Romance Thread Go!

Tell us how it is.when you get these butterflies in your stomach, and he gives you that warm fuzzy feeling that makes you all tingly inside.

Other urls found in this thread:

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Estrous_cycle
ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2394562/
twitter.com/NSFWRedditImage

James Joyce was the only true Romantic. Just read his letters to Nora.

Before BRAAAAAAPPPP threads on /r9k/, there was James Joyce.

Okay, so I'm an over-emotional loser with a preference for miserable, unrequited and tragic love.

There's Dante's whining about Beatrice. There's the Sorrows of Young Werther. What else? I want something even more melodramatic.

The subjects were hooked up to vaginal photoplethysmographs, which measured physiological sexual arousal based on blood flow to the genitals.

A couple of important things happen during ovulation:
• The uterine lining thickens to prepare it for the egg cell, which will attach to the uterine walls.
• A ripe egg is released from the ovary and travels down the Fallopian tubes toward the uterus in hopes that some healthy little sperm cells will be there waiting for it.

Merriam-Webster defines estrus as “a regularly recurrent state of sexual excitability during which the female of most mammals will accept the male and is capable of conceiving.”

In layman’s terms, it is a period of being “in heat.”

Ovulation changes a lot about a woman’s behavior.

Women unconsciously speak in higher registers when they are most fertile.

They put more effort into looking attractive.

They wear more revealing clothing.

Their walks are also sexier.

They are attracted to more masculine men.

They're much more sensitive to the scent of musk and the male pheromones.

Women are more likely to cheat on their mates when they are most fertile.

And men can smell them too. They’re more attracted to fertile women — and can smell when they’re ovulating.

Nature wants you to get pregnant, and it knows how to get you in the mood.

>photoplethysmographs

That's a cute word. Where did you pick that up, naughty one?

If only you read more biology in school instead of picking up buzzwords now.

The estrous cycle (oestrous if you're a stuck up pedant) is a physiological phase in mammals who DON'T menstruate. That excludes all primates, humans included. The rest of the shit you've written about pheromones and sexy changes is pseud fiction without concrete proof

i'll only tell you if you're female, 28, scorpio, and from switzerland

>buzzword
nice buzzword

i've slowly grown tired of romance and love and attraction and sex. i no longer feel love or attraction or affection or connection or lust.

what is happening to me?

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Estrous_cycle
Humans have menstrual cycles rather than estrous cycles. They, unlike other species, were thought to not have any obvious external signs to signal estral receptivity at ovulation (concealed ovulation). Recent research[1] suggests, however, that women tend to have more sexual thoughts and are far more prone to sexual activity right before ovulation (estrus).[2]

ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2394562/

read more biology yourself

i knew we'll meet again

Hey, user, now that we know you're female, why don't you tell us how it is.when you get these butterflies in your stomach, and he gives you that warm fuzzy feeling that makes you all tingly inside, please?
For research purpose.

i just fucking love you, you know?

so, you came itt for your sunday morning romance, and you stayed for the photoplethysmographs?

i love you too, y'know?

pretty much what happened

are you a mindreader?

i try my best

how's that working out so far?

shall we go to our other secret place?
i'm already there

meet you there

The keeper, squatting beside her, was also watching with an amused face the bold little bird in her hands. Suddenly he saw a tear fall on to her wrist.

And he stood up, and stood away, moving to the other coop. For suddenly he was aware of the old flame shooting and leaping up in his loins, that he had hoped was quiescent for ever. He fought against it, turning his back to her. But it leapt, and leapt downwards, circling in his knees.

He turned again to look at her. She was kneeling and holding her two hands slowly forward, blindly, so that the chicken should run in to the mother-hen again. And there was something so mute and forlorn in her, compassion flamed in his bowels for her.

Without knowing, he came quickly towards her and crouched beside her again, taking the chick from her hands, because she was afraid of the hen, and putting it back in the coop. At the back of his loins the fire suddenly darted stronger.

He glanced apprehensively at her. Her face was averted, and she was crying blindly, in all the anguish of her generation's forlornness. His heart melted suddenly, like a drop of fire, and he put out his hand and laid his fingers on her knee.

"You shouldn't cry," he said softly.

But then she put her hands over her face and felt that really her heart was broken and nothing mattered any more.

He laid his hand on her shoulder, and softly, gently, it began to travel down the curve of her back, blindly, with a blind stroking motion, to the curve of her crouching loins. And there his hand softly, softly, stroked the curve of her flank, in the blind instinctive caress.

She had found her scrap of handkerchief and was blindly trying to dry her face.

"Shall you come to the hut?" he said, in a quiet, neutral voice.

And closing his hand softly on her upper arm, he drew her up and led her slowly to the hut, not letting go of her till she was inside. Then he cleared aside the chair and table, and took a brown, soldier's blanket from the tool chest, spreading it slowly. She glanced at his face, as she stood motionless.

His face was pale and without expression, like that of a man submitting to fate.

"You lie there," he said softly, and he shut the door, so that it was dark, quite dark.

With a queer obedience, she lay down on the blanket. Then she felt the soft, groping, helplessly desirous hand touching her body, feeling for her face. The hand stroked her face softly, softly, with infinite soothing and assurance, and at last there was the soft touch of a kiss on her cheek.

