#scrota

[z11bqneettfl]

Ladyboy has her airtight femboy asshole bareback fucked Chastity Lynn demands a hard cock in her ass and a creampie Adriana Chechik, Nikki Knightly, & Andy Rye have an insane messy anal 3some Infiel grabada Ebony TS Lavinia jerks off her shecock Lesbians making out in car Tattooed emo cum sprayed SENTONES DE UNA CULONA TIGRESA FALANDO DA FESTA PRIME Sadgirl follando con fuckboy

#burgeoning #trajectory's #Seljukian #metal #mulleins #crop-eared #tierer #abrotanum #scrota #Umbriel #goslarite #coaggregation #fideos #georgia #maceman #nail-shaped #insurgent #taled #nontreasonableness #forejudgment

[charlesreeza]

Artemis of Ephesus, alabaster, Roman, 2nd century CE, with 19th century bronze restorations - National Archaeological Museum of Naples

“The bust of the statue is covered with four rows of rounded protuberances wrongly interpreted as the goddess’s breasts. In fact, they represent the scrota of bulls, victims of sacrifices.”

Photos by Charles Reeza

#ancient art #classical antiquity #queen of nature #mistress of the beasts #Roman Empire #goddess #art restoration #bull scrota

[atpsynth4se]

look do as you will i just simply cannot believe some genital euphemisms can ever be effectively used in a serious sexual context

#fathericraveviolencecore #or maybe i just don't like scrota

[is-the-primate-vid-cute]

Is there a practical reason why some monkeys have... literal blue balls? Is it just to say "hey look at these!" to mates? Apologies if you've already answered this!

Basically! Blue scrota is a popular trait, so sexual selection makes for generations of monkeys (particularly vervets) with flashy genitalia. The popularity of this trait may also contribute to brighter coloration correlating with high social rank.

#inquiring minds want to know #mod J

[smerzbeliever]

scrota are literally so beautiful

[erismourn]

Oryx gets bottom surgery call those thangs "scrota"

#mads.txt

[shiftythrifting]

give a whole new meaning to cracking open a cold one with the boys (and by 'the boys' i mean "genuine kangaroo scrotum" of course)

[image description : a metal bottle cap opener with a handle shaped like a pair of testicles covered in a light tan fur. there is a leather pouch next to it that has a drawing of a kangaroo and the inscription GENUINE KANGAROO SCROTUM. /end description]

Found at Seattle Goodwill

#submission #thrifting #shiftythrifting #tourist shit #scrotums #scrota #🤷 #dead animals #australia #kangaroos #thrift finds #weird #taxidermy

[yourgaydads]

haven’t been inspired lately so -- here!

#i forgot to queue this! #not my best but i tried #hello strategically placed thigh #not the most flattering angle for scrota anyway #as usual coudn't be bothered with color #or light #any excuse to include MLEM #flinthamilton #my comic

[doolallymagpie]

no differences between usernames like “scrota, sack of oryx” and “ana bray’s bathwater” and race horse names like “potoooooooo” and “odor in the court”

#destiny 2 #this is what guardians who haven’t figured out what to call themselves do in the crucible so shaxx can engrave the trophies #all the scrotas just share the same trophies. there’s a whole museum in the city of em. #real horse names I swear

[testingcheatsenabletrue]

played iron banner

died like 30 times

all we got was this shitty 1010 light level rocket launcher despite being light level 1030

didn’t even get any progress on the fucking thorn quest despite getting at least 10 kills with a void hand canon / super / bomb and iron banner SUPPOSEDLY multiplying progress of the quest

saw someone with a funny code name tho so i guess there’s that

#Gordon #Alix #it was 'scrota; left nut of oryx'

[aibidil]

Ron/Cormac: On Scrotal  Musculature and Pluralisation

This is for @synonym-for-life​ and @frnklymrshnkly​ and everyone who has ever said 🤔🤔🤔 when reading smut.

Ron’s nose scrunched in bemusement as he studied the book resting on his legs, When Wands Collide. “Can scrotums be muscled?”

