Alana is The Best
- Thread starter Light Ice
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fuckmeat
That all you got?
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Light Ice
A Real Bastard
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Very true. It'd take a lot of woman to hold you down.
That's my idea of a great time.
Annisthyrienne
Drive-by mischief maker
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I agree with the original sentiment; Alana is one special woman. 
But I just have to say that these pictures and replies to them are cracking me up!
But I just have to say that these pictures and replies to them are cracking me up!
Last edited:
Tio_Narratore
Studies
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You should all be thoroughly ashamed of yourselves for this public display of depravity, even those of you who claim to revile it while clandestinely revelling in it. And the disgrace to dear old Ireland, my first and only love, where Christ and Caesar are hand-in-glove! If only the holy and revered Bendaductus were hisself here in persona grata to inquisition youall, then we'd see what durty linens ye'd be airing in public, defined high or low or however you may seem yerselfs to be! By the holey faithers' own chasuable ye'd be covered from their coveting eyes and be not on cam or tram or lam or jam of log and jelly or Sunday teacakes!
Now, take up yer thread and sew yer winding sheet of sailcloth to a shroud and run aground on the three-fold reef with neither a star nor compass nor beaconlight to guide ye in this moral abyss of yer own faking and making and shaking and let the bronze bells ring brazen in holy atonation!
On yer knees, now, all, and take on the collared yoke of submission to our Holey Mither and cry out in praise all your AlanaHosannahs in one earthmoving, mountainechoing, searoaring ejaculation of joy!
(And be sure to clean up behindyerselves before ye come again!)
Now, take up yer thread and sew yer winding sheet of sailcloth to a shroud and run aground on the three-fold reef with neither a star nor compass nor beaconlight to guide ye in this moral abyss of yer own faking and making and shaking and let the bronze bells ring brazen in holy atonation!
On yer knees, now, all, and take on the collared yoke of submission to our Holey Mither and cry out in praise all your AlanaHosannahs in one earthmoving, mountainechoing, searoaring ejaculation of joy!
(And be sure to clean up behindyerselves before ye come again!)
But you told me you like me bitchy!..Don't go looking at me like that!
Please..Stop it!...Now..
lol..Stop it!
Ausus_girl13
Rarely Behaved
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Tio. Oh Tio. Melts
Ahren
Space for rent
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It's not meant to be offensive Ahren. It's just a bit of teasing fun.
There was no malice intended.
Huh? I wasn't talking about your post.
Tio_Narratore
Studies
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Tio...are you proposing?
I love when you drop in.
Yes, yes,,and again yes,my Andalusian rose, so fully bloomed and softly petalled in the green mists...a proposal, a proposition, a prospect of droping in wellfully deep and yet deeper to join with you in an artesian eruption of senseandimage...
Ohhhhhh damn the distance dear man. There is sweet nectar on that tongue of yours, and I would dare to sip.
You are such delicious trouble Tio.
Your dialect is unfairly sublime, and superior to that of only I...but yet like a moth I would singe my wings and flutter to each utterance and blossom in the fullness of your salutations.
Beautiful sweet man.
...is this a private party or can anyone join in the Alana adoration...?
Lady Brit, it's absolutely an open party that LI was kind enough to begin. Have fun
Britwitch
Classically curvy
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Lady Brit, it's absolutely an open party that LI was kind enough to begin. Have fun
Great stuff
In that case...yes, I totally agree, Alana is awesome!
You really are!!
Light Ice
A Real Bastard
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Visions of Ireland, it seems, are championed now.
I cannot speak of the Emerald Isle, barley fields, and shaded glens of what was once considered England's most unruly son. I've never been. My experiences in life, while many and fortunate, are bereft the touch of what so many in this country would consider their home. Their mother.
What I know of the Irish Heritage is in shaded alleys and dark slums, old buildings of Victorian, neigh on medieval, conception designed to house the pulsing masses of immigrants who came here seeking shelter and opportunity and found malice and malcontent in far greater abundance.
I know of small bars where the stairs lead downward, underneath battered streets, with black walls and cloth curtains and accents now are muddled by the taint of New England or the hardened gait of Brooklyn, Manhattan, and The Bronx. They speak in a place resting atop the sewers over red ales like O'Hara's and Mingsley's or whilst chewing on Guinness.