She lay quite still, in a sort of sleep, in a sort of dream. Then she quivered as she felt his hand groping softly, yet with queer thwarted clumsiness, among her clothing. Yet the hand knew, too, how to unclothe her where it wanted. He drew down the thin silk sheath, slowly, carefully, right down and over her feet. Then with a quiver of exquisite pleasure he touched the warm soft body, and touched her navel for a moment in a kiss. And he had to come in to her at once, to enter the peace on earth of her soft, quiescent body. It was the moment of pure peace for him, the entry into the body of the woman.

She lay still, in a kind of sleep, always in a kind of sleep. The activity, the orgasm was his, all his; she could strive for herself no more. Even the tightness of his arms round her, even the intense movement of his body, and the springing of his seed in her, was a kind of sleep, from which she did not begin to rouse till he had finished and lay softly panting against her breast.

Then she wondered, just dimly wondered, why? Why was this necessary? Why had it lifted a great cloud from her and given her peace? Was it real?

Was it real?

Her tormented modern-woman's brain still had no rest. Was it real? And she knew, if she gave herself to the man, it was real. But if she kept herself for herself it was nothing. She was old; millions of years old, she felt. And at last, she could bear the burden of herself no more. She was to be had for the taking. To be had for the taking.

The man lay in a mysterious stillness. What was he feeling? What was he thinking? She did not know. He was a strange man to her, she did not know him. She must only wait, for she did not dare to break his mysterious stillness. He lay there with his arms round her, his body on hers, his wet body touching hers, so close. And completely unknown. Yet not unpeaceful. His very stillness was peaceful.

She knew that, when at last he roused and drew away from her. It was like an abandonment. He drew her dress in the darkness down over her knees and stood a few moments, apparently adjusting his own clothing.

Then he quietly opened the door and went out.

Motorcycle racer Bud Clay undertakes a cross-country drive, following a race in New Hampshire, in order to participate in a race in California. All the while he is haunted by memories of his former lover, Daisy. On his journey he meets three women, but Bud seems to be a lost soul, and he is unable to form an emotional connection with any of them. He first meets Violet at a gas station in New Hampshire and convinces her to join him on his trip. They stop at her home in order to get her clothes, but he drives off as soon as she enters the house.

Bud's next stop is the home of Daisy's parents, the location of Daisy's brown bunny. Daisy's mother does not remember Bud, who grew up in the house next door, nor does she remember having visited Bud and Daisy in California. Next, Bud stops at a pet shelter, where he asks about the life expectancy of rabbits (he is told it is about five or six years). At a highway rest stop, he meets a distressed woman, Lilly. He comforts and kisses her, before starting to cry and eventually leaving her. Bud appears more distressed as the road trip continues, crying as he drives. He stops at the Bonneville Speedway to race his motorcycle. In Las Vegas, he drives around prostitutes on street corners, before deciding to ask one of them, Rose, to join him for a lunch. She eats McDonald's food in his truck until he stops, pays her, and leaves her back on the street.

After having his motorcycle checked in a Los Angeles garage, Bud stops at Daisy's house, which appears abandoned. He leaves a note on the door frame, after sitting in his truck in the driveway remembering about kissing Daisy in this place, and checks in at a hotel. Daisy eventually appears there. She seems nervous, going to the bathroom twice to smoke crack cocaine, while Bud waits for her, sitting on his bed. As she proposes to go out to buy something to drink, Bud tells her that, because of what happened the last time they saw each other, he does not drink anymore.

They have an argument about Daisy kissing other men. At this point, Bud undresses Daisy and she performs fellatio on him. Once done, he insults her as they lie in bed, talking about what happened during their last meeting. Bud continuously asks Daisy why she had been involved with some men at a party. She explains that she was just being friendly and wanted to smoke marijuana with them. Bud becomes upset because Daisy was pregnant and it transpires that the baby died as a result of what happened at this party.

Through flashback scenes, the viewer understands that Daisy was raped at the party, a scene witnessed by Bud, who did not intervene. Daisy asks Bud why he did not help her, and his feelings of guilt on this are considerable. He tells her that he did not know what to do, and so he decided to leave the party. After he came back a bit later, he saw an ambulance in front of the house and Daisy explains to Bud that she is dead, having passed out prior to the rape and then choked to death on her own vomit. Bud awakens the next morning, alone; his encounter with Daisy turns out to have been a figment of his imagination. The movie ends as Bud is driving his truck in California.

He very expertly rides that line between being rough/dominant, and being caring/intimate.
Makes sense that females would be into him.
How is he so good? How can a guy with let's say a average dick even compete?
It is not fair.
He is so good that irl he managed to get his ex wife to live next to his current wife.
Talk about a fucking professional pussy puncher.
This guy has no equal.
He is the best.
I will make a church in his name.
All you faggots should learn more than one thing from that perfect man.

...

what's going on here?

Soldiers cuddling.

Project MKUltra

It's lust: not love. When people are in love they don't "fall" out of love. When people rut and basically masturbate on each other, they're bound to break up: and most people do.