CuriousRick
Aka Cookie Rick
- Joined
- Apr 29, 2023
- Posts
- 7,215
I usually bake cookies, candy or cobbler. I haven’t baked a cake in a long time
A beginners guide for contacting women
- Thread starter Meekly_Anna
- Start date
justanewsub
Virgin
- Joined
- Oct 21, 2025
- Posts
- 328
Be happy.
They not only tell. Want a dick pic? I've a huge collection by now.
I would love to meet a guy with A 10" tongue though. Do long and so flexible!
See- you do save them!!!!
jonnoback
Filthy British Gent
- Joined
- Aug 6, 2024
- Posts
- 3,880
There's NakedBakers on several platforms. Or so I hear. Though these days there's a lot less baking...
jonnoback
Filthy British Gent
- Joined
- Aug 6, 2024
- Posts
- 3,880
I can do all that ... and probably more... if properly trained of courseAh, don't make men out to be worse than they are. You're not useless. I can think of quite a few things that men are needed for.
Apart from the obvious ones, such as taking out the rubbish, putting up shelves, carrying the dirty laundry basket to the laundry room and similar subordinate tasks, you're really useful when a bed needs warming up.
Meekly_Anna
Combat Pixie
- Joined
- Nov 7, 2024
- Posts
- 1,523
You want to be trained?
Come by!
That's a good Jonno.
Come, Jonno, roll over!
Good boy.
Like that?
Come by!
That's a good Jonno.
Come, Jonno, roll over!
Good boy.
Like that?
jonnoback
Filthy British Gent
- Joined
- Aug 6, 2024
- Posts
- 3,880
Are you gonna tickle me?You want to be trained?
Come by!
That's a good Jonno.
Come, Jonno, roll over!
Good boy.
Like that?
HornyBarman74
Virgin
- Joined
- Nov 14, 2025
- Posts
- 4
Don't contact women. At all. Thank you.
Meekly_Anna
Combat Pixie
- Joined
- Nov 7, 2024
- Posts
- 1,523
Gentlemen, some people send me long texts with a profound analysis of my soul. Or what they consider to be a profound analysis.
Apparently, I was abused as a child, or something like that. As far as I can remember, that's not the case, and looking back, it's almost understandable that my father almost spanked me after we fed the stupid farmer's stupid, vicious dog hemp biscuits. Not because of the stupid dog, but because twelve-year-olds shouldn't have access to hemp biscuits.
Isn't village life wonderful?
So, long texts can be a nuisance, but not necessarily.
Anyway, today I have a positive example. Admittedly, we had written to each other from time to time.
Long_Walker: Hi Anna,
I don't want to share my real name, but according to how you express your feelings at other posts, I felt the need to share my thoughts today. I hope you don't mind.
There ain’t no cure for the wintertime blues…
I’m in a little town on the east coast, and the temperature is hovering just above the zero mark. Wearing my knitted hat under my hoodie to keep out the north wind, and yet it howls melancholy along the shingle shoreline where I’m hunched-up trudging. But it’s worth it when the clouds jostle apart long enough to admit golden shafts of sunlight to sparkle up the surge of waves in dramatic ways. Three windblown gulls on the breakwater would make a good photo, but as I stalk close enough for snapping range, one of them lifts off lazily and uncooperatively to veer buffeted across the tide. Until I’m slouching into the shelter of the town centre where there’s a little bookshop hidden away down an alley called Rope Walk, the bookshop provides pleasant browsing. Why is it Rope Walk? Probably some antique connection to grizzled old seafaring folk. So yes, there are cures for the wintertime blues…
Meekly_Anna: Good morning.
Melancholia?
There are certain canvases by Caspar David Friedrich that capture that very spirit. Rope Walk—a name, perhaps, echoing the ropemaker’s old trade. I imagine it a long, unswerving path, stretching some fifty yards into the grey.
And yet, you are mistaken. I possess a sovereign remedy for these winter blues; a cure both highly potent and most elegantly endured. And today, it is the colour of blood.
The night brought a dusting of snow, curdled with rain. Upon the frozen earth, it is a treacherous union. Now, with the mercury hovering just above the frost, a dismal drizzle settles in for the day. In short: wretched weather. The damp chill seeps from my helm into my scarf, embarking on a slow, gloating descent down the small of my back.
It settles upon my breast, too. If I button my coat tight, I am soon stifled and clammy; if I leave it ajar, the biting wind carries its malice within. There is no conventional shield against this insidious cold; even my heavy woollens falter. Though wet wool may hold its heat, it cannot long withstand the tireless assault of the freezing mist.
