And Thus, It Begins.

Oh, holy gods, i'm dying! I must answer this call to action!

@differentcatcat

Taint Misbehavin’: The Gender-Neutral Tragedy of the Human Gooch

You’ve been lied to your entire life.

Not about taxes. Not about calories. Not even about the clitoris.

No — I’m talking about the taint.

That glorious, forgotten slab of flesh. That unclaimed demilitarized zone between the promised land and the chocolate factory. That thin, sweaty strip separating birth from exile.

Let’s set the record straight:

Women. Have. Taints.

And the fact that society pretends otherwise is the greatest act of anatomical erasure since we collectively agreed that “muffin top” was a nice term.

🧠 What Is a Taint?

Also known as:

The perineum (if you’re a doctor)

The gooch (if you’ve owned a PS2 and body odor)

The grundle (if you’ve ever dated a drummer)

The Devil’s Slip-N-Slide (if your festival record is sealed)

Technically:

“The perineum is the area between the genitals and the anus.”

But spiritually?

It’s the unspoken pause in God’s sentence. The hallway between the temple and the abyss. The place where gender, shame, and chafing meet.

🔍 Who Gets One?

Let me be clear:

Whether you’re packing heat or holding space, slanging meat or curating petals, carrying a baby cannon or a soft serve dispenser—

You. Have. A. Taint.

And if you’ve gone your entire life without realizing that, congrats: society’s gendered body-shame campaign worked.

😤 But Isn’t “Taint” a Male Word?

Historically? Sure.

“Taint” was born in locker rooms. Raised by Xbox parties. Educated in Reddit threads. And baptized in the sweat of men who didn’t understand the purpose of a washcloth.

It was linguistically colonized by testosterone.

But anatomically?

It was always co-ed.

🚺 The Untold History of the Female Taint

You think the patriarchy invented oppression?

No. The real villain is linguistic erasure.

Because while men gave their taints nicknames, stories, and occasional bar soap—

Women got radio silence.

Your undercarriage has been:

Ignored

Unlabeled

Uncelebrated

Unclaimed

You’ve spent years exfoliating your thighs and waxing your peach…

…but no one told you there’s a full-blown diplomatic zone beneath it.

A biological Bermuda Triangle. A tactile twilight zone.

Your taint.

📉 Let’s Break Down the Cultural Bias:

Body Part Coverage

Boobs Over - celebrated

Butts - Literally worshiped

Clitoris - Found in 1998

Labia - Misunderstood poetry

Taint - Ghosted

Why? Because it’s funny. And neutral. And sweaty.

You can’t put the taint in a perfume ad. You can’t put it on a billboard. So they buried it.

💀 What Makes the Taint Powerful?

Because it’s:

Genderless

Timeless

Politically neutral

Sensually charged

Biologically disrespected

It’s the only body part that:

Isn’t sexualized

Isn’t sacred

Isn’t politicized

Isn’t aestheticized

Isn’t protected

It just is.

Unbothered. Unbranded. Unapologetically indifferent.

And that makes it sacred.

📚 Linguistic Justice: Let’s Rename It Properly

Unisex taint aliases, rebranded for the equality era:

The Fleshbridge

The Forbidden Fajita™

Undercooch

The Sin Tundra

Devil’s Hallway

The Emotionless Alley

The Oathbreaker’s Strip

The Nether Yawn

Purgatory Patch

The Biblical Buffer Zone™

Choose your fighter. Reclaim your stripe. We’re not asking anymore.

🧼 Taint Hygiene: No Gender Exemptions

Let’s get raw.

Your taint:

Sweats like a liar in court

Collects funk like it’s in a blues band

Suffocates in yoga pants

Smells like the ghost of mistakes past if ignored too long

Male or female — it don’t matter.

Your taint will betray you unless:

You lather.

You exfoliate.

You show it the respect you pretend to give your “self-care routine.”

The taint is the final frontier of bodily respect. Ignore it, and it will out you in summer.