I know of women and men whose entire lives were defined by an Irish Heritage to which they had no connection save that their neighborhoods could provide, and so in turn, embraced a history that was brief and violent and secular and all-together American beyond the veil of forefathers and salty trips across an angry Atlantic.
Certainly, we sing songs. We sing the calls and the cries and tales of The Troubles to which none of us have known, finding harmony beyond the literal and applying judicious amounts of faith until their application bends and the tribulations of immigration and city living are an interwoven synonym. We relate, distantly, with bias and hardship. We share a love for drink. We cherish our families, and see our friends being one in the same, and we live for work as much for play and are used to be counted as the laborer as much as any.
But our account of being Irish, and home, are the slums of a city's bowels and the alleys where putrid water gathered in filthy puddles and rats were not just rodents but nightmares, walking, amongst children along the East Coast. From the Five Points to South Shores, teeming hordes of millions, beckoned here with one hand and smothered under the other.
That's the Ireland we know here.
And so to us, an Irish woman not raised in much this way is as a goddess might be. A red-haired siren. She is Aphrodite. There is something pure and beautiful in the thought, conceptualized in the spirit as much as in the eye. A salvation from a lifetime of struggles and disappointments. Deliver us, we say, to the green isle and home where the Irish are more than just peasants to the other classes.
Alana is a rare and pure beauty. The kind of charming spirit that kindles more than passing affection but rare, and honest, hopeful admiration.
She's the very best. And ever-so-good at that.
I cannot speak of the Emerald Isle, barley fields, and shaded glens of what was once considered England's most unruly son. I've never been. My experiences in life, while many and fortunate, are bereft the touch of what so many in this country would consider their home. Their mother.
What I know of the Irish Heritage is in shaded alleys and dark slums, old buildings of Victorian, neigh on medieval, conception designed to house the pulsing masses of immigrants who came here seeking shelter and opportunity and found malice and malcontent in far greater abundance.
I know of small bars where the stairs lead downward, underneath battered streets, with black walls and cloth curtains and accents now are muddled by the taint of New England or the hardened gait of Brooklyn, Manhattan, and The Bronx. They speak in a place resting atop the sewers over red ales like O'Hara's and Mingsley's or whilst chewing on Guinness.
I know of women and men whose entire lives were defined by an Irish Heritage to which they had no connection save that their neighborhoods could provide, and so in turn, embraced a history that was brief and violent and secular and all-together American beyond the veil of forefathers and salty trips across an angry Atlantic.
Certainly, we sing songs. We sing the calls and the cries and tales of The Troubles to which none of us have known, finding harmony beyond the literal and applying judicious amounts of faith until their application bends and the tribulations of immigration and city living are an interwoven synonym. We relate, distantly, with bias and hardship. We share a love for drink. We cherish our families, and see our friends being one in the same, and we live for work as much for play and are used to be counted as the laborer as much as any.
But our account of being Irish, and home, are the slums of a city's bowels and the alleys where putrid water gathered in filthy puddles and rats were not just rodents but nightmares, walking, amongst children along the East Coast. From the Five Points to South Shores, teeming hordes of millions, beckoned here with one hand and smothered under the other.
That's the Ireland we know here.
And so to us, an Irish woman not raised in much this way is as a goddess might be. A red-haired siren. She is Aphrodite. There is something pure and beautiful in the thought, conceptualized in the spirit as much as in the eye. A salvation from a lifetime of struggles and disappointments. Deliver us, we say, to the green isle and home where the Irish are more than just peasants to the other classes.
Alana is a rare and pure beauty. The kind of charming spirit that kindles more than passing affection but rare, and honest, hopeful admiration.
She's the very best. And ever-so-good at that.
L I don't know what to say. I'm touched, even a little embarrassed, but hugely humbled. Thank you. I'm no different than the other girls here I don't believe, but I'm absolutely thankful that I have friends that feel they see something in me that strikes a cord.
I really am ( right now tearfully) amazed, and don't know how to return the kindness of what has been said.
xx I'm rightly stuck now.
You keep writing L. That post is exquisite and what you portray has an innocence that captures a time a long time ago. Incredibly beautiful.
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