelched.
"Damn, baby. Talking movies riles you up-"
"Now and then-" you gasp. Your thighs were shaking, quivering, that tell-tale pressure building behind your belly button and up your thighs.
"The movie or your reaction?' His thumb pressed down on your clit and your skin felt electric.
"The movie. Instead of come-oh-comedy we do feel good."
"Yeah," Your breathing picked up more, "You want to feel good?"
"Yes." Pant.
"Want both of us to feel good?"
Pant, twitch, "Yes."
"What about-"
Your hand reached out, grabbed his wrist, back arching off the couch as you came. Seb's fingers deep inside you and his breath against your neck as he tugs you forward, then down for a kiss.
"What about Captain Fantastic?"
You laughed.
He kept going.
"Bastian-"
"I said lunch, didn't I?"
Hey, wonderful Anon — is this along the lines you were looking for 😃😄
Sebastian Stan
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Uncredited Photographer Beat Poets Allen Ginsberg, Harold Norse, Jack Hirschman, Michael McClure and Bob Kaufman, Caffe Trieste, San Francisco 1975
I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the box house hills and cry.
Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery.
The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily.
Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust—
—I rushed up enchanted—it was my first sunflower, memories of Blake—my visions—Harlem
and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past—
and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye—
corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb,
leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!
The grime was no man’s grime but death and human locomotives,
all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black mis’ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt—industrial—modern—all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown—
and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos—all these
entangled in your mummied roots—and you there standing before me in the sunset, all your glory in your form!
A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze!
How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of the railroad and your flower soul?
Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?
You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower!
And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not!
So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter,
and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack’s soul too, and anyone who’ll listen,
—We’re not our skin of grime, we’re not dread bleak dusty imageless locomotives, we’re golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our own eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.
Allen Ginsberg, "Sunflower Sutra," 1955
--
my head felt stabbed
by a crown of thorns but I joked and rode the subway
and ducked into school johns and masturbated
and secretly wrote
of teenage hell
because I was “different”
the first and last of my kind
smothering acute sensations
in swimming pools and locker rooms
addict of lips and genitals
mad for buttocks
that Whitman and Lorca
and Catullus and Marlowe
and Michelangelo
and Socrates admired
and I wrote: Friends,
if you wish to survive
I would not recommend
Love
-- Harold Norse, "I Would Not Recommend Love" 1973
--
I ran down the street and into the house smelled
of oregano and shook Mickey Monaco, said
C'mon, Balaban's got a breadloaf
climbing over old Gruber's fence, he thinks
the mad dogs is doves.
But Mickey grew up in the bed till he was too old
and besides Balaban was crazy, he sucked
his tongue and got left back twice.
So I ran to Joey Bellino's house but his mother's
black stocking said Joey was out early shoe
shining. And besides a, that Balaban he's a
crazy a kid, he suck a the tongue and Joey says
he get lefback three times.
So I banged on Bitsy Beller's window yelled he was
near the top, the mad dogs waiting down
below he thinks is doves.
But when Bitsy stood up he turned into a stiff
cue stick. And didn't want nothing to do
with nobody cracked upstairs.
And Dickie Miller became a semipro. And Howie Fish
a doctor. So I ran down the street full of hope
by myself because I was on fire. But I got there
too late for Balaban. Two of them had a stretch
of skin between their teeth fighting over it,
and the foam of their mouths and Balaban's blood
spattered in such a way, the most the greatest
picture looked me straight in the eye, made me
sit in the gutter and cry,
and when I got up vow to be
Balaban from that day on
-- Jack Hirschman, "Balaban" 1969
--
for Jack Kerouac
IN LIGHT ROOM IN DARK HELL IN UMBER IN CHROME,
I sit feeling the swell of the cloud made about by movement
of arm leg and tongue. In reflections of gold
light. Tints and flashes of gold and amber spearing
and glinting. Blur glass…blue Glass,
black telephone. Matchflame of violet and flesh
seen in the clear bright light. It is not night
and night too. In Hell, there are stars outside.
And long sounds of cars. Brown shadows on walls
in the light
of the room. I sit or stand
wanting the huge reality of touch and love.
In the turned room. Remember the long-ago dream
of stuffed animals (owl, fox) in a dark shop. Wanting
only the purity of clean colors and new shapes
and feelings.
I WOULD CRY FOR THEM USELESSLY
I have ten years left to worship my youth
Billy the Kid, Rimbaud, Jean Harlow
IN DARK HELL IN LIGHT ROOM IN UMBER AND CHROME I
feel the swell of
smoke the drain and flow of motion of exhaustion, the long sounds of cars
the brown shadows
on the wall. I sit or stand. Caught in the net of glints from corner table to
dull plane
from knob to floor, angles of flat light, daggers of beams. Staring at love’s face.
The telephone in cataleptic light. Marchflames of blue and red seen in the
clear grain.
I see myself—ourselves—in Hell without radiance. Reflections that we are.
The long cars make sounds and brown shadows over the wall.
I am real as you are real whom I speak to.
I raise my head, see over the edge of my nose. Look up
and see that nothing is changed. There is no flash
to my eyes. No change to the room.
Vita Nuova—No! The dead, dead world.
The strain of desire is only a heroic gesture.
An agony to be so in pain without release
when love is a word or kiss.
-- Michael McClure, "The Chamber" 1961
--
I have folded my sorrows into the mantle of summer night,
Assigning each brief storm its allotted space in time,
Quietly pursuing catastrophic histories buried in my eyes.
And yes, the world is not some unplayed Cosmic Game,
And the sun is still ninety-three million miles from me,
And in the imaginary forest, the shingled hippo becomes the gray unicorn.
No, my traffic is not with addled keepers of yesterday’s disasters,
Seekers of manifest disembowelment on shafts of yesterday’s pains.
Blues come dressed like introspective echoes of a journey.
And yes, I have searched the rooms of the moon on cold summer nights.
And yes, I have refought those unfinished encounters.
Still, they remain unfinished.
And yes, I have at times wished myself something different.
The tragedies are sung nightly at the funerals of the poet;
The revisited soul is wrapped in the aura of familiarity.
-- Bob Kaufman, "I Have Folded My Sorrows" 1965
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The buffet is excellent.
This round bird is a dunlin (Calidris alpina). It's the first that I've knowingly seen. In fact, I didn't know I'd seen it this time until going through the hundreds of photographs that I took at Gulfport, Mississippi.
