Time Tf - Tumblr Posts
Hey, man! Any chance you'd be able to send me back as one of those too cool for school greaser types? James Dean ain't got nothing on me!
As you push open the creaky door, a musty scent envelops you, mingling with the faint aroma of old leather and decades of memories. The thrift store is a maze of curiosities, each corner revealing a new layer of forgotten treasures. Shelves overflow with a chaotic assortment of oddities — from mismatched teacups to vintage vinyl records, from antique dolls with missing limbs to faded concert posters.
Your gaze drifts across a rack of clothing that seems to span generations. There are sequined gowns next to faded band t-shirts, military jackets hanging beside neon spandex. Among them, a worn leather jacket catches your eye. It hangs slightly apart from the rest, as if waiting for you to discover it.
Drawing closer, the jacket reveals its story upon closer inspection. It's well-worn, the leather softened by years of wear. The scent is unmistakable — a blend of old cigarette smoke and a hint of musk, with an underlying tang that suggests a history of adventure. Traces of dried blood mar one sleeve, hinting at a past encounter, perhaps a brawl or a daring escape.
Initially repelled by its gritty appearance, something compels you to touch it. The leather is supple under your fingertips, and despite its flaws, it exudes a rugged charm that speaks of defiance and independence.
Without fully understanding why, you shed your own jacket and slip into the weathered leather. It feels like a second skin, molding to your form as if it had been tailored for you. Just as the jacket settles around your shoulders, a sudden snap echoes through the air, and everything shifts.
Blinking in confusion, you find yourself no longer in the cluttered thrift store. Instead, you're standing in a dimly lit malt shop straight out of a bygone era. Checkerboard floors, chrome-trimmed stools, and a jukebox playing Elvis Presley in the corner transport you unmistakably to the past.
A smirk crosses your face almost involuntarily. The leather jacket feels different now, imbued with a sense of rebellion and nostalgia. Adjusting your attitude to match its aura, you suddenly feel like a character from a James Dean film — a rebel without a cause, ready to challenge the norms of this new-old world.
The journey through the time vortex has not only transported your physical form but seems to have shifted something within you. As you look around, the scene feels strangely familiar yet surreal, as if you've stepped into a story where you are now the protagonist.
With newfound confidence, you stride towards the counter, the leather jacket now a badge of your altered identity. The past beckons with its promises of adventure and intrigue, and you can't help but wonder what other surprises this unexpected journey through time may bring.
The transformation was electrifying. As you don the weathered leather jacket, a surge of confidence courses through you like a jolt of adrenaline. Your posture straightens, shoulders broadening, muscles tightening beneath the fabric of the jacket. It feels like the jacket itself is empowering you, turning you into a larger-than-life figure.
With each step, you feel taller, more imposing. Your movements are smoother, more purposeful. Your hair, previously tousled, now slicks back effortlessly into a classic greaser style. The air around you crackles with an aura of cool defiance.
In the corner of the malt shop, you spot a scene that embodies everything you now embody disdain for. A preppy-looking guy, all blazers and polished shoes, is attempting to impress a girl, Sally, with his rehearsed lines and perfectly combed hair. His voice is smooth but lacks the raw edge you now possess.
With a cocky grin, you stride over, the sound of your boots echoing against the checkerboard floor. Without a word, you snatch the preppy guy's malt from his hand and casually drop it to the ground, the clatter drawing the attention of everyone nearby.
The preppy guy splutters in shock, momentarily speechless. Sally's eyes widen in surprise, but there's a glint of curiosity beneath the initial astonishment. You lean casually against the counter, the leather jacket accentuating your newly acquired swagger.
"You don't mind if I borrow your lady for a moment, do you?" you drawl, your voice low and edged with a hint of danger.
Sally's gaze flickers between you and the preppy guy, her lips curling into a small smile. "I… um, sure," she stammers, clearly intrigued by the sudden turn of events.
You turn to her with a smirk, locking eyes with hers. "So, Sally," you begin, your tone smooth yet laced with a hint of mischief, "you come here often? Or is this your first time getting caught in the crossfire of misplaced charm?"
Her laughter tinkles like chimes, charmed by your boldness. "Actually, it's my first time here," she admits, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "And I must say, it's definitely more exciting now."
You chuckle softly, the sound rich and deep. "Well, they say life's too short for boring encounters," you reply, leaning in a fraction closer. "So, what do you say we make the most of this unexpected rendezvous?"
Sally's smile widens, her eyes sparkling with newfound interest. "I'd like that," she says, her voice softer now, carrying a hint of admiration for your fearless demeanor.
