Gods of Earth (Explicit)

Ladies, you don’t gotta cram yourself into some cookie-cutter mold to be worth a damn. Beauty ain’t a number on a tag or a mask of makeup slapped on your face. It’s the you—the real woman, the laugh lines, the scars, the way your hips sway when you walk into a room. So, fuck those insecure little boys who can’t handle a woman who doesn’t fit their cheap fantasies. They’re just jerking off in the wind, trying to feel big.

Women are the gods of this earth. Every man who ever drew breath came crying out of one. So don’t you dare shave your pussy smooth just to please some slob with a beer gut and smelly balls. If you like it bare, then rock it bare. But do it for you, not for some dude who couldn’t find the clit with a map and a flashlight. Some men—real men—like a little jungle down there. It’s wild, it’s alive, it’s fucking real.

Stretch marks? A belly that pooches out? That’s life, baby. That’s the story of you written on your skin. Don’t let some sorry-ass little bitch with a Napoleon complex tell you otherwise. Those tiny dick mother fuckers with big mouths ain’t worth the air they waste. You’re a goddess, a creator of life. So bounce that ass on the dance floor, let your hair down, and own every fucking inch of yourself.

Forget the makeup, forget the razors, forget the bullshit. Real men don’t want some polished mannequin. We want a woman who knows her worth, who walks into a room like she owns it. We want a woman with a fat ass and a fire in her belly. A woman who doesn’t need anyone’s approval to know she’s beautiful.

Fuck these fake dudes playing dress-up for their sad little friends. You don’t need their validation. You’re already a masterpiece, a fucking work of art. And anyone who can’t see that doesn’t deserve a seat at your table.