Behind the sofa, Cormac paused mid-squat and peered down at his crotch apprehensively. His blue eyes shone with what Ron thought was self-consciousness as he asked, “What?”

“This erotica,” Ron said, waving the book in the air, “just described the Unspeakable’s bollocks as muscled. ‘Fernando’s balls are firm, virile, and muscled, never wrinkled or saggy, and Lucretio needs to feel their weight in his hand’.”

Cormac paused his workout, and Ron made a mental note that one way to get Cormac to take a break from his circuits, apparently, was to raise the semantics of balls. Generally, Cormac just talked through his exertion, peppering his conversations with grunts and heaves. Ron could do without the grunts and heaves—he didn’t even like the grunts and heaves mid-fuck, much less in the middle of a discussion about renewing their Muggle identities with the Ministry because they were about to expire (a conversation that had happened while Cormac was doing burpees, just yesterday).

Cormac peered over Ron’s shoulder, his sweaty hair brushing Ron’s cheek. “Where?”

Ron pointed, holding the book up to give Cormac a better view. “Is it scrotums?” Ron asked, thoughtful.

“Is what?”

“Two scrotes. Is it ‘scrotums’?”

“Yah, I think,” Cormac said. “Or could be scrota. Is it, like, Latin?"

“I just don’t understand how it could be muscled,” Ron said, and it’s not as if he didn’t have plenty of first-hand experience with scotums. Scrota.

“I mean, it has to have muscles, though,” Cormac said. “It moves.” He paused. “Sometimes.”

“Well, fuck, yeah but my eyelids also have muscles—because reflexes and shit—and you wouldn’t describe my eyelids as muscled.” Ron heard a strange noise and turned to see what Cormac was doing. “Why are you dropping trou?”

“Research, bro,” Cormac said, pulling his beefy legs out of his shorts.

Ron moved away slightly, concerned about what this scrotum research might involve. If it involved weights, Ron wanted to be a good distance away. “Please don’t try to hang weights off your balls,” Ron pleaded. “I don’t have the wherewithal to explain that at St Mungo’s.”

Cormac honked a laugh and slapped Ron on the shoulder. “Nah, mate, that’s not what I meant by research. I’m just going to see how strong your scrote is, despite its wrinkles.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you want me to go back to my circuits?”

Ron hopped up. “Research is good.”

#ron/cormac #cormac/ron #roarmac #ron x cormac #rormac #scrotums #or is it scrota #honestly i dont even know #but i found this in my wip folder during that meme today hahahha #ron weasley #cormac mclaggen

[inflagrante-delicatessen]

why do passion fruits look like scrota

#pst #txt

[harvard-art-museums-sculpture]

Votive Terracotta Scrotum, 3rd-1st century BCE, HAM: Sculpture

Votive terracotta scrotum. Reddish clay, porous, with gritty black impurities. Most likely from a sanctuary votive deposit in Etruria (central Italy). Such terracotta scrota may have been given either as a request or as an offering of thanks for fertil... Size: 5.9 x 4.1 x 2.8 cm Medium: Terracotta

https://www.harvardartmuseums.org/collections/object/287795

#museumarchive #harvardartmuseums

[odys-seus]

Artemis of Ephesus

Roman creation, 2nd century AD. inv. 6278

From her head (modern, as is the crown that takes the form of a city wall) hangs a veil that falls down in soft folds at the back From the front it appears stiffened to form a disc, on which lion and griffin heads appear to float. Around her neck, the goddess wears a pectoral in the shape of a half-moon, enclosed by a garland of helichrysum and a necklace with acorn-like pendants. Within them is a complex scene depicted in relief. Two pairs of winged female figures converge towards the centre, bearing palms and crowns, symbols of victory. Interwoven with them are signs of the zodiac, Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer and Leo. The bust of the statue is covered with four rows of rounded protuberances, wrongly interpreted as the goddess’s breasts. In fact they represent the scrota of bulls, victims of sacrifices. 