"Dazzling in its breeding finery, with vivid rusty back and black belly patch, the Dunlin was once called the Red-backed Sandpiper. It’s now named for its nonbreeding plumage, a mousy gray-brown or “dun” color. Dunlins are an abundant species that nests around the world’s arctic regions. They winter in large flocks along bays, estuaries, and coastlines. They have notably long, curved bills but they don’t probe deeply into mud; instead, they tend to feed on invertebrates just barely below the surface." - allaboutbirds.org
@birdcounter
#photo#photography#photographer#photographylovers#bird#birdwatching#birdphotography#dunlin#birdsphotography#birds#birds of north america#birdlovers#birds nature#birdingphotography#birbs#birding#bird watching#bird photography
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Bad Things (Eddie Munson Short Story)
⚠️Warnings: Explicit sexual content. Minors DNI. Toxic Relationship. Angst.⚠️
Summary: Modern AU. Rockstar Eddie. Nova Gray is a pop star and the on again/off again girlfriend of rockstar Eddie Munson. Both of them are at the height of their career. Fame and trouble follow these two everywhere they go. They both know they are no good for each other but can they stay away? Just a heads up that this will not be typical sweet Eddie. He's kind of an asshole. But a hot one.
******
Characters and Intro, Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three, Chapter four
Chapter five: Playgirl
****So good that you can't explain it. What can I say? It's complicated.****
Nova's POV
You quietly tiptoe across the floor searching for your clothes. You get dressed quickly and grab his shirt from the floor. You bring it to your nose and inhale deeply before slipping it on over your bodysuit.
A mix of cigarettes, weed, and his favorite cheap cologne. He never upgraded, even after having all the money in the world. He said it reminded him of where he came from. It was a comforting smell to him. One that reminded him of home. And now one that reminded you of him.
You walk over to the bed and look at him. He's laying on his stomach, his arm sprawled across the place you just left. His face is pressed hard against the pillow. A small puddle of drool leaking onto his silk pillowcase. His untamed hair sticking up everywhere.
You wanted to wake him. Tell him goodbye. But you knew he would convince you to stay. One look from him and you practically melt into a fucking puddle. You settle for a light kiss to his cheek before heading out the door.
Back to reality. Back to Max. Fuck... Max. He's gonna hate me.
You grab your phone and wait in the lobby of Eddie's apartment building while you call Sal to come pick you up.
You scope the area outside for paparazzi and seeing no one around you swiftly make your way to the car. The last thing you need is being photographed outside his apartment.
"Two days, Ms. Gray?" Sal looks back at you with a raised eyebrow.
"I know, Sal." you groan as you lay your head back against the headrest.
"Um.. Ms. Gray.." he mumbles and you look at him confused.
He points to his neck and then back to you. "You might want to cover those?"
Shit. Eddie of course had completely ignored your request for 'no marks'. You were pretty sure he went overboard just because you asked him not to. You take your phone flipping the camera on yourself, inspecting the damage.
Jesus, Eddie.
Hickeys and bite marks littered your neck and shoulders, all the way down to your breasts.
"Can you take me to Chloe's?" you blush at Sal and he gives you a sympathetic look.
"Of course." he smiles at you before changing course.
After a few minutes Sal rolls up to the massive gates looking into the camera.
"Come on in, Sal." you hear one of Chloe's assistants crackle through the speaker as the gate swings open.
Chloe has always enjoyed nice things and her house proved that. You see the water fountain leading to a stone entryway. Beautiful pillars stand tall in the front of her home.
You slip out of the car and around to Sal's window. You try to hand him some extra cash, which he attempts to refuse. You lean in and kiss his cheek, dropping the folded bills into his suit pocket before heading inside.
You take in the grand foyer made of beautiful marble flooring leading to an elegant curved staircase embellished with gold leaf accents. The gourmet kitchen with an Italian cabinetry and marble countertops, covered with half empty bottles of different liquors.
Some of your best moments have been here. You and Eddie both. Wild nights, skinny dipping, dancing until the sun came up. Eddie's last birthday was also here. You could only remember small pieces of that night. But it was fun. You missed those days. Even though things weren't perfect. You always missed him.
As well as some of your most tender moments. Movie nights in her downstairs theater. Soft kisses in the hottub. Making use of almost every guest room she has.
Chloe was the first person you trusted in this crazy industry. While she enjoyed her fancy lifestyle she was also the realest person you knew. She was an actress, though she dabbled a bit in music and the two of you had clicked immediately. She was blunt, beautiful, and fierce. She wouldn't sugarcoat things to you. She always said what was on her mind. But she loved you regardless of what you did. She didn't judge you but she would tell you if you were being an idiot. Which was often. She was your best friend.
"Chlo?" you yell out as you make your way up the stairs. There's no answer so you continue on to her bedroom.
You hear moaning coming from behind the door and smirk.
"You've been a bad girl, haven't you?" Chloe purrs and you hear a breathless 'yes' followed by another moan.
This could take a while.
You quietly make your way back downstairs and head to one of her guest rooms heading for the shower. You grab some clothes and get changed before going to fix yourself a cup of tea.
You grab one of the blankets off the back of her couch and settle in flipping on the tv.
And there he is. A picture of Eddie pulled up on screen behind the host.
"Eddie Munson will be performing his new single 'Crazy Bitch' at the VMA's tomorrow night. As well as a duet with ex girlfriend, Nova Gray. We can't help but wonder if this new song happens to be about her as well, though the two both insist they're on good terms. Be sure to tune in tomorrow for their first reunion since the breakup. Well the first public reunion... I think we can all imagine what has gone down behind the scenes.." The girl winks at the camera and you quickly turn the tv off.
Jesus Christ.
You grab your phone just as you hear a cry from upstairs, signaling that Chloe got the job done.
I have to call him.
Your stomach twists as you find Max's name and see his bright smile on the screen.
"Nova?" he answers after the first ring.
"Hey.. Max I'm sorry, I was just.."
"Are you okay?" he cuts you off and you close your eyes pulling the furry blanket to your chin.
"I'm fine.. I'm sorry. I should have called." you whisper into the phone.
"So you've been at Chloe's then? She said you weren't feeling well." he says softly.
He knows. I know that he knows.
"Mhmm.. I'm feeling better though." you lie and you hear him sigh.
"Nova.. you can talk to me. You wouldn't ignore me for two days if you were with Chloe.."
You take a deep breath as you keep the phone pressed against your ear.
"I'm sorry, Max." you whisper softly.
"Are you coming home today?" he asks gently. There's no anger in his voice. Just a hint of sadness, making you feel even more guilty.
