Toh-up.

Toh-up.

Nap Cabin // Munich International Airport

Nap Cabin // Munich International Airport

my fall lqqk is long walks listening to spooky black and feeling really emotional. 

boof.

boof.

the mannequins in istanbul were really on point. 

the mannequins in istanbul were really on point. 

last semester of grad school theme song. 

(Source: swooshart, via qweer-ty)

(Source: horrible-things, via thebasicblowjob)

hudson. 

hudson. 

Slow Magic: Waited 4 U

(88 plays)

"If Asian men are the vassals for white men’s domination fantasies, black men are the tools required for white male submissive fantasies. As Frantz Fanon explains, the black ‘man’ no longer exists in the white sexual imagination. Instead, ‘one is no longer aware of the negro, but only of a penis. The Negro is eclipsed. He is turned into a penis. He is a penis.’ Rather than existing as individuals, black men exist as sexual tools, ready to fulfill, or violate, white male sexual fetishes."

Chong-suk Han, They Don’t Want To Cruise Your Type: Gay Men of Color and the Racial Politics of Exclusion (via rniguelangel)


been having so many thoughts about this exact notion lately. trying to navigate what experiences are my own sexual liberation + exploration. and which exploit me as a sexual object. so much side eye to all these white bois in brooklyn who really want that bbd on the [not so] low. but honestly, sometimes i need to let people know: i am not my dick. 

(via papidreamz)

me in my next apartment. 

me in my next apartment. 

New York seemed very strange indeed. It might, almost, for strange barbarity and manner and custom, for the sense of danger and horror barely sleeping beneath the rough, gregarious surface, have been some impenetrably exotic city of the East. So superbly was it in the present that it seemed to have nothing to do with the passage of time: time might have dismissed it as thoroughly as it had dismissed Carthage and Pompeii. It seemed to have no sense whatever of the exigencies of human life; it was so familiar and so private that it became, at last, the most despairingly private of cities. One was continually being jostled, yet longed, at the same time, for the sense of others, for a human touch; and if one was never—it was the general complaint—left alone in New York, one had, still, to fight very hard in order not to perish of loneliness. This fight, carried on in so many different ways, created the strange climate of the city.

James Baldwin, Another Country