Text from the object’s plaque at the Naples National Archaeological Museum. 

#ya girl #artemis #artemis of ephesus #ancient rome #rome #roman sculpture #sculpture #roman mythology

[willpowerbutch]

Willpower Butch and the Son of God

By the Reverend Willpower Butch

We found ourselves in a dour, tangled wood, having strode excellently to the north of the ruins of London. We were safeguarding ourselves from the Homosexual by burning his nail polish and thrusting our pelvises as we walked – I, by virtue of my untrammeled virility, and Timpani Gayparade because I was repeatedly kicking his ass – for this display of breedful lumber-hauling intimidates even the most unhyperbolic Gay into hours of aesthetic crying. My un-non-sodomized companion, Paragon Shag, halted us before a gully, grimacing as he did at its detestable and wet resemblance.

“Quite Anti-Rimbauded Stoics,” spake he into the gap in the David’s pants, “were you capable of womanly regard for your environment, I should caution you now to take protective hold of your erections. For I scent among the pungent mosses a grievous concoction of defensive sarcasm, elderflower, and fear of guns.”

“No!” shouted Top-a-mée Christopherhitchens tremulously at Shag’s injunction. “That odor could only announce one thing: an Anglophilia of Transgendereds!”

No sooner had the flaccid, strawberry-incensed brat danced this were we come upon by these self-same Transgendereds. They were crudely crayoning beards and boobs onto the yearbook photos of children while singing the “Internationale” in Esperanto. And they were, without exception, slathered in a gloopy, glittery sludge.

“Alas, they have fornicated with Boy George,” Shag supposed.

“Nay,” I overruled him, speaking the truth because I am a Man, “they are the undead. See how they rise from the ground like a Gay asshole thrashing up toward Papalism. See how they have returned from Tim Curry’s House to torment their enemies.”

For, in the center of that discoing mass, there stood the trifecta of swallowing come at somebody else’s orgy and then complaining about the taste: Graham “transplanted his ass onto his face” Linehan, Germaine “spectacularly missed the point of her own life’s work” Greer, and JK “spent the nineties roleplaying a little boy and is desperately trying to deflect” Rowling.

The trifecta hailed our entourage, noting that we were not party to the Transgenders’ Dostoevskian lower bureaucrat fetish. “Help us!” they cried.

Marzipan Dostoevsky, friend of Vladimir Purina and King Gay of Sierra del Fuego. His infamous bent nose is the result of giving too much head.

Forthwith, we left them and continued on our way, crossing the border into Scotland.

As we plowed further into the wilds, we encountered a strange portal carved into the rockface of a proud spire. Drawing closer, Michael Sheen exclaimed, “This is it! The secret cavern where Franc’n’o has kidnapped God. But how may we come inside?”

There was, indeed, no discernible way through, for the doorway was a mere carving on stone. Near the top, there was a message scrawled in Scotlandenisishlatin.

The David stepped forward, the arches of his hips and back as sturdy and graceful as a yew, and his mouth as red-pink, as inviting, as absolutely forbidden as yew berries, gyrating as he read the words to himself.

“Read homo in the face of Man, and enter,” he translated for us. Turning toward me, his expression was puzzled. “Homo in the face of Man?”

“Shag,” I said frowningly, “what do you make of this?”

“Perhaps it’s a riddle. Omo represents the eyes, the ridges of the brow, and the nose in the face of Man, for facial hair is too powerful to render in this Nancy language,” Shag considered. “What we do not know is the symbolism of the ‘h.’ What could that be?”

“A cowlick?” suggested Gayparade.

“One ear?” ventured Michael Sheen.

“The tongue, sticking out?” lilted the David.

“The tongue, sticking out,” I murmured, repeating him. “Why else would Franc’n’o construct such an opening? He means for us to enact something that no Man would ever do, for the genital of the Gay is magnetized to the tongue of the Straight Man.”

My companions were much astonished at this, but also greatly impressed that I had retained so many facts about the Gay from only one drunken viewing of their episode on the Discovery Channel.