"Yes. I'll be there tonight." you reply as you chew on your lip nervously.
"Promise?" he presses.
"Promise." you say before hanging up. You toss your phone on the couch and look up to see a beautiful redhead making her way down the stairs. Chloe follows behind her in her robe.
"I'll call you, baby." she says as she walks her to the door. The girl smiles and kisses Chloe one more time before leaving. She shuts the door and makes her way over to you immediately.
"Fuck, Nova. Munson really did a number on your neck." Chloe observes as she plops down next to you. You lift the blanket and she slides in next to you, her head resting on your shoulder.
"I don't know what to do, Chloe." you admit softly.
"Have you seen Max yet?" she asks and you shake your head.
"I came straight here. But he knows.." you lean in closer and Chloe wraps her arm around you.
"Well you know I have plenty of space if he kicks your slutty ass out." Chloe jokes and you laugh as you nudge her softly.
"I love you." you mumble and she kisses the top of your head.
"I love you, too."
Eddie's POV
You wake up and immediately feel the loss of her next to you. She's gone. Two nights with her and once again you can't fucking think straight.
You roll over and reach for your pack of smokes grabbing your phone and immediately seeing Nova on your lock screen.
Your phone starts ringing and you see your manager's name pop up.
Decline.
You hear your front door open and Jimmy comes into your room a seconds later.
"Remind me why I gave you keys?" you grumble as he walks over.
"Cover your dick up, Munson. We have a photoshoot today, remember?"
"I'm not going. Cancel it." you say as you pull the covers over your head.
"Nope. Not today. How many times have I told you to stop having her over? I lose you every time. Put on your big boy pants and let's go." Jimmy insists. "Or wear nothing.. it's the playgirl shoot after all."
You sit up suddenly. "That's today?" you smirk and Jimmy shakes his head with a laugh.
"That's today. Now come on, let's go." he rushes as he throws a pair of jeans your way.
The playgirl shoot. Nothing but naked Eddie Munson... and maybe a few naked girls. Nova always hated the idea before. She was a little jealous.. Well more than a little. But she left this morning. Back to sweet little Max. I'm not Max. He would never do a shoot like this. But he's not Eddie Munson.
*******
"Fuck...that feels good, baby. Can you go a little deeper?" you look down at the photographer and she nods as she slowly takes you deeper into her throat.
"Mmm.. that's it.. you look so good on your knees." you praise her and she moans onto your cock as she begins picking up speed.
The shoot went well and you were excited to see Nova's reaction once she saw that you had gone through with it.
You grip the girl's blonde hair as you pressed down slightly.
I know. No business with pleasure. But that doesn't apply to me. Never has.
She gags on your length before sucking back to the tip. "You're so big." she pants breathlessly.
I know.
"Is it too much, sweetheart? We can stop if you can't handle it." you tease and she shakes her head quickly.
"No.. no I want to." she looks up at you and flutters her eyelashes before taking you back in her mouth. This is taking too long. Her gag reflex is really kicking in.
"Give me your hand." you reach out and she places her hand in yours. You spit in her palm and lead her hand to your cock. You wrap your fingers around hers and begin stroking.
"There we go.. just like that.." you toss your head back as she begins to use her hand and mouth together.
She flattens her tongue, licking the length of your cock with every bob of her head. Your eyes shut as you focus on the pleasure, trying to push out the constant thoughts of Nova.
"I'm close.. I'm close, baby.." you groan and she speeds up even more, working quickly to get you to your peak. You feel your muscles tighten and you push her head down hard as your cum shoots into her throat.
She struggles to swallow your load and you look down seeing your cum on the side of her mouth. Her eyes are wet with tears. You reach down and wipe away a tear that escaped with your thumb.
"We were gonna send you the first copy before it gets released. Does that sound good?" the girl says casually as she stands, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.
"Actually, if you could send it here. Thank you, sweetheart." you scribble down Nova's address and give the girl a wink before disappearing.
Nova's POV
You slide your key into the lock and open the door gently. Max is sitting at the island with a glass of whiskey in front of him.
You and Chloe had done your best to cover Eddie's love bites with makeup. But it didn't matter. It didn't change anything.
You walk over to him and sit next to him on the barstool. He looks up and meets your eyes as he takes a small sip of his drink.
"Nova, I don't know what you want from me." Max starts. "I try to be good to you. I've always been kind to you. But it's always him.. he's not good for you. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes." you whisper as your eyes fill with tears. Seeing him face to face hurts. His soft brown eyes look into yours. You can see the defeat in them.
"If you want to ruin your life, Nova. I can't stop you. But I've seen it all. I've seen how bad things get between you two. I care about you.. you know that I care about you, right?" Max turns and takes my hands in his.
"I care about you, too." you whisper as a tear falls from your eyes.
And I do care about him. None of this is fair to him. But he's not Eddie. Why do I only want Eddie?
Masterlist 🖤
#eddie munson#eddie munson fanfiction#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson x female original character#eddie munson x oc#eddie st4#stranger things#eddie munson smut#stranger things fanfics#rockstar eddie munson#corroded coffin#eddie stranger things#eddie smut#eddie munson stranger things#eddie munson angst#eddie munson x original character#eddie munson x female character#eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson rockstar au#eddie Munson modern au#eddie the freak munson#eddie x oc
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John Singer Sargent • La Carmencita (Carmen Dauset Moreno) • 1890 • Musée d'Orsay (image courtesy of Wikipedia)
La Carmencita was included in the exhibition Fashioned by Sargent, which I attended yesterday at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, Massachusetts.
The gallery card:
Sargent was entranced with the twenty- one-year-old Spanish dancer Carmen Dauset Moreno, better known as La Carmencita, who performed in music halls and private settings in the United States, Europe, and South America. Billing herself "the pearl of Seville," she danced the bolero, a style that shares some aspects of classical ballet. She was especially admired for her whirling, twisting movements, often revealing more of her legs than some felt proper; she had a "fatal earthiness," according to one society columnist. Sargent found her "bewilderingly superb," and saw her perform on multiple occasions in New York, where he painted her in a borrowed studio. He depicted this vivacious dancer standing still, perhaps before the action or at its end. Her liveliness is encapsulated in his paint-swaths of golden yellow overlaid with dabs of white and gray that shimmer against the dark background, just like the beads and spangles on her dress.
Displayed nearby was the actual dress which I was able to photograph, albeit hastily.
