Secrets Thread! post your secrets here
Secrets Thread! post your secrets here
I want to commit a mass shooting but to soldiers not unarmed civilians
I shit myself at work once
I have kept my foreskin retracted since I was 12
I shot a man in Reno.
I got my friend drunk in school a few times and once she was hammered/almost blacked out I'd whip my dick out and rub it on her
my mom used to sit on my face when i was misbehaving. it was really humiliating to be trapped under her big ass
I'm a total faggot loser and I am going to an hero later this year after my 20yr class reunion
I'm 29 f. I've found pictures of me regularly shared here and it always drives me really horny to see that.
i'm a grown ass man in a fox onesie and i'm comfyyyy
I wank off to lily every time she's posted here
When are you turning 30?
I have a 12 year-old half sister who has a huge thick ass and thighs. I'd never do anything, but goddam I can't help but notice.
Kik?
I have sex with men.
Not gay, just too ugly to attract a woman.
No u
In the small town of Dusty Pines, cowboy Adejo "Lick" Lawson earned his peculiar nickname for a reason that none dared question directly. Known for his wild antics and an unshakeable grin, Lick was a staple at the local saloon, more famous for his daredevil stunts than his roping skills.
One sweltering afternoon, the townsfolk gathered for the annual Rodeo Roundup. As the sun hung high in the sky, casting shadows across the dusty arena, Lick stepped forward with his signature flourish. Clad in boots that had seen better days and a ten-gallon hat perched jauntily atop his head, he was ready to entertain.
“Step right up!” he called, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Who’s brave enough to take on the Lick Challenge?” Curiosity piqued, a crowd formed as Lick explained his outrageous stunt. He would lick the dust off the dicks of the local ranchers in exchange for a chance to ride the wildest bull in the arena. Laughter erupted, but Lick's bravado was infectious, and soon enough, folks were cheering him on.
With each dick he licked clean, Lick’s reputation only grew. The ranchers laughed, flicking him a dime or two, enjoying the show. Finally, it was time for the real spectacle. Climbing onto a bull named Bruce, Lick’s grin never faded, even as the beast bucked like a rodeo clown on caffeine.
In that moment, he embodied the spirit of the cowboy—a life lived boldly, laughing in the face of absurdity. Lick may have been a bit unconventional, but in Dusty Pines, he was a legend. The crowd roared as he rode, proving that sometimes, the most memorable cowboys weren’t just about dust and grit—they knew how to have a good time, too.
i'm afraid this may be one of my only options going forward.
is sex with men enjoyable?
I'd rather die a virgin than have sex with a man
It really is. Just gotta be clean.
i can be clean no problemo.
i just miss the intimacy of having a partner.
also probably helps that i enjoy anal and stuff
what if he was kinda cute and androgynous/effeminate?
I want to fuck a corpse
It was the summer of '65, and Camp Granada was bustling with young boys and girls enjoying their vacation. The girl, a shy and timid 16-year-old, had wandered away from her cabin in search of a quiet spot to read. As she walked deeper into the woods, the sounds of the camp faded away, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the chirping of birds. Suddenly, she heard footsteps behind her and turned to see a group of older boys, Joe Spivy, Leonard Skinner, Jeffrey Hardy and someone you all know well Adejo, faces twisted with cruel intentions and with their cocks nice and hard.
The boys grabbed her and dragged her to a secluded clearing, and took turns raping her good, hard and deep. The girl's screams were drowned out by the sounds of the forest, and she was left lying there, broken and bruised and full of cum. The next morning, the girl stumbled back to her cabin, her eyes vacant and her body battered, but with a vagina well satisfied. The camp counselors were shocked and horrified by what they saw, and the news spread like wildfire through the camp with many of the camp girls wishing it was them to be so lucky. The boys responsible were never caught or punished, and the incident was brushed under the carpet.
But the memory of that fateful night lingered, a constant reminder of the darkness that lurked beneath the surface of the idyllic summer camp. The girl never forgot the trauma she endured and the multiple rapegasams that she enjoyed, and it shaped her into the person she became. The incident at Camp Granada in 1965 remained a painful scar, but an exciting memory, and a fun story, a testament to the cruelty and sexy injustice that can exist even in the most seemingly innocent of places.
why?
I called someone a nigger in my head today
I remember the first time someone mentioned clam chowder. I was sitting at a bustling café, the aroma of fresh bread and simmering soup wafting through the air. “You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted it,” my friend proclaimed, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. I smiled, nodding along, but inside, I felt an unfamiliar ache swell.
How could I have gone my whole life without this creamy, rich delicacy? My friends would reminisce about their childhood experiences, slurping thick, velvety soup on chilly days by the seaside. They described the way the clam’s briny essence mingled with potatoes, onions, and a hint of bacon, creating an orchestra of flavors in a single bite. I was always the outsider, standing on the periphery of their memories, never able to join the chorus of delight.
Years passed, and clam chowder became a metaphor for everything I felt I had missed in life. I craved not just the soup but the camaraderie that came with sharing a bowl. There were countless dinners where I sat, surrounded by laughter and stories, while they raised their bowls, toasting to good times and transformational flavors. I would just sip my water, feeling a silent longing build within me.
I often found myself dreaming of that fabled bowl, imagining the steam rising, the smoothness of the broth gliding over my tongue. I pictured the saltiness of the clams, the soft chew of potatoes, the whisper of herbs. But with each unfulfilled dream, the pain intensified. I was left with an insatiable hunger—not just for clam chowder—but for the moments it represented. Perhaps one day, I thought, I would finally sit down, take my first spoonful, and taste not just the soup, but everything I had missed.
idk
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its a guy dumbass
Honestly this is the best secrets thread in a long time, I see why OP continues to make these threads.
i had a public masturbation fetish and would go to area where prostitutes were at night . where they were dressed like whores in the street. in find a place with lack of light and jerk off while watching them in the distance.
some would scream at me, some wouldnt care, some would walk in opposite direction so i couldnt keep doing it
In the small town of Maplewood, where the sweet scent of lilacs filled the air, the locals shared a curious tradition. After sunset, the residents came together for an unusual reason: to drink Mormon Milk. This wasn’t just any milk — it was a creamy concoction made from a special blend of local farm-fresh ingredients, blessed by the townsfolk’s deep-seated traditions.
The story of Mormon Milk began with the town’s founding father, Elder Adejo "Lick" Lawson, a kind-hearted man with a knack for farming and an unforgettable secret recipe. Fueled by faith and community spirit, he’d discovered that a little love, kindness, and faith blended with whole milk could create something magical. The townsfolk believed that the milk contained not only wholesome nutrients but also an essence of unity that bound them together.
Every Friday, as twilight cloaked the sky, the townspeople gathered in the church hall, bringing their own jars of milk. Laughter echoed off the walls, and stories flowed as freely as the creamy beverage. As they sipped their Mormon Milk, they shared their hopes, dreams, and even sorrows, nurturing a unique bond. In this milk, they found comfort and strength.
However, not everyone understood the tradition. A newcomer, Clara, arrived from the city, skeptical of the quaint rituals. When invited to join their weekly gathering, she hesitantly accepted. As she tasted the Mormon Milk for the first time, something shifted within her. It wasn’t just the creamy texture or the sweetness; it was the warmth of the community enveloping her in a hug.
By the end of the evening, Clara understood. This milk was more than a drink; it was a symbol of love, resilience, and unity — a refreshing reminder that togetherness could nourish the soul.