He slunk past her every day, mumbling with eyes averted, but his unfriendliness was little deterrent to developing a crush, which she did, and quickly. It was hard not to. He moved with a quiet, old-fashioned elegance that suited him, spent hours listening to music, and lit a candle that filled the office with the smell of cedar and sandalwood long after the other PhD students had retired for the night.
His body hunched when he read, as if he were trying to force something out that had lodged between his shoulder blades.
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Older professors, confident in their tenure, called him brilliant. His peers called him pretentious. Anu found him fascinating. Anu discovered that he listened to William Alwyn while writing papers and John Coltrane while grading them. She downloaded compositions from both to her Android, drawing odd looks in the subway as she squeezed her face, trying to follow the rises and falls of the strings, harps, and horns.
When he ordered sushi from a restaurant with an unpronounceable name that delivered in an elegantly folded box cooled by dry ice, she rescued the carton from the recycling and went there on a weekend. She spent forty dollars for a seat in the back and struggled for an hour to navigate chunks of rice and raw fish to her lips with those clumsy wooden sticks. She realized this years ago, when her parents started getting letters from her school.
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Anu, they said, might have a learning disability. They wanted her tested. There were special classes she could take, special books for her to read. She took her for prayer once a week at Faith of Fire Ministries and hovered over her as she struggled with homework until both their eyes were red and darkly circled. Her classmates were oddities, with their cramming and all-night study sessions that somehow left room for sports, boyfriends, and clubs. Anu had church, home, and the gritty little desk under a naked yellow bulb where she propped up her face, elbows aching, as she studied.
Anu graduated high school a year late, accustomed to being a disappointment. If only she had been beautiful, she heard her mother sighing on the phone one day to an auntie in Nigeria. Kant, Calvin, Hobbes. He stared at her for a moment before moving a stack of papers. She placed the books carefully, soundlessly. Curiosity won, however, or a need for flattery.
Intellectuals would like it. The next day, James saw her in the student commons, where she often sat to eat a sandwich while playing games on her phone. He hesitated, coffee in hand; then he came over to her. Anu looked up and immediately lost her appetite. Anu lifted her shoulders once. On the blog. When I post. Tell me what you think. My last class ends early tonight. Surprise flashed across his face, quick as a sleight of hand. It was the fourth time they had been out together. Anu paused before speaking. She was feeling particularly confident today, for once. After Googling for an hour and a half, she managed to uncover a sushi restaurant in the Village that was dirty enough to seem unordinary, and the sleeveless linen top she wore actually seemed right for the venue.
Her parents would have been only too glad to fund school for her, if she had managed to go. To our school, since you work full-time. Her stomach tightened, appetite gone. He would not understand it, the futile struggle to achieve something that most managed without even trying. And how she would be horrified that we would pay to eat raw fish. They were as dark as hers, but were so liquid that they caught the light, reflected it, making them seem bottomless.
She could only look for a few moments before she had to lower her head. It was too much. He lifted his wineglass in her direction. That, Anu supposed, was the moment when they moved to properly dating. He asked her to go to church with him the following week—practically a declaration in some Nigerian circles—and kissed her for the first time one misty evening after classes in the little moss-covered bower where upperclassmen smoked pot during finals week. He warned her beforehand that he was going to do it.
She nodded, then held very still. It was pleasant. She was more aware of the warmth of his body than she was of his mouth, which surprised her.
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Films had led her to expect the opposite. She looked at him, and his expression was a mixture of shock and—yes, there it was, for the first time—intrigue.
That night he took her to the park to see a play performed live in open air. The language was difficult, but she liked the main character. He made eye contact with the audience, tossed roses indiscriminately, grinned at his fellow actors from under a cap of flaming red hair, as if the whole production was based on a joke only they understood. Well, well.
That video-girl wig has got to go, though. When she tried to explain this later, he looked at her, that half-smile still in place, and shook his head. He laughed. He did this quite a bit when they were together. She was beginning to like it. She liked that. It gave her a reason for her long silences when they were together: she was mysterious, exotic, she told herself. She wished he would take her to more things like this. She was tall, lithe, and tan from yoga and sun, and she questioned everyone in the demanding voice of one who felt that her credentials gave her the right.
She claimed to have spent time teaching philosophy in a Gulf country and often mentioned, with smug satisfaction, that textbooks for her gender studies classes had been seized and censored by the Ministry of Culture nearly every semester. Anu strained to hear. Perhaps, she thought, he was shooting her one of those exquisitely nasty looks he usually reserved for incompetent waiters.