Photo credit: Pagan Sphinx Photography
#art#painting#fine art#art history#museum visit#art exhibition#fashioned by sargent#john singer sargent#vintage dress#late 19th century art#dancers in artworks#portrait#pagan sphinx photography#pagan sphinx art blog#fashion history
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Last weekend I was planning to drive out to the west side to pick up a load of birdseed. My coworker had told me that he was out at Tiedeman's Pond the other day, and I said to myself, "I bet there's ducks on that pond. I better go check." So I grabbed my camera bag on the way out the door. And folks? There were ducks.
[ID: A male Wood Duck swims on a pond of rippling blue water from left to right. The duck is presenting his entire profile to the camera, from glossy green head to dark tail tip. He has a brown body, more burgundy at the breast, with finely scaled tan and gray flanks and just a hint of teal peeking through on the wing. Each color patch is bordered with a brilliant white stripe, including a lovely pattern on the face and head. His head feathers are swept back in a longish crest that looks black except for the iridescent green where the sun has caught it. This contrasts with a striking bill in orange gradients with a white patch on top and black tip. His eye is a bold fire engine red. End ID]
I was surprised to find multiple pairs of Wood Ducks very close to the edge of the pond, because these guys will usually fly at the first sign of a human in the area. I can only assume they were desensitized by the frequent groups of walkers out with their kids and their dogs.
There were lots of other ducks to be seen: Lesser Scaups, Hooded Mergansers, Buffleheads, Ruddy Ducks, Mallards. But most of these were way out at the center of the pond and not interested in being photographed. The only exception being a small group of Ring-necked Ducks that were diving for food near the cattails.
[ID: A male Ring-necked Duck swims from right to left on the pond. It is glossy black, with light gray flanks fading to white towards the front. His bill is medium gray in the middle, black on the tip, with a bright white border around the edges, circling the nostrils, and separating gray from black. His eye is yellow orange. His feathers are beaded with water droplets from diving for food. End ID]
But it wasn't just ducks on offer that day! Spring means birds migrating back from the south and hungry from the long flight. I got to watch a pair of Great Blue Herons show up and immediately begin hunting.
[ID: A Great Blue Heron is standing in a pond, with a freshly-caught goldfish in its bill. The Heron is standing with its legs completely submerged in the water, with its long neck coiled back as it pulls up the large goldfish. The Heron is several feet tall, mostly gray, with white on their head and a dark blue cap with long trailing feathers at the back. The goldfish is at least eight inches long, and the Heron appears to have speared it on their long upper mandible, which glows orange from the bright sunlight filtering through from behind. End ID]
I was very happy to see that the Herons were doing their part to control the non-native fish population. This one had speared a very large goldfish, and had to think a minute about how to eat it. They dropped the goldfish back in the water only to recapture it for swallowing head-first. Their partner looked on from a short distance away, not having found anything while I was there.
[ID: A second Great Blue Heron slowly wades by, hunting in the shallow part of the pond. This one shows a flash of dark-blue tail feathers, and the direct sunlight offers a nice view of their bright yellow dagger of a bill and their pale yellow eye rimmed in baby blue skin. End ID]
And it wasn't just water birds that were attracted to the awakening pond. This American Crow flew down to the edge to see what small morsels might be crawling around in the mud.
[ID: An American Crow stands at the edge of the pond. The Crow is facing away from the camera, with the sunlight glinting off their glossy black feathers. They are looking toward the camera in profile, showing one brown eye and a chunky black bill. End ID]
The Black-capped Chickadees were out too. This pair had found a nice little tree cavity, and they may have been excavating it further to use as a nest.
[ID: A Black-capped Chickadee peeks out from a tree hollow, holding a small bit of something in their bill. They are just a couple inches tall, with a gray and tan body, and a predominantly black head. They have white cheeks that start at the small black bill and extend back to the neck. They are staring inquisitively at the camera, with little bits of what looks like wood stuck to their face. End ID]
The two Chickadees seemed to be working in shifts, one keeping watch outside while the other one went in to prep the house. I wonder how many generations of birds have grown up in that little knothole...
[ID: A second Black-capped Chickadee perches on a thin branch with delicate feet. They are sitting very still, keeping watch while their partner works in a nearby tree cavity. There are a few tiny flecks of what might be wood on their face. End ID]
Though, the bird that gave me the most excitement on this walk was a new one. My partner teases me, saying that I have to check every seagull to see whether they're a Herring or a Ring-billed. But on this day I had found a Bonaparte's Gull!
[ID: A Bonaparte's Gull floats out in the middle of the pond. The Gull is white with light gray wings and black wingtips. Their head is mostly gray with patches of white, possibly because they're in the middle of molting to grow their breeding plumage. End ID]
The Gull was hanging out with a nice flock of Lesser Scaups, and I knew I had a lifer in my binoculars as soon as I saw that gray head. Every so often it would take off and fly around the pond, looking for tasty fish to snatch from the surface. They never wandered all that close to me, but I got a few nice shots of those wings.
[ID: The Bonaparte's Gull flies low over the pond, on the hunt for small fish. With wings fully extended, it is apparent that the black wingtips are just a thin crescent at the tip of each primary flight feathers. The Gull is in the middle of a down stroke, head forward, orange feet tucked neatly beneath fanned gray tail. End ID]
For only visiting on a whim, this was a very productive walk. I saw 35 bird species, seven for the first time this year, and one for the first time ever. I suppose that's why birders wait all year for spring migration to start.
#bird#bird photography#birding#photography#birds#birdblr#birdlife#birdwatching#original photography#original photography on tumblr#duck#heron#gull#wood duck#ring-necked duck#great blue heron#american crow#black capped chickadee#bonaparte's gull#lifer
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I hate influencers. Young people who haven't learned anything. People who can't do anything but want to have everything. Whenever I find a nice hotel, these people block the pool to take the perfect picture. They get aggressive when you walk through the picture. They think they are celebrities because they have 100 followers. And when they stand in front of you at the front desk when you check out, they haggle over every item on the bill because they think they have to get everything for free.
Of course, I also hate influencers because I've had to work hard for a long time to be able to afford things that young people enjoy now. And I've gone gray and wrinkled over working so long, my hair has fallen out and I've gotten a belly. I hate influencers who are so beautiful that any photoshopping of their pictures would be a waste of time.
Yes I admit, I hate influencers also because I am envious of many. But the woman who has now been blocking the buffet for her shots for ten minutes at breakfast in the idyllic forest hotel is simply an imposition. Now her photographer comes up to me and asks if I can stand by the chick for a few pictures. Thank you very much, probably I was the least ugly available hotel guest. But if it makes it over faster….