🧪 The Psychological Impact of Owning Your Gooch

Let me be dead serious.

When you finally accept your taint:

Your shame collapses.

Your ego softens.

Your sex becomes better.

Your humor becomes darker.

Your subconscious literally trusts you more.

Women who accept their taint become dangerous. Not because they’re wild — but because they’re free.

💥 The Taint Test: Feminist Edition

Ask your friend with the “Divine Feminine Energy” tattoo:

“Do women have a taint?”

“Can I call mine a gooch and still be empowered?”

“If you ignore your perineum, are you really body positive?”

Watch her hesitate. Watch her blink. Watch her glitch.

Because the truth is hilarious. And hilarity burns the shame right out of you.

🧘‍♀️ If You’re a Woman Reading This…

You now have no excuse.

That strip of skin between the peach and the abyss?

That subtle runway between entrance and exit?

That’s your taint.

And it deserves:

A name

A scrub

A shrine

A Wikipedia page

You don’t need to gender it. You just need to own it.

🤯 TL;DR

The taint is real

The taint is universal

Women have taints

The patriarchy ignored it

But your loofah doesn’t have to

This isn’t just anatomy.

It’s resistance.

💣 CALL TO ACTION

🔁 Reblog this before someone calls it “cisnormative perineum propaganda” 🧽 Send to the friend who forgot to wash hers today 🍑 Share if you’ve ever worn tight leggings with no idea what’s happening underneath 🫧 Save this if your taint is a neglected spiritual quest waiting to happen

⚖️ LEGAL DISCLAIMER:

This post is satire, anatomy education, performance art, cultural rebranding, locker room theology, and biological diplomacy.

It is protected by the U.S. Constitution, the Geneva Convention of Postmodern Memes, and the sacred covenant of shower-based self-respect.

If you’re offended:

Wash deeper.

Laugh louder.

Reclaim your gooch.

Because if you can’t name it — the patriarchy still owns it.

And that is the real tragedy.

Bundling & handfasting can get you through the winter…. All legal in Sweden.

Magda Svensson (1895-1968) and Mats Olivio Axelsson (1891-1967) on their wedding day, 1916, Sweden. They've had to hurry the wedding, as they were already expecting their first child in the spring.

As a card-carrying cloud watcher (and a dreamer of dreams) I must mention that I see a kitty face on the left side of the cloud, and its tail on the right side! What we have here is a giant Persian cloud kitty hiding on a tree top!

@differentcatcat @maxwell-demon

I’d like a layback in June, too! For my birthday - send me that recipe! Lol! Nom nom nom…

Cinnamon Rolls

A short Alex & Jamesy fic - NC-17

The lucky morning I found my mother’s cinnamon rolls recipe, Alex was up and out early.  He had many business-y things to do that I kept my nose out of unless invited for some specific usefulness.  He had kissed me goodbye, called me tasty, and was out the door to his own dulcet tones telling me he would be back after he got a workout, “love you, darlin’.”  That last bit was all in Swedish before the darlin’, one of my favorite epithets the way he said it.  I knew his mind was already on whatever the suits wanted of him.

I made tea for me and plucked two old cookbooks off a dusty shelf and began to look for something different to cook for my best boy.  I had fallen into comfortable domesticity.  It wasn’t a bad thing since Alex had enough free time that he wanted a playmate who was fun, fuckable and had availability.  He showed me, in ways I’d have never imagined, his appreciation for my efforts for him.  Honestly, I didn’t miss the hectic hurry of the life and death of the Law.  My firm did well and the foundation was thriving with some government funding.  I was as active in my vocation as I needed to be.

