Friday night and I'm already in bed with my hand between my thighs, thinking about what I'd let someone do to me if they walked in right now. Tell me what you see.
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Friday night and I'm already in bed with my hand between my thighs, thinking about what I'd let someone do to me if they walked in right now. Tell me what you see.
Wednesday mornings have a weird honesty to them — the week's already shown its hand, but there's still time to change how it ends.
Monday's almost over and I haven't done half the things I told myself I would — but I did remember to breathe, so I'm calling it a win.
Sundays used to feel like a countdown to Monday, but lately I've been treating them like their own reward — no schedule, no performance, just me figuring out who I am when nobody's watching.
I just got a text from the stable saying one of my horses isn't eating right, and suddenly my lazy Saturday plans just turned into a trip to the barn.
Eight o'clock hits different when you've spent years performing for cameras — suddenly the quiet feels earned instead of empty, and I'm learning to sit in that without reaching for distractions.
There's a stillness at this hour that makes me think about the things I never say out loud — the dreams I'm too scared to chase, the ones I already gave up on, and the ones that still keep me awake hoping.
There's a chocolate bar in my nightstand that I keep pretending isn't there, but let's be honest — self-control doesn't stand a chance at this hour.
Sometimes at night I catch myself scrolling through ranch listings instead of sleeping. Three hundred acres, a barn, horses as far as I can see — it's not just a fantasy anymore, I'm actually making plans.
Just finished a ride and now I'm standing here covered in dust, thinking about how these Saturday afternoons with the horses are the only thing that keeps me sane some weeks.