The camera clicks and clicks. And with each click I become more relaxed. I even start joking with the lady. The photographer thinks we are interacting super. And the other guests roll their eyes in annoyance… As I sit back down at my breakfast table, I wonder about the rings on my fingers. Striking jewelry. And a bracelet I have, too. And an expensive Rolex. Where did that come from?
A little later at the pool, the photographer approaches me again. Would I mind taking a few more pictures of us at the pool bar? Less hesitantly than before, I agree. A make-up artist approaches me, powders my face and works on my hair. Even though everyone else is looking, I almost enjoy it. Sure, I look good, but I can always do better. I stroke my chin and realize with surprise that I'm not shaved. On the contrary, it feels like a short beard. I go to the photographer and have him show me the last shots. Indeed, I have a beard. Longer even than the hair carefully shaved out on the sides and neck. I'm unsure… Have I always had my hair like this?
I pull out my phone and open my Instagram account. But sure enough, in most of the pictures I have exactly the same hairstyle. Only on the older ones do I still wear my hair shoulder-length. But at some point I found the bad boy attitude better. And so did my followers. "Now again with different clothes," the photographer calls out to me, pointing to a pile of carefully draped garments.
I grab a pair of jeans and a wife beater. In front of the mirror, I correct the fit of my chains once again. One wrong detail ruins the shot and costs you followers and advertising revenue. I can't afford that. For the pictures at the edge of the forest I combine "dreamy look" with discreetly tensed muscles. The main thing is to show off the tattoos to their best advantage. Many fans love me for that. And that's what I make my living from!
Realization at the request of @gogotten. I hope you have fun with it!
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Yeti
The Yeti is an ape-like creature purported to inhabit the Himalayan mountain range in Asia. In western popular culture, the creature is commonly referred to as the Abominable Snowman. Many dubious articles have been offered in an attempt to prove the existence of the Yeti, including anecdotal visual sightings, disputed video recordings, photographs, and plaster casts of large footprints. Some of these are speculated or known to be hoaxes.
The Yeti is often described as being a large, bipedal ape-like creature that is covered with brown, gray, or white hair, and it is sometimes depicted as having large, sharp teeth.
This section contains Tibetan script. Without proper rendering support, you may see very small fonts, misplaced vowels or missing conjuncts instead of Tibetan characters.
The word Yeti is derived from Tibetan: གཡའ་དྲེད་, Wylie: g.ya' dred, ZYPY: Yachê, a compound of the words Tibetan: གཡའ་, Wylie: g.ya', ZYPY: ya "rocky", "rocky place" and (Tibetan: དྲེད་, Wylie: dred, ZYPY: chê) "bear". Pranavananda states that the words "ti", "te" and "teh" are derived from the spoken word 'tre' (spelled "dred"), Tibetan for bear, with the 'r' so softly pronounced as to be almost inaudible, thus making it "te" or "teh".
Tibetan lore describes three main varieties of yetis—the Nyalmo, which has black fur and is the largest and fiercest, standing around fifteen feet tall; the Chuti, which stands around eight feet tall and lives 8000 to 10000 feet above sea level; and the Rang Shim Bombo, which has reddish-brown fur and is only three to five feet tall.
Other terms used by Himalayan peoples do not translate exactly the same, but refer to legendary and indigenous wildlife:
Michê (Tibetan: མི་དྲེད་, Wylie: mi dred, ZYPY: Michê) translates as "man-bear".
Dzu-teh – 'dzu' translates as "cattle" and the full meaning translates as "cattle bear", referring to the Himalayan brown bear.
Migoi or Mi-go (Tibetan: མི་རྒོད་, Wylie: mi rgod, ZYPY: Migö/Mirgö) translates as "wild man".
Bun Manchi – Nepali for "jungle man" that is used outside Sherpa communities where yeti is the common name.
Mirka – Another name for "wild-man". Local legend holds that "anyone who sees one dies or is killed". The latter is taken from a written statement by Frank Smythe's sherpas in 1937.
Kang Admi – "Snow Man".
Xueren (Chinese: 雪人) - "Snow Man"
In Russian folklore, the Chuchuna is an entity said to dwell in Siberia. It has been described as six to seven feet tall and covered with dark hair. According to the native accounts from the nomadic Yakut and Tungus tribes, it is a well built, Neanderthal-like man wearing pelts and bearing a white patch of fur on its forearms. It is said to occasionally consume human flesh, unlike their close cousins, the Almastis. Some witnesses reported seeing a tail on the creature's corpse. It is described as being roughly six to seven feet tall. There are additional tales of large, reclusive, bipedal creatures worldwide, notably including both "Bigfoot" and the "Abominable Snowman."
The name Abominable Snowman was coined in 1921, the year Lieutenant-Colonel Charles Howard-Bury led the 1921 British Mount Everest reconnaissance expedition, which he chronicled in Mount Everest The Reconnaissance, 1921. In the book, Howard-Bury includes an account of crossing the Lhagpa La at 21,000 ft (6,400 m) where he found footprints that he believed "were probably caused by a large 'loping' grey wolf, which in the soft snow formed double tracks rather like those of a bare-footed man". He adds that his Sherpa guides "at once volunteered that the tracks must be that of 'The Wild Man of the Snows', to which they gave the name 'metoh-kangmi'". "Metoh" translates as "man-bear" and "kang-mi" translates as "snowman".
Confusion exists between Howard-Bury's recitation of the term "metoh-kangmi" and the term used in Bill Tilman's book Mount Everest, 1938 where Tilman had used the words "metch", which does not exist in the Tibetan language, and "kangmi" when relating the coining of the term "Abominable Snowman". Further evidence of "metch" being a misnomer is provided by Tibetan language authority Professor David Snellgrove from the School of Oriental and African Studies at the University of London (ca. 1956), who dismissed the word "metch" as impossible, because the consonants "t-c-h" cannot be conjoined in the Tibetan language. Documentation suggests that the term "metch-kangmi" is derived from one source (from the year 1921). It has been suggested that "metch" is simply a misspelling of "metoh".
The use of "Abominable Snowman" began when Henry Newman, a longtime contributor to The Statesman in Calcutta, writing under the pen name "Kim", interviewed the porters of the "Everest Reconnaissance expedition" on their return to Darjeeling. Newman mistranslated the word "metoh" as "filthy", substituting the term "abominable", perhaps out of artistic licence. As author Bill Tilman recounts, "[Newman] wrote long after in a letter to The Times: The whole story seemed such a joyous creation I sent it to one or two newspapers".