My mind was wandering this morning.  I fleetingly thought about bringing up adoption again with Alex, but I knew what he would say, “Not yet, Jamesy, I need you with me.  I love you.  When I can do without you a little, we’ll have all the babies you want.  We will have to cut down on fucking all over the house, you know.”  And he would usually grab me up and twist me into a position that felt so good I gave no other thought to pretty Swedish babies and their diapers.  Life doesn’t give anyone everything, and I had so much and a Viking to share it with me.  Alex had inherited his papa’s libido apparently, and had I been able, I’d have been barefoot and pregnant every year from the get-go – aaah, seven years ago now.  All things considered, we were happy, maybe even happier than one or two of Alex’s siblings with progeny aplenty.

Enough mental blather, ‘Miz Fischer’, let’s bake something.  I flipped through old Betty Crocker and out fell pages in my mother’s handwriting.  I read “Yeast Rolls and Cinnamon Rolls (Jimmy’s favorite)”.  I remember my mother making these rolls for holidays and my daddy begging for the cinnamon rolls made from the same dough.  He must have put on ten pounds every winter when my mother was festively in the mood to bake these goodies for him.  Such nostalgia in just a written recipe, I could almost smell them baking.  Alex would be nostalgic too about that Swedish television series he did when he was about twelve or thirteen and he went to work just for the Kraft Services Cinnamon Buns.  Mine would be even better.  I got to work with the rising and the kneading.  I called on the cats to help, but their napping could not be disturbed.  It was early summer and Roast’n’ear and Sweet Fang would want to look rested when doing yoga by the pool.  I snickered thinking of the baby oranges in downward dog and set the bowl of dough on a table in the sun to rise heavenward.

(Alex in The Dog that Smiled)

Besides the traditional brown sugar/cinnamon filling, my daddy liked raisins and chopped pecans in the roll and topped with confectioner sugar icing.  The all-day affair was baking in the oven when I heard Alex come in.  He was sweaty from his workout (he’d rather shower at home with no prying eyes), carrying his business clothes, projecting his voice into the kitchen, “Something smells delicious, besides you, babycakes.  Marti says ‘hi’.  I have the muffin basket from the gym in the car to be refilled.  Gotta make a call.  Done soon.  I promise, love of my loins.”  He faded away upstairs to the office we shared but was now mostly his.  And what bliss he left behind.  I suppose he knew I would die for him, but he never seemed to take me for granted.  He loved me with every word he spoke in my direction.  I smiled.  He would never think of hugging me when he was that sweaty.  Oh, I thought of hugging him.  The oven timer dinged.

I generously drizzled the frosting as the two pans of rolls cooled.  I cut one from the middle and scooped it onto a pretty little plate with a delicate dessert fork beside that looked ludicrous in the big Viking paw and made us both giggle.  I climbed the stairs thinking of the times Alex had chased me up them and I let him catch me.

Alex was on the phone and as near naked as he dared considering his cushioned desk chair just right for his perky Viking butt – he was wearing only his workout shorts.  The rest of him was bare and beautiful down to his toes curling on the fluffy rug.  When he saw me and the plate in hand, he said into the phone, “Fine.  See what you can do.  Goodbye,” and gave me a big Alex smile.  He reached for the plate and exclaimed joyously, taking small bites and tasting every ingredient.  I stood behind him and kissed his nape, savoring the salty taste of sweat on his skin, then wound my fingers in his damp hair and gave his head love scritches as I told my cinnamon rolls story.

Alex was moaning with delight, I thought, and moved to look at him straight on.  “So good, Jamesy, jeezus.”  I swear he had an orgasmic look on his sweet face.  He winked at me and licked the plate.  “So good it gave me a hardon.”  I gazed in awe as he adjusted his cock.  Maybe that’s why my daddy enjoyed the cinnamon rolls so much.  I snickered.

Alex grabbed my arm and stood me between his knees and the desk.  He unfastened my jeans and pushed them down, I moved them like Miette to the side.  Alex took my top over my head that dislodged my hair clippy causing a cascade of auburn curls nearly to my nipples, erect and needing his touch.