As the jukebox switches to an upbeat rock 'n' roll tune, you offer Sally your hand, the leather jacket fitting you like a shield of confidence. Together, you step into a world where rules are meant to be bent, and adventure waits around every corner.
You lead Sally through the crowded malt shop, her hand clasped tightly in yours. The music pulses around you as you make your way to the back exit, where a cool breeze whispers against your skin.
Once outside, you guide her towards an abandoned warehouse just beyond the alleyway. As soon as they step inside, the world around them fades into obscurity - only their hearts beating wildly against each other's chests remain illuminated by moonlight streaming through broken windows high above.
Without breaking eye contact or releasing her hand, you push Sally gently against one of the rusty metal walls lining the cavernous space. She gasps softly at your sudden forcefulness but doesn't pull away; instead she leans into it with equal fervor. Her lips part slightly in anticipation as she waits for what comes next from this mysterious stranger who has captured her heart (and body) so effortlessly tonight.
The warehouse is dimly lit, casting long shadows across the dusty concrete floor. Rows of abandoned crates and discarded machinery lie scattered about like forgotten relics from another time. The air is thick with anticipation as you press your body against Sally's, feeling her soft curves molding to your hard frame.
Her eyes are wide with desire as she looks up at you, her lips parted ever so slightly in invitation. You lean down towards her neck, breathing in the sweet scent of her perfume mixed with sweat and adrenaline from their earlier encounter inside the bar. Gently tracing your fingers along the line of her jawbone, you trail them downwards until they reach the hemline of her dress - already hiked up past mid-thigh by eager hands earlier tonight.
As you undo the remaining buttons on Sally's dress, revealing more of her creamy white skin beneath, a sense of power and dominance washes over you. You feel like a badass Greaser fucking some dumb preppy bitch - an image that would make any other guy jealous.
Your cock throbs against your jeans in anticipation, aching to be freed from its confines and plunged deep into Sally's waiting pussy. With one final tug, her dress falls away completely, leaving her standing before you in nothing but a lacy black bra and matching panties - both soaked through with arousal.
My biological father was a drunk, gassy and musky construction worker who ran away not long after I was born. Do you think I could see what it's like being in his shoes, to better understand his actions?
You sit in your tiny apartment, the cozy space filled with the soft glow of your iPhone 15 Pro Max. Grey's Anatomy plays on Netflix, a rerun that offers comfort in its familiarity. You absentmindedly scroll through Instagram, double-tapping on posts of guys who catch your eye, a small indulgence in the midst of your evening routine.
Your thoughts drift towards your father, a complicated figure in your life. There's a part of you that longs to understand him better, to bridge the gap that seems to have grown between you. You contemplate picking up the phone to call him, wondering if tonight might be the night to break the silence.
Suddenly, the clock on your phone catches your eye. Its numbers begin to rewind, ticking backwards in a surreal reversal. Your sleek iPhone 15 Pro Max begins to morph before your eyes, shrinking and changing into an iPhone X, then an iPhone 6, then further still until it resembles an older, basic model from years past.
The transformation isn't limited to your phone. Your apartment around you starts to shift and change. The modern decor fades away, replaced by the more utilitarian furnishings of a dorm room. The air feels different, charged with a strange energy that sends a shiver down your spine.
Before you can make sense of what's happening, the door bursts open with a force that startles you. A tall, robust figure strides in confidently, exuding a familiar but younger vibe. "Sup, bro? Ready to hit the town?" he booms, his voice echoing in the small room.
Your head throbs painfully as you struggle to understand. He continues, a grin spreading across his face, "Need to get fucking wasted! I can't believe Obama got elected. McCain was my man!" He tosses you a beer from a nearby mini-fridge with a nonchalant gesture.
The mention of Obama and McCain strikes you as bizarrely out of place. Those were events from years ago, not recent history as he seems to think. The man sitting beside you now, burping loudly in your ear, looks uncannily like your father—but younger, much younger.
As his echo reverberates through your body, a chill runs down your spine. This surreal encounter defies logic and reason, pulling you deeper into a past that shouldn't be. You're left grappling with the unsettling feeling that you've stumbled into a moment beyond time, where understanding and reality blur into a disorienting haze.
The chill ran down your less-than-average body, a testament to years of neglect and occasional indulgence. You were weather-faced, with a hint of weariness etched into your features. Your clothes, a mismatch of old favorites, hugged uncomfortably close to the bulges and love handles that had crept up over time. Taking a sip of the beer offered by the coyly smiling guy next to you, you felt a strange sensation wash over you, as if your body was shifting, morphing in ways you couldn't comprehend.