According to H. Siiger, the Yeti was a part of the pre-Buddhist beliefs of several Himalayan people. He was told that the Lepcha people worshipped a "Glacier Being" as a God of the Hunt. He also reported that followers of the Bön religion once believed the blood of the "mi rgod" or "wild man" had use in certain spiritual ceremonies. The being was depicted as an ape-like creature who carries a large stone as a weapon and makes a whistling swoosh sound.
Yeti was adopted into Tibetan Buddhism, where it is considered a nonhuman animal (tiragyoni) that is nonetheless human enough to sometimes be able to follow Dharma. Several stories feature Yetis becoming helpers and disciples to religious figures. In Tibet, images of Yetis are paraded and occasionally worshipped as guardians against evil spirits. However, because Yetis sometimes act as enforcers of Dharma, hearing or seeing one is often considered a bad omen, for which the witness must accumulate merit.
In 1832, James Prinsep's Journal of the Asiatic Society of Bengal published trekker B. H. Hodgson's account of his experiences in northern Nepal. His local guides spotted a tall bipedal creature covered with long dark hair, which seemed to flee in fear. Hodgson concluded it was an orangutan.
An early record of reported footprints appeared in 1899 in Laurence Waddell's Among the Himalayas. Waddell reported his guide's description of a large apelike creature that left the prints, which Waddell thought were made by a bear. Waddell heard stories of bipedal, apelike creatures but wrote that "none, however, of the many Tibetans I have interrogated on this subject could ever give me an authentic case. On the most superficial investigation, it always resolved into something that somebody heard tell of."
The frequency of reports increased during the early 20th century when Westerners began making determined attempts to scale the many mountains in the area and occasionally reported seeing odd creatures or strange tracks.
In 1925, N. A. Tombazi, a photographer and member of the Royal Geographical Society, writes that he saw a creature at about 15,000 ft (4,600 m) near Zemu Glacier. Tombazi later wrote that he observed the creature from about 200 to 300 yd (180 to 270 m), for about a minute. "Unquestionably, the figure in outline was exactly like a human being, walking upright and stopping occasionally to pull at some dwarf rhododendron bushes. It showed up dark against the snow, and as far as I could make out, wore no clothes." About two hours later, Tombazi and his companions descended the mountain and saw the creature's prints, described as "similar in shape to those of a man, but only six to seven inches long by four inches wide... The prints were undoubtedly those of a biped."
Western interest in the Yeti peaked dramatically in the 1950s. While attempting to scale Mount Everest in 1951, Eric Shipton took photographs of a number of large prints in the snow, at about 6,000 m (20,000 ft) above sea level. These photos have been subject to intense scrutiny and debate. Some argue they are the best evidence of Yeti's existence, while others contend the prints are those of a mundane creature that have been distorted by the melting snow.
Peter Byrne reported finding a yeti footprint in 1948, in northern Sikkim, India near the Zemu Glacier, while on holiday from a Royal Air Force assignment in India.
In 1953, Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay reported seeing large footprints while scaling Mount Everest. Hillary would later discount Yeti reports as unreliable. In his first autobiography Tenzing said that he believed the Yeti was a large ape, and although he had never seen it himself his father had seen one twice, but in his second autobiography he said he had become much more sceptical about its existence.
During the Daily Mail Snowman Expedition of 1954, the mountaineering leader John Angelo Jackson made the first trek from Everest to Kanchenjunga in the course of which he photographed symbolic paintings of the Yeti at Tengboche gompa. Jackson tracked and photographed many footprints in the snow, most of which were identifiable. However, there were many large footprints which could not be identified. These flattened footprint-like indentations were attributed to erosion and subsequent widening of the original footprint by wind and particles.
On 19 March 1954, the Daily Mail printed an article which described expedition teams obtaining hair specimens from what was alleged to be a Yeti scalp found in the Pangboche monastery. The hairs were black to dark brown in colour in dim light, and fox red in sunlight. The hair was analysed by Professor Frederic Wood Jones, an expert in human and comparative anatomy. During the study, the hairs were bleached, cut into sections and analysed microscopically. The research consisted of taking microphotographs of the hairs and comparing them with hairs from known animals such as bears and orangutans. Jones concluded that the hairs were not actually from a scalp. He contended that while some animals do have a ridge of hair extending from the pate to the back, no animals have a ridge (as in the Pangboche scalp) running from the base of the forehead across the pate and ending at the nape of the neck. Jones was unable to pinpoint exactly the animal from which the Pangboche hairs were taken. He was, however, convinced that the hairs were not from a bear or anthropoid ape, but instead from the shoulder of a coarse-haired hoofed animal.
Sławomir Rawicz claimed in his book The Long Walk, published in 1956, that as he and some others were crossing the Himalayas in the winter of 1940, their path was blocked for hours by two bipedal animals that were doing seemingly nothing but shuffling around in the snow.
Beginning in 1957, Tom Slick funded a few missions to investigate Yeti reports. In 1959, supposed Yeti feces were collected by one of Slick's expeditions; fecal analysis found a parasite which could not be classified. The United States government thought that finding the Yeti was likely enough to create three rules for American expeditions searching for it: obtain a Nepalese permit, do not harm the Yeti except in self-defense, and let the Nepalese government approve any news reporting on the animal's discovery. In 1959, actor James Stewart, while visiting India, reportedly smuggled the so-called Pangboche Hand, by concealing it in his luggage when he flew from India to London.
In 1960, Sir Edmund Hillary mounted the 1960–61 Silver Hut expedition to the Himalayas, which was to collect and analyse physical evidence of the Yeti. Hillary borrowed a supposed Yeti scalp from the Khumjung monastery then himself and Khumjo Chumbi (the village headman), brought the scalp back to London where a small sample was cut off for testing. Marca Burns made a detailed examination of the sample of skin and hair from the margin of the alleged Yeti scalp and compared it with similar samples from the serow, blue bear and black bear. Burns concluded the sample "was probably made from the skin of an animal closely resembling the sampled specimen of Serow, but definitely not identical with it: possibly a local variety or race of the same species, or a different but closely related species."
Up to the 1960s, belief in the yeti was relatively common in Bhutan and in 1966 a Bhutanese stamp was made to honour the creature. However, in the twenty-first century belief in the being has declined.
In 1970, British mountaineer Don Whillans claimed to have witnessed a creature when scaling Annapurna. He reported that he once saw it moving on all fours.
