poker-face

I thought I was going to sweat five years before I'd feel like this.""I wanted it as much as you did. I've just got a hell of a poker face" I smiled, pressing my lips against his.

She had the world__ worst poker face: her feelings floated across them like reflections on a still pond.

Not much more than a broke disgrace who's hooked on tonics, so excuse him if his poker face has puke on it.

See not the face..but only the eyes, of the poker face.

Just focus on me,_ I whispered to her, nipping her earlobe. __othing matters here but us. The way you feel. The way I feel. The way we feel together.

I shifted in my seat, curious about the tension that idea caused in my body. Every time I thought of a blindfolded restrained man exploring my body I pressed my thighs together seeking relief. I felt I should have been more concerned about losing my ability to speak from the ball gag, but instead it was a relief. I was terrible at talking to people, this eliminated awkward small talk, and shifted the dynamic of the meeting in a way I didn__ quite understand.

Be my shield, baby. Be my world

The barber's assistant asks if I am a Swede. An American? Not that either. A Russian? Well, then, what are you? I love to answer such nationalistically tinted questions with a steely silence, and to leave people who ask me about my patriotic feelings in the dark. Or I tell lies and say that I'm Danish. Some kinds of frankness are only hurtful and boring.