The Rich Bitch Switch Hitch (gender swap)

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Futanari Diaries by N. Allen Goodreads Author really liked it 4.

Hallowe'en Dreams by N. Allen Goodreads Author liked it 3. Foreign Body - The Novel by N. Sexual Exorcist by N. Claimed by the Cricket Team by N. Allen Goodreads Author it was ok 2. Under Her Thumb by N. Allen Goodreads Author 0. Foreign Affairs gender swap by N. Inside My Daughter 2: Him, Why, and Will: Only the first 65, characters will be sent. Do you want to continue? Dank, Dinosaur, and Puns: Christmas, Dad, and Dank: Lord of the Rings. Indianapolis Colts, Memes, and Wikipedia: Be Like, Fake, and Girls: Anaconda, Bitch, and Blackpeopletwitter: Chelsea, Memes, and Today: Blackpeopletwitter, Life, and Parents: Why is our generation so unhappy?

The standard of leadership has really dropped. Our society is morally decaying, our kids will have very little to enjoy from communal life. We know it's not getting better. Funny, Scooby Doo, and Shaggy: Frozen, Funny, and Internet: My mind is like an internet browser.

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Being Alone, Christmas, and Home Alone: Pussy, Relationships, and Texting: Funny, Memes, and Wine: Me when a co-worker asks why l brought a bottle of wine with me to work HA tool that will help us later lt's a surprise tool that willhelp us later. Memes, How, and Gender: Memes, Classical Art, and Art: Memes, Mute, and Mean: Why didn't he just mute the video? And do I want those kinds of people in my life?

Then I watch the fucking sunset with fucking Steven and be fucking happy about it. Injuries suck, but in two weeks this will be gone and long forgotten and be a great story to tell. Or maybe it was hardly there at all. Rather, it was funneled through the confidence of other people, so while they were sure of themselves, I was also sure.

I have been sitting in the common room unable to walk out on to the streets of San Jose, because eschuco los problemos de harassment, theft, and mucho mas. I am sitting here, writing this, because I feel I have failed with that feigned sense of confidence, so when it was actually put to the test, when I could walk out on my own and explore, I instead wanted to recoil and wrap in a ball inside of myself, terrified of the negatives that might happen.

As long as I continue solo traveling, something might happen. It might deter my pride, destroy whatever confidence I do manage to have, and much more, but it is called being human and being in shitty situations. I think it is almost a blessing in disguise to realize that not only was a semi fooling myself. That should not be an issue. I should not walk out on the street on the basis of what someone else has done, or suggested me to do. The second problem, I think, is realizing that I did chose to come here and put myself in their world, in their culture.

In a place I know little about. That is something that is out of my control, but what is in my control is how I handle myself, how I present myself, and how I treat others resting bitch face, or a smile. At the airport, I had people calling after me, but no one tried anything and I think that comes with modernization. I know not to walk alone at night. I know not to dress provocatively, or flash my phone and wallet too much. Sexual Harassment is real, but it will only take me figuring out how to manage it, how to prevent it, and that starts with going out into the world.

The journey on self-confidence is taking what I can control, and wielding it as a weapon, not to attack, but to defend when necessary. It is to keep my chin up and not looking lost.

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Knowing I could fully walk out that door, on to the streets of San Jose, and carry my own and be fine! It is not my business. Maybe they ask questions or wonder why she decided to stay when it is safe to go, but I will not act on the behalf of what someone else would so. It is what makes me feel alive, the things I prioritize as I move about: Standing my ground, firmly, with my two feet—unyielding. So I will challenge you, future Rachel, that you are on this journey for a reason.

Do no compare yours to others, do not forget the snap inside you as you descended that escalator, turning your back on the world you have known, in search of your own adventure. That is the problem, though. I am sugarcoating my experience to make it convenient for everyone to hear my story. I was fourteen years old when changes began. I was fifteen years old when I first got my period.

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A little late bloomer, but for the most part I think I turned out fine. I was sixteen when I had my first kiss.


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I was eighteen when I lost my virginity. I remember, just for a second, why the only version of dance I was surrounded with in high school was the fact I had to grind them—to sway back and forth while their hands either remained in one place or roamed to others. I will never forget the cold sweat I got, the nerves along my skin, the first time I broke a barrier to the intimate touching. But it was not intimate. It did not benefit me, I realized, as I looked around to my other friends whose smiles had gone from their faces, only the man.

That was the beginning of how, in the grand scheme of things, my body and my sexuality and my lips were for the benefit of the boy. I was the provider to his pleasure. My first kiss was stolen from me. He pushed me up against a wall and kissed me like he might have been slurping a bowl of soup. Why there was no warmth blooming in my stomach at the sensual gesture. No—it was cold, it was dark, and it was only the start of a long road.

When I had sex for the first time, I was drunk and pressured. All I remember was making out with the guy, and then my clothes were being taken off. It happened so fast. I was not loved. I was not cared for by his hands.

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I had to go and take plan b afterward. But I have regretted it for a long time. I was not treated as I should have been. I was taught it was my fault, for not knowing my worth, while his hands pulled my pants down and he shoved himself haphazardly inside of me. The dick got hard, then he came, and then he got off the bed and put his clothes on, while I stared at the ceiling and wondered when I got so good with faking the moans. The first time I was sexually assaulted I was about a month into college. He pulled at my clothes and my throat began to close up. I noticed the hushed room, and the music of parties thumping outside muffled by the glass.

I told her to make up an emergency to get me out of there. Thank you, Bianca, for doing that by the way. I might not have been the kindest friend in the cloud of uncertainty my personality was in, but I will always thank you for doing that. I ran out of that house after the guy had tried to pull me back to the bed, over and over again to stay.

Little did I know my excuse was reflective of the exact situation I was in. He pulled at my clothes. He kissed my jawline.

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I built the idea later on, stemming from this very night, that guys kiss my cheek or head affectionately because they are manipulating me to stay, not because they care. I was nineteen years old when, as I realized years later, I was sexually assaulted for a second time. I had blacked out one night, and it had been at the end of a string of terrible decision making, light-weightedness, makeouts, flirting for a semblance of affection, and with the idea that I was supposed to be getting laid every weekend as most girls seemed to do in college.

That night was one that ruined me. The one snippet I do remember because in trauma, your body seems to like to snap out of its delirious black-outedness and show you, consciously, what you are going through. Where my skin was cold, and I realized my voice wavered as I said: Maybe it was a way the universe was protecting me because my mind took me right back into my blackout. The last thing I do remember was putting my clothes on and running out of the apartment crying. I was told I was a mess by a friend I saw later.

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I was told I gave the whole scene situation of what I just ran from. I was told I said more about my other conquests, and how fucked up they were. I woke up in my own bed the next day. I learned to pretend it never happened. Like so many girls who I swapped hook up stories with in college, I realized mine was no different from others. It was just a bad night, they said.

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