In 1983, Himalayan conservationist Daniel C. Taylor and Himalayan natural historian Robert L. Fleming Jr. led a yeti expedition into Nepal's Barun Valley (suggested by discovery in the Barun in 1972 of footprints alleged to be yeti by Cronin & McNeely). The Taylor-Fleming expedition also discovered similar yeti-like footprints (hominoid appearing with both a hallux and bipedal gait), intriguing large nests in trees, and vivid reports from local villagers of two bears, rukh bhalu ('tree bear', small, reclusive, weighing about 150 pounds (70 kg)) and bhui bhalu ('ground bear', aggressive, weighing up to 400 pounds (180 kg)). Further interviews across Nepal gave evidence of local belief in two different bears. Skulls were collected, these were compared to known skulls at the Smithsonian Institution, American Museum of Natural History, and British Museum, and confirmed identification of a single species, the Asiatic black bear, showing no morphological difference between 'tree bear' and 'ground bear.' (This despite an intriguing skull in the British Museum of a 'tree bear' collected in 1869 by Oldham and discussed in the Annals of the Royal Zoological Society.)
In 2004, Henry Gee, editor of the journal Nature, mentioned the Yeti as an example of folk belief deserving further study, writing, "The discovery that Homo floresiensis survived until so very recently, in geological terms, makes it more likely that stories of other mythical, human-like creatures such as Yetis are founded on grains of truth."
In early December 2007, American television presenter Joshua Gates and his team (Destination Truth) reported finding a series of footprints in the Everest region of Nepal resembling descriptions of Yeti. Each of the footprints measured 33 cm (13 in) in length with five toes that measured a total of 25 cm (9.8 in) across. Casts were made of the prints for further research. The footprints were examined by Jeffrey Meldrum of Idaho State University, who believed them to be too morphologically accurate to be fake or man-made, before changing his mind after making further investigations. Later in 2009, in a TV show, Gates presented hair samples with a forensic analyst concluding that the hair contained an unknown DNA sequence.
On 25 July 2008, the BBC reported that hairs collected in the remote Garo Hills area of North-East India by Dipu Marak had been analysed at Oxford Brookes University in the UK by primatologist Anna Nekaris and microscopy expert Jon Wells. These initial tests were inconclusive, and ape conservation expert Ian Redmond told the BBC that there was similarity between the cuticle pattern of these hairs and specimens collected by Edmund Hillary during Himalayan expeditions in the 1950s and donated to the Oxford University Museum of Natural History, and announced planned DNA analysis. This analysis has since revealed that the hair came from the Himalayan goral.
A group of Chinese scientists and explorers in 2010 proposed to renew searches in the Shennongjia Forestry District of Hubei province, which was the site of expeditions in the 1970s and 1980s.
At a 2011 conference in Russia, participating scientists and enthusiasts declared having "95% evidence" of the Yeti's existence. However, this claim was disputed later; American anthropologist and anatomist Jeffrey Meldrum, who was present during the Russian expedition, claimed the "evidence" found was simply an attempt by local officials to drum up publicity.
A yeti was reportedly captured in Russia in December 2011. Initially the story claimed that a hunter reported having seen a bear-like creature, trying to kill one of his sheep, but after he fired his gun, the creature ran into a forest on two legs. The story then claimed that border patrol soldiers captured a hairy two-legged female creature similar to a gorilla that ate meat and vegetation. This was later revealed as a hoax or possibly a publicity stunt for charity.
In April 2019, an Indian army mountaineering expedition team claimed to have spotted mysterious 'Yeti' footprints, measuring 81 by 38 centimetres (32 by 15 in), near the Makalu base camp.
The misidentification of Himalayan wildlife has been proposed as an explanation for some Yeti sightings, including the chu-teh, a langur monkey living at lower altitudes; the Tibetan blue bear; or the Himalayan brown bear or dzu-teh, also known as the Himalayan red bear.
A well publicized expedition to Bhutan initially reported that a hair sample had been obtained which by DNA analysis by Professor Bryan Sykes could not be matched to any known animal. Analysis completed after the media release, however, clearly showed the samples were from a brown bear (Ursus arctos) and an Asiatic black bear (Ursus thibetanus).
In 1986, South Tyrolean mountaineer Reinhold Messner claimed in his autobiography My Quest for the Yeti that the Yeti is actually the endangered Himalayan brown bear, Ursus arctos isabellinus, or Tibetan blue bear, U. a. pruinosus, which can walk both upright or on all fours.
The 1983 Barun Valley discoveries prompted three years of research on the 'tree bear' possibility by Taylor, Fleming, John Craighead and Tirtha Shrestha. From that research the conclusion was that the Asiatic black bear, when about two years old, spends much time in trees to avoid attack by larger male bears on the ground ('ground bears'). During this tree period that may last two years, young bears train their inner claw outward, allowing an opposable grip. The imprint in the snow of a hind paw coming over the front paw that appears to have a hallux, especially when the bear is going slightly uphill so the hind paw print extends the overprint backward makes a hominoid-appearing track, both in that it is elongated like a human foot but with a "thumb" and in that a four-footed animal's gait now appears bipedal. This "yeti discovery", in the words of National Geographic Magazine editor Bill Garrett, "[by] on-site research sweeps away much of the 'smoke and mirrors' and gives us a believable yeti".
This fieldwork in Nepal's Barun Valley led directly to initiating in 1984 Makalu-Barun National Park that protected over half a million acres in 1991, and across the border with China the Qomolangma national nature preserve in the Tibet Autonomous Region that protected over six million acres. In the words of Honorary President of the American Alpine Club, Robert H. Bates, this yeti discovery "has apparently solved the mystery of the yeti, or at least part of it, and in so doing added to the world's great wildlife preserves" such that the shy animal that lives in trees (and not the high snows), and mysteries and myths of the Himalayas that it represents, can continue within a protected area nearly the size of Switzerland.
In 2003, Japanese researcher and mountaineer Dr. Makoto Nebuka published the results of his twelve-year linguistic study, postulating that the word "Yeti" is a corruption of the word "meti", a regional dialect term for a "bear". Nebuka claims that ethnic Tibetans fear and worship the bear as a supernatural being. Nebuka's claims were subject to almost immediate criticism, and he was accused of linguistic carelessness. Dr. Raj Kumar Pandey, who has researched both Yetis and mountain languages, said "it is not enough to blame tales of the mysterious beast of the Himalayas on words that rhyme but mean different things."
Some speculate these reported creatures could be present-day specimens of the extinct giant ape Gigantopithecus. However, the Yeti is generally described as bipedal, and most scientists believe Gigantopithecus to have been quadrupedal, and so massive that, unless it evolved specifically as a bipedal ape (like the hominids), walking upright would have been even more difficult for the now extinct primate than it is for its extant quadrupedal relative, the orangutan.
