Why must you think because I like the feeling of baggy jeans and a worn-in tank top more than a tight bondage dress that squeezes my ass and shows off the dimples in the side of my hips mean that I like the feeling of p***y juice dripping on my tongue too?
Just because I like to spread my legs when I sit instead of crossing them at the knees don't mean I like to spread 'em for a strapped on tube of plastic inside me, close my eyes and pretend that it's a d**k.
I don't have a drawer filled with thongs or lacy lingerie but why does that have to mean that I like the smell of wet pu**y in my face?
Why is a strong woman, with biceps that can knock out single-handed push-ups a paradox, an oxymoron and not a role model? Are you saying that the only strong muscles I can have in my body can be behind my panties?
Just because I'm not confined to the brick walls of femininity don't mean my skin ain't soft, I don't smell good—I ain't a woman.