Aches spread like a full-body hangover, making you lurch forward slightly. It was a sensation akin to a sudden surge of energy coursing through you, transforming the weight you carried into something stronger. You felt heavy with the potential of pumped-up muscles, ones honed through sporadic workouts and the occasional pick-up football game under the sun. Your chest swelled with an unexpected pride, pushing against the fabric of a worn-out tank top that seemed to fit better now than it had moments ago. Sinewy biceps and veins pulsed visibly under the dim party lights as you raised your drink in a toast, feeling every bit the reckless young college freshman.
Your face, typically unremarkable, now bore a flush from the night's indulgences. Your jawline, softened by the haze of alcohol, relaxed into a carefree grin that spread from ear to ear. Hazel eyes, dulled by the night's revelry, gleamed mischievously under tousled blond hair that caught the party's chaotic energy.
Dressed in classic college attire—khaki shorts that rode comfortably on your hips, showcasing the toned muscles of your thighs, and a faded tank top adorned with the emblem of your fraternity—you felt surprisingly at ease. Well-worn boat shoes adorned your feet, tapping eagerly to the beat of the music as if anticipating the next spontaneous dance move.
In your dorm room, the air was thick with the scent of cheap beer and the promise of a wild night ahead. The dude next to you, your roommate, was practically vibrating with excitement as he poured you a shot and shouted, "Let's rage, bro!" You couldn't help but get caught up in his enthusiasm, clinking your shot glass against his and downing the fiery liquid with a cheer.
"To being the best roommates and finding a rager tonight!" he declared, his voice filled with the exuberance of youthful optimism. The burn of whiskey warmed your throat as you joined in his toast, the alcohol quickly beginning to blur the edges of reality.
In an instant, you found yourself transported to a raging frat party. The room pulsed with the infectious beat of "Low" by Flo Rida, reverberating off the walls and mingling with the raucous laughter and shouts of rowdy frat bros. They were everywhere, clad in nothing but backwards baseball caps and gym shorts that showcased their chiseled physiques. Beer dribbled down their defined pecs and abs, catching the light in a tantalizing display that drew your gaze involuntarily.
You felt a strange mix of admiration and arousal, intensified by the haze of alcohol and the charged atmosphere of the party. Your buddy nudged you with a grin, pointing towards a girl across the room. "She's so hot, right?" he asked eagerly, oblivious to the pounding headache that was beginning to throb in your temples.
As "Low" continued to pump through the room, you let out an awkward burp, the taste of whiskey lingering on your tongue. The sound seemed to echo in the chaotic din around you, a stark contrast to the once-clear thoughts that now seemed distant and unreachable. Intelligence slipped away like sand through an hourglass, replaced by a growing sense of intoxication and confusion. "You ain't checking out Zeke and Brock are ya? You ain't no fucking faggot now is ya?" He punches your arm playfully but there's an edge of seriousness in his voice that makes it clear he wouldn't tolerate any homosexual behavior from his friends under any circumstances You look at him, of course you're a fucking fag---a homo---gay. But a pain and rage coarse through you "I ain't no fag! That's fucking gross bro. You know I need dat fine pussy over there" pointing to some slutty looking blonde girl.
Your desire to breed and dominate women burns bright within you, pushing away any thoughts of being a sissy or gay. You point to the blonde across the room whose curves have captured your attention entirely. A part of you knows what it means to be gay – a pain and rage course through you at just thinking about it – but all rational thought flees as lust takes over. All that matters now is claiming this woman for yourself; breeding her and proving once again who holds court here tonight. With every step she takes closer towards where both of you stand, primal instincts kick into high gear: blood rushes southward leaving nothing but pure adrenaline coursing through veins primed for action! It's time for dominance –
As the blonde chick approaches, your desire to breed and fuck chicks burns hotter than ever. The thought of being a fag recedes into the background, replaced by primal urges that demand satisfaction.
You sneer at the very idea of being a fag, letting out a low growl as rage builds within you. You couldn't wait to punch some sissy senseless and prove your dominance once more – but for now, this woman has captured all your attention. Her huge tits sway seductively in time with every step she takes towards where both of you stand; it feels like an animal in heat ready to be claimed by its mate!
You flex your muscles as best you can in your tight t-shirt and approach her confidently. "Hey there beautiful," you say smoothly, as slight Jersey accent forming, flashing a pearly white smile that might be charming if it wasn't so obvious that you were already well past drunk. She giggles at your flirtation before introducing herself as Ashley. With a playful wink, she invites you to join her on the dance floor where The Killers' "Mr Brightside" is playing loudly enough for everyone to sing along with gusto.