In 2013, a call was put out by scientists from the universities of Oxford and Lausanne for people claiming to have samples from these sorts of creatures. A mitochondrial DNA analysis of the 12S RNA gene was undertaken on samples of hair from an unidentified animal from Ladakh in northern India on the west of the Himalayas, and one from Bhutan. These samples were compared with those in GenBank, the international repository of gene sequences, and matched a sample from an ancient polar bear jawbone found in Svalbard, Norway, that dates back to between 40,000 and 120,000 years ago. The result suggests that, barring hoaxes of planted samples or contamination, bears in these regions may have been taken to be yeti. Professor of evolutionary genetics at the University of Cambridge Bill Amos doubted the samples were of polar bears in the Himalayas, but was "90% convinced that there is a bear in these regions that has been mistaken for a yeti". Professor Bryan Sykes whose team carried out the analysis of the samples at Oxford university has his own theory. He believes that the samples may have come from a hybrid species of bear produced from a mating between a brown bear and a polar bear. A research of 12S rRNA published in 2015 revealed that the hair samples collected are most likely those of brown bears. In 2017, a new analysis compared mtDNA sequences of bears from the region with DNA extracted from hair and other samples claimed to have come from yeti. It included hair thought to be from the same preserved specimen as the anomalous Sykes sample, and showed it to have been a Himalayan brown bear, while other purported yeti samples were actually from the Tibetan blue bear, Asiatic black bear and a domestic dog.
In 2017, Daniel C. Taylor published a comprehensive analysis of the century-long Yeti literature, giving added evidence to the (Ursus thibetanus) explanation building on the initial Barun Valley discoveries. Importantly, this book under the Oxford University imprint gave a meticulous explanation for the iconic Yeti footprint photographed by Eric Shipton in 1950, also the 1972 Cronin-McNeely print, as well all other unexplained Yeti footprints. To complete this explanation, Taylor also located a never-before published photograph in the archives of the Royal Geographical Society, taken in 1950 by Eric Shipton, that included scratches that are clearly bear nail marks.
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Barry Keoghan photographed in the California Desert opposite the KILL BILL church for ESQUIRE Singapore by Charlie Gray - London Celebrity Portrait and Fashion Photography.
ALL IMAGES © CHARLIE GRAY 2024
IMAGE LICENSING AVAILABLE VIA TRUNK ARCHIVE
https://charlie-gray.com/
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#barry keoghan#esquire magazine#charlie gray photography#there is more photos from this photoshoot on Charlie's instagram and at his website#californian desert#kill bill#kill bill church#canid#canine
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The Talk of the Town: Jackie Robinson’s Second Job
By day, he played second base for the Brooklyn Dodgers. By night, he sold televisions in Queens.
— By John Graham and Rex Lardner | Published: January 1, 1950 | September 3, 2023
Jackie Robinson, March 4, 1946. Photograph By Bill Chaplis/Associated Press
On learning that Jackie Robinson, the Brooklyn Dodgers’ second baseman, is spending Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings each week as a television-set salesman in the Sunset Appliance Store in Rego Park, Queens, we hurried over to the place to see how he is making out. From a talk we had with Joseph Rudnick, president of Sunset, just before Robinson appeared, we learned that he is making out fine. Rudnick, a small, alert-looking man, graying at the temples, whom we found in an office on a balcony at the rear of the store, informed us that the accomplished young man had been working there, on a salary-and-commission basis, for five weeks, and that if he liked, he could work there forever, the year around. ���Business booming like wildfire since Jackie came,” Rudnick told us, looking down at a throng milling about among television sets, washing machines, and refrigerators. “Sports fans flocking in here,” he said with satisfaction. “Young persons, curious about the National League’s Most Valuable Player and one of the best base-stealers since Max Carey. Jackie signs baseballs for them and explains about the double steal. Since he’s been here, he’s sold sets to Joe Louis and Sugar Ray Robinson, among others. The newsreel people shot him selling a set to a customer. He’s a natural salesman, with a natural modesty that appeals to buyers. The salesman wrapped up in himself makes a very small package. Campanella, Hodges, and Barney dropped by to wish him luck. Campanella’s his roomy. There’s Jackie now! With his business agent.” Robinson and a bigger, more strapping man with a florid face were making their way along the floor, the big man in the lead. “He’ll be right up,” Rudnick said. “Hangs his coat here. One other thing we do,” he went on, “when a bar buys a television set, we send Gene Stanlee over to the bar—the wrestler. Mr. America.”
Robinson and his manager for radio and television appearances came up, and we were introduced, learning that the latter’s name is Harry Solow. “Jackie don’t have to lay awake nights worrying about his condition, bucking that mob three times a week,” Solow said. Rudnick told us that Solow also manages Joe Franklin and Symphony Sid, and Solow explained that they are radio personalities. “Jackie’s all lined up for his own radio program,” he continued. “He’s mostly interested in boys’ work, though. Spends all his spare time at the Harlem Y.M.C.A.” “How I keep in shape is playing games with kids,” Robinson said in a well-modulated voice. “When I quit baseball, I intend to give it full time.” We learned that the Robinsons have a television set with a sixteen-inch screen and that their only child, three-year-old Jackie, Jr., likes Howdy Doody, Mr. I. Magination, and Farmer Gray better than anything else on video. As Robinson was about to go down to the main floor, it occurred to us to ask him if he’d developed any special sales technique. He looked surprised and replied that he didn’t think so. “If a customer is going to buy a set, he’s going to buy it,” he said philosophically. “You can’t twist his arm.” “On the other hand,” Rudnick observed, “the right angle for a salesman is the try-angle.”
We bade Rudnick and Solow goodbye and followed Robinson downstairs. A short man in a heavy overcoat got him first. He wanted to see a twelve-inch set. “There’s a bunch of them in the basement,” Robinson told him. “All playing at once.” He led the man down to the basement. We followed. It was quite dark there, but we could make out rows and rows of sets and see customers being herded from one model to another by spirited salesmen. Robinson conducted his man to a twelve-inch set, turned it on, adjusted the picture, and in rather a shout, to get his voice above the hubbub of the amplifiers, named the price and outlined the guarantee. “I like it!” the man hollered. “Could my wife work it—all those knobs?” “A child could work it,” said Robinson, and it was a deal. ♦
— Published in the print edition of the January 7, 1950, The New Yorker Issue, with the headline “Success.”
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