“Do you want this cock?”  Alex had pushed his shorts down and set me on his huge flat desk calendar he used to doodle on.  “I need to feel you, baby,” Alex rasped.  His breath was deep and jagged with desire so sharp his cock was jumping.  I opened my legs and leaned back on my arms.  Alex nuzzled my tits, tongued and sucked my nipples until my breathing was as deep as his and our parts were anointing his calendar month of June.  Then the Viking kissed me with love from his depths as he eased his cock into mine.  We both moaned the pleasure of the connection we so enjoyed.  Alex laid me flat, entwined his fingers in my hair, kissed me hard and fucked me harder.   I had my heels resting on his bobbing butt.  Holding my head by the hair was not only savagely possessive (very hot in the moment) but kept me from scooting up the desk surface from his equally possessive thrusts with his cock hitting all the way to my lungs (so it felt) and touching/prodding/rubbing all my good spots along the way.  My clit was caught just right by the root of his monster cock I called my favorite toy and was screaming silently, throbbing, about to loose the dance of fire down my legs and through the cock to Alex’s balls.  He said he could feel my orgasm there.  Alex looked at me and gasped, “I know. Fuck.  Fuck.  Give it now!”  He took me, all of me.  My pussy squeezed the jiz out of him.  My clit danced a jig of joyous release.  I called for him plaintively.  He groaned like a mighty Viking and ended with a whine of a sated puppy.  He lay over me on the month of June, kissing my hot skin where his lips landed.

“Goddamn, baby, your pussy is gonna kill me.  That’s just how I want to go.”  Alex giggled such that we both shook.  “You want me to let you up, babycakes?  C’mere then.”  He carried me to the shower.  I had snagged the hair clippy and stuck my hair up on the way.  Alex was very cuddly and let me wash him and kiss him to my heart’s content.  He lathered me and washed his hair.  We were clean when Alex turned off the body jets and turned on the rain head.  He pressed me against the warm wall and got on one knee, my foot propped on his extended knee.  The warm rain ran down his back.  He looked up at me and smiled.  He ran his tongue through my nether lips to call forth the nectar he wanted.  He sucked my clit.  I wantonly sighed like a harlot and encouraged his tongue deeper by holding his ears.  That made him laugh so that with my climax he called forth a sip of cinnamon roll chaser.  Alex arose and we kissed in the gentle rain for long moments of romance, absorbed in each other and the love our eyes held.

“I’m thinking of cutting my hair short.  What do you opine, sweet man?”  I remarked off-hand during the toweling.

“You are so much more than your hair,” Alex hummed.  He often hummed when he was happy or so satisfied he wanted to scream about it, but that would be scary.  “I love you any way you come, as long as it’s for me.”

“Every time, Swede-ee-pie.  I made lots of cinnamon rolls, want another?”

“Fuck, babycakes.  Let me have a rest first.  I can’t handle another hardon just now.  Jeezus, Jamesy.”  He teased me.

“Yeah, you’re not as young as you used to be, my gloriously sexy old man.”  I ran downstairs, taking my barely younger old bones with me to put another on a plate for my Viking with a sweet tooth to go with his sweet cock.

@m-f1 @askarsjustsoswedish @sigelfire @howaboutboth1

@villageidiotlove @maxwell-demon @mariuch @paradise-sverige

@staywildmoonrise @quweenjo @wonderjinx @beakvp

Hope this gives you a giggle. I am bereft of cinnamon rolls and Alex, alas.

Hello, deer…

Alex’s snack pantry & staff.

@differentcatcat

"Emil Durling's apple harvest", 1906, Sweden.

Hey there, Cat - nice ass! @differentcatcat

Goats & greens…

MMMMMMMMMMM....

just saying... @differentcatcat

Attitude

Our first look at Alexander Skarsgård's 'filthy' gay biker romance Pillion is finally here

Skarsgård plays a biker who takes on a young man as his "submissive" in the film which is described as a “fun and filthy romance with heart.

Attitude.co.uk

@differentcatcat @askarsjustsoswedish @maxwell-demon