Looking between them, I could perceive the fear in their rapid flacciding. “Nay!” I shouted, mustering all my strength, “MEN!” And thus, I kicked through the doorway, sending out a shockwave that turned every blushing, pristine flower for miles into beer-soaked charcoal, scented with entitlement. And we were through.

Treading into the dark, it was several minutes before we came upon a peculiar thing. At the end of the hall was a garish, stadium-lit roller-skating rink, but unlike any we may see in the world above, for this rink was tiled with a material smoother than any quality of marble or varnished wood: twinks. Our metal-toed boots clanged as we approached, and upon this clamor, the twinks rolled around, alarmed, and like cats puffing their tails, they sprang their stiffnesses at us.

“Gentlewomen!” exclaimed the vile Franc’n’o from his throne of unsexiness. “You think that I’m greeting you to your faces, but in fact, I’m admiring your thighs!”

It was in this moment I knew that Franc’n’o had succeeded in becoming a Gay at last. And I mourned, my lords. I mourned the children unborn because Ben Whishaw and his cohort have made western Europe into a writhing accumulation of sexually ambiguous style magazine cover-shoots. I mourned that the poppy fields of yesteryear are become the pansy fields of today. And most of all, I sprayed three-in-one shampoo/conditioner/bodywash into Franc’n’o’s eyes, for this confuses the radar of the Homosexual.

Notwithstanding this, Franc’n’o pounced. And, like a quietly imposing youth who always sits alone at the bar and vanquishes toxic masculinity by making engaged straight men curious about bottoming, his fierce countenance froze me to the spot. But just when all hope seemed lost, there emerged a shot a pearly white from behind him, disintegrating the villain into innumerable molecules of coming-of-age movie nosebleeds.

At first, I could not make out the source of this blast through the shimmering dust of a thousand twinks vanishing back into the realm of the fae. But as they dissipated in the air, I saw him directly. He was a titan of a Man, impossibly contoured, possessing flawless bronze skin and a statuesque comportment. He had hair that no beauty appliance had homosexed, and yet it was both as firm and as silken as victory garlands. He beckoned Shag and me to him, and when he spoke in his engorging baritone, it was a language otherworldly and supreme, far too masculine to pass the lips of any mortal man.

Gesturing to me, he boomed, “У него толко серп, но у меня большой молот.” And then, he turned toward a large set of doors, and we could only infer that he meant for us to follow. We passed into another long, dark hallway, which culminated in a yet larger portal which emitted an indescribable glow. “Зови меня капитаном подлодки, потому что я углубляюсь,” he spoke again and urged us inside.

We were blinded altogether, so bright was that interior. Droplets rose to Shag’s eyes and to my hardness. A voice still deeper, still richer, still more impossible accosted us. “Do not fear, my good Men,” it said. “This is my Son, whom mortals have met before. He returns to you rebranded as his true form, and his name is Panzer Dzheesaskrist.”

Dimly, I made out the irresistible figure who had addressed us. At once, all was clear. Such a vision met me, my indomitable brothers with extreme personal space, that I shall remember and love forever: it was God, the Manliest Man of all.

About the Author

The Reverend Admiral Willpower Butch, who recently topped the human race by releasing God from a pervert’s Scottish underground fetish athletic studio, is hard at work on his petition to remove fruit from public markets on the basis that it is gay propaganda. Paragon Shag, his brave correspondent and roommate, is coming out with a line of deconstructed cars to raise money for Brothers In The Comintern Have Enlarged Scrota, an anti-communist mission. Their secretary and Russian fairytale character who gets no dialogue, Dead Summer Days, is treading on thin f*cking ice with his decision to start wearing sweatpants.

#willpower butch #paragon shag #manly men! magazine #this one's kind of short #but at least it's finally finished

[macgyvermedical]

I have a plastic, life-sized, human half-torso with velcro-on genitalia strapped into the front passenger seat of my car. It came with a bag of 6 different scrota and a few assorted prostates. It’s for work. Thought you all should know.