So, I have chosen a different stratagem: I let the enemy’s fury expend itself upon a void.
Beneath these long, somber woollens, I wear a set of crimson silk—a lace thong and a matching, gossamer-fine bra. None know of it but I. None saw it, save for my own reflection in the morning glass. Yet I know it is there; I know the vision I cast. My skin may be chilled by the world, but within, I am ablaze.
Apparently, I was abused as a child, or something like that. As far as I can remember, that's not the case, and looking back, it's almost understandable that my father almost spanked me after we fed the stupid farmer's stupid, vicious dog hemp biscuits. Not because of the stupid dog, but because twelve-year-olds shouldn't have access to hemp biscuits.
Isn't village life wonderful?
So, long texts can be a nuisance, but not necessarily.
Anyway, today I have a positive example. Admittedly, we had written to each other from time to time.
Long_Walker: Hi Anna,
I don't want to share my real name, but according to how you express your feelings at other posts, I felt the need to share my thoughts today. I hope you don't mind.
There ain’t no cure for the wintertime blues…
I’m in a little town on the east coast, and the temperature is hovering just above the zero mark. Wearing my knitted hat under my hoodie to keep out the north wind, and yet it howls melancholy along the shingle shoreline where I’m hunched-up trudging. But it’s worth it when the clouds jostle apart long enough to admit golden shafts of sunlight to sparkle up the surge of waves in dramatic ways. Three windblown gulls on the breakwater would make a good photo, but as I stalk close enough for snapping range, one of them lifts off lazily and uncooperatively to veer buffeted across the tide. Until I’m slouching into the shelter of the town centre where there’s a little bookshop hidden away down an alley called Rope Walk, the bookshop provides pleasant browsing. Why is it Rope Walk? Probably some antique connection to grizzled old seafaring folk. So yes, there are cures for the wintertime blues…
Meekly_Anna: Good morning.
Melancholia?
There are certain canvases by Caspar David Friedrich that capture that very spirit. Rope Walk—a name, perhaps, echoing the ropemaker’s old trade. I imagine it a long, unswerving path, stretching some fifty yards into the grey.
And yet, you are mistaken. I possess a sovereign remedy for these winter blues; a cure both highly potent and most elegantly endured. And today, it is the colour of blood.
The night brought a dusting of snow, curdled with rain. Upon the frozen earth, it is a treacherous union. Now, with the mercury hovering just above the frost, a dismal drizzle settles in for the day. In short: wretched weather. The damp chill seeps from my helm into my scarf, embarking on a slow, gloating descent down the small of my back.
It settles upon my breast, too. If I button my coat tight, I am soon stifled and clammy; if I leave it ajar, the biting wind carries its malice within. There is no conventional shield against this insidious cold; even my heavy woollens falter. Though wet wool may hold its heat, it cannot long withstand the tireless assault of the freezing mist.
So, I have chosen a different stratagem: I let the enemy’s fury expend itself upon a void.
Beneath these long, somber woollens, I wear a set of crimson silk—a lace thong and a matching, gossamer-fine bra. None know of it but I. None saw it, save for my own reflection in the morning glass. Yet I know it is there; I know the vision I cast. My skin may be chilled by the world, but within, I am ablaze.
VerbalAbuse
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- May 8, 2022
- Posts
- 1,194
StrentWriter
Writer
- Joined
- Jul 13, 2025
- Posts
- 810
Anna used the word “Apparently” before it.I am very sorry for that.
Sorry you have been receiving that sort of message @Meekly_Anna.
Meekly_Anna
Combat Pixie
- Joined
- Nov 7, 2024
- Posts
- 1,523
For the sake of clarity:I am very sorry for that.
I was NOT abused.
Meekly_Anna
Combat Pixie
- Joined
- Nov 7, 2024
- Posts
- 1,523
No problem. Sometimes you just read and miss a minor detail. It happens.
VerbalAbuse
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- May 8, 2022
- Posts
- 1,194
well, it was a long post...
Midnight_Voyager26
Ace of Spades
- Joined
- Jan 17, 2026
- Posts
- 146
This should be a Lit story series. Your character narration is spot on, and very consistent with what I've seen in online communities since 1991.
Times and technology changes, but the lame guys keep limping along.
Thanks for the education attempt, but I am afraid that those who need it most won't see it. Keep up the examples though because it's worth it....even if you only save one poor soul.
Times and technology changes, but the lame guys keep limping along.
Thanks for the education attempt, but I am afraid that those who need it most won't see it. Keep up the examples though because it's worth it....even if you only save one poor soul.
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