The night seems endless; filled with more alcohol than food and countless conversations about nothing important at all - just like every other frat party ever thrown by these guys who think they know how to have fun but really don't understand much beyond getting wasted and trying not think too hard about tomorrow morning when reality will inevitably come crashing back down on them again.
"I'm uhhh---ummm" it's not that your drunk, which you are, but you can't even rememebr your name "I'm uhhh---Tanner, hahaha but everyone calls me T-Dawg," you say, your voice thick with confidence your accent deepening. As if on cue, a deep unnatural tan washes over your skin while gel coats every strand of hair on your head. A gawdy gold necklace wraps itself around your neck as if it were always meant to be there. Looking like a Jersey Shore reject.
You take Ashley by the hand and lead her over to a ratty, beer-stained couch in the corner of the room. She hesitates for a moment before following you – perhaps she can sense what's about to happen next or maybe she just wants it as much as you do.
Once seated on the couch, you force her head down towards your crotch without hesitation or remorse. The smell of sweat, beer and musk fills the air; it's intoxicatingly familiar yet new at once – like being wrapped up in an old blanket after coming home from war. The scent makes you feel like an alpha male through and through – unstoppable force ready for anything life throws at him! She takes hold of your hardened shaft with one hand while using her tongue expertly against its sensitive underside; moans escape her breathlessly. With each stroke upwards towards your tip followed by retreat back down again (and sometimes sideways too), you grunt approvingly knowing that soon enough you will find yourselves lost within each other completely oblivious to everything else.
Ashley's eyes widen in surprise as she stares up at you while your cock throbs inside her mouth. With a primal roar, you let go of all control and release your load directly into her face, causing her to gag on the thick cum that spurts out of you like a geyser. She quickly pulls back with a look of shock mixed with arousal before standing up and brushing off her hands like nothing happened.
"Now be a good bitch and get me a beer," you slur drunkenly, using the only word in your vocabulary that seems appropriate for this situation. Ashley giggles vapidly before turning around and walking away without another word - clearly already planning on finding someone else to satisfy her needs since yours were so easily fulfilled just moments ago.
As the night wears on, you and your buddy continue to live up to your reputation as fearless bro-conquistadors. Between shots of tequila and chugging beers straight from the keg, you take turns seeing who can faaaaarrrrrrrrt the loudest without holding back. PFFFFFFFFFFFFT The smell is pungent enough that it makes most of the other bros at the party recoil in disgust but neither one of you seem to care - instead choosing to revel in your newfound gas-passing skills as if they were some sort of art form all their own.
Between fart battles and flirting with every half-dressed girl who crosses your path, memories start blurring together into a hazy montage: flashes of bodies grinding against each other on dance floors filled with strobe lights; faces contorted into drunken smiles underneath twinkling strings lights hanging from trees outside; laughter ringing out through crowded rooms packed full from wall-to-wall people desperate for fun before they have responsibilities tomorrow morning.
After a while, you black out. When you wake up, it's in your dorm room – but something is off. The smell of the loudest, most obnoxious fart assaults your senses as soon as you open your eyes. "Dude," says your roommate and best friend from across the room, "you fucking stink."
You feel yourself through last night's hangover; morning wood still firmly in place despite it being 9 AM. Your buddy tosses you a beer without any hesitation or judgment; he knows exactly what kind of college bro life is all about! And so do you – there's nothing quite like starting the day with a cold one before heading out to class or whatever else life throws at them on any given day… Even if that means letting loose an enormous burp right into his face after taking that first sip from his freshly opened can of beer… Because fuck yeah! College was awesome!
As you get ready for the day, you see yourself in the mirror – and what do you see? A dumbass, loud-mouthed obnoxious college freshman! A total Jersey Shore fratbro.
Your roommate high-fives you as if to say "Let's make 2008 are fucking bitch bro!" It turns out that not only are you living in the past now but with the dude that used to be your dad! Not that you'd remember. You let out a wicked, ranky faaaaaaaarrrrt that fills the room as you nostrils flare taking the smell in.
You both let out a huge laugh at this revelation before deciding it's time to score some hot chicks and get day drunk. Who needs class anyway? With that thought in mind, another gassy burrrrrrrrrp escapes from deep within your gut – a reminder of just how much fun being an unapologetically straight college bro can be… So why not embrace it wholeheartedly?