Or perhaps his face was blank, a nonverbal indication that she should get out. Or maybe, she thought, throat tightening, he was smiling, nodding, trying to pass off the comment as a joke. He was eager to please Tara. Anu knew this, saw the emails that flew back and forth between them on the office servers, saw how he never disagreed with her on personal things, how he puffed up with pride when she praised him.
They went to lectures and concerts together sometimes. Tara was an emblem for the part of his life that Anu would never be a part of. You said you have Slink body, i can confirm that Maitreya works same, when I turn off my scars tattoo layer the problem is not visible. The second test you did thats about size of the transparent layer. Its why the tattoo layer makes the effect weaker. So as a more general question, if I were to take another shot like this one this one is semi-nsfw, some of the others are very nsfw , how would I minimise the hair issue?
Idk what you tested. Ah I see; that's good to know, thanks! It sadly didn't work against the ocean or plants, as you said. How to file a JIRA issue. Would be nice if someone with better english and better knowledge of SL viewers terminology make the request, I personaly lack both the skills and don't feel like to start the adventure. As I said earlier it doesn't solve the issue, but it helps to make it nicer. And you can pretend it was "artistic intention". But I would really recommend just to avoid those situations, not to use background like this.
Derendering is very useful, if its not possible to take the picture on another spot. Hiya, thanks for the followup!
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I'd started to use Black Dragon, it takes a bit of getting used to, and is missing a few features that I'm really missing I miss Firestorm's profile window! I've only toyed around with the poser not used in the photo below , but that seems really powerful, even if only client-side for yourself. And I think you're right, closeup shots in front of an alpha-heavy background aren't going to be too viable. Which is unfortunate, as I spend most of my time on a tropical beach!
It's still a massive improvement over before, and less noticeable with most of my shots. This cropped shot is about a third of the width of the full shot not linking here because nsfw pose, search my name - not username - on flickr if you're interested , and the only thing that really catches the eye are the stray hair strands on the male model, the edges of my hair aren't too noticeable.
The original flickering issue with the body alpha layers is almost unnoticeable, even when I throw on another layer into that middle "underwear" slot. But thats still annoying I guess. Edit - I don't think I wrote it as I wanted, so I will add this - always depends on the goal, the story what the picture should say. Indeed - but as with all art, it doesn't have to be connected to the message to have an impact.
Take this example the crop is safe for work, but it's pretty clear what is going on here. Stripping out the freckles and just having smooth skin there honestly subtracts from the visual impact of the piece, likewise with the male model's tattoos, although to a lesser extent. And yet in other pieces, including an unpublished one of the same pose from a different angle telling a different story, with a different tone - just not a very good one , I could strip off the freckles and nothing would be lost.
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Either way, it's another tool to be used in producing our art, and discarding that because the admittedly year old engine doesn't handle something like this so well isn't really ideal. Call me "naive elf", but I originally didn't get whats exacly going on I saw it later on Flickr Not all of them are hard-to-get rare gachas or expensive and there are plenty to choose from.
Anyways it was good as "showroom" if you would want to see and chose what you like to buy for own studio. I laid still, as I felt the fish being arranged on my stomach, breasts and pubis, then sucked off, without the formal assistance of chopsticks. Cherry Slushee , by Alison Tyler Genre : Food Porn The Story : A woman who's just moved into a new apartment befriends her local grocery-store clerk—who knows exactly what to do to keep her on edge: tie her up and make her wait for his next move.
Food-Sex High Point : Drops of the icy slushee landing on her most private parts. Actual Cooking Advice : Be careful when wielding a straw. I thrashed on the bedroll, made crazy by the combination of the cold and the heat. Marie Adeline Genre : Feminist Erotica The Story : Widow Cassie Robichaud, tired of being lonely and sexually unsatisfied, lets a private group of women facilitate her every sexual fantasy, including surprise sex.
When a man carrying pastry boxes walks into the cafe where she works, he brings her a gift that's just for her. Food-Sex High Point : He turns her into a sundae, complete with chocolate icing and a maraschino cherry in her belly button. Actual Cooking Advice : If you have sex in a restaurant kitchen, make sure you clean up after yourself. I let out a giggly scream that came to a stunned halt when he squirted whipped cream in the middle of my belly button. Aching for Mr. You are stockier, thicker than most—clearly too much to consume at one sitting. Your marble hardness stretches your flawless skin to its limit.