This post is guest curated by azura09:

sk-zeep20:

With Sirens:

I’ve always felt like I was taken from the sea. When I was little I told my mom that I had been born human by mistake and should have been a fish. I had an uncanny knowledge of ocean life by the age of six, so precise it made adults uncomfortable. On through elementary school, I traipsed around the house in homemade mermaid tails. When I started drawing girls (and only girls), I drew them with fins, seaweed wrapped around their limbs and chests.

 I don’t know when this became a dual desire. I used to want to be a mermaid more than anything in the world and now just as often I think of being with one. This photo brings up emotions in me that someone normal might save for a favorite model—jealously and awe mixed with a strong undercurrent of attraction. 

My poems sometimes feature girls who could lazily transform into something more than human—girls who take too long in the bath, until their skin is wrinkled and they can dip their heads beneath the water without having to come up for air.

Source: shere—khan

This post is guest curated by azura09:

When I had a crashpad membership recently, one of my favorite videos included a scene where a Domme made her sub hold the chain to her nipple clamps in the manner above while she was aggressively fucked.

There were many things I liked about this scene: how the Domme was assertive without being cruel, how the sub followed orders in an almost casual way, and how gleeful this sustained rough sex obviously made both of them.

It’s true that there are some tricky things to navigate when one partner enjoys being objectified during sex, and I certainly wouldn’t want to downplay the reservations some people may have toward this kind of roleplay. 

Then again, I don’t want to avoid the fact that I find consensual objectification, especially when my girlfriend is hellbent on being a good girl, hot.

In reasons related to this, I’m attracted to how the girl in this photo is holding the chain fast between her teeth as if the idea of decreasing the pain to her nipples has occurred to her, but she is wholly intent on resisting this impulse.

Source: nebutch-blog

This post is guest curated by azura09:

spaceykate:

In conclusion, Victorian trans porn. Good night, lovelies!

How sometimes it’s easier to get yourself off with your mouth on your lover. How sometimes the photos are better when you pull your clothes up instead of taking them off. 
For some reason this photo reminds me of an afternoon in a bedroom with a big, uncovered window that looked out to an overgrown backyard, laying on a bare mattress licking coconut pie meringue off my girlfriend’s breasts and thighs. I left the rest of the pie by the windowsill and ate it the next morning while drinking coffee from a suspiciously dirty mug.

We were living in different states and not seeing each other frequently so it’s likely I took pictures of her then, if not that afternoon than sometime during my trip. It’s something I’ve done many times because she asks. And then poses happily on the bed fully dressed. 
Usually, I pull off one layer at a time, taking a photo in between each with an old pink camera. I’m impatient—it’s never my idea to forestall sex this way—but she’s right, I’ll want the pictures later when I’m alone. I’ll want the memory of how I undressed her, how when I took off her skirt I discovered she was wearing my black underwear and hadn’t planned to give it back. How she kept shaking her hair out so it fell over her shoulders.
I’ve photographed exactly where her tights were torn in a New Orleans cemetery, standing next to untended gravestones and spilled silk flowers. Other photos from the same cemetery: her bra unhooked and her head titled to the side, photos of me, always clothed but with my bare shoulders cooking in the sun. 

She’s braver with her body than I am. She’ll put even the parts she doesn’t like on display for me, let them be permanently cataloged. The one time I took photos of myself to send to her I was so careful. I got made up, put on the only nice underwear I owned, kept only the pictures from the most flattering angles. 

The photo above is almost certainly a staged one, taken outside any moment of sexual connection. Even so, I like to imagine these models, caught up in their race toward mutual orgasm and the bliss of being partially undressed, kept going after this photograph, and all its duplicates, were taken.

This post is guest curated by azura09:

Blood play is pretty far outside my comfort zone. This image appeals to me because of the handprint—the temporary record of how far two people have gone together along with the unseen, but most likely more permanent, cut or abrasion. There is some luckiness, I feel, in being someone who enjoys the kind of sex that leaves an indelible reminder of the experience when many of us are having sex that leaves no marks, no clear map to retrace.

Some of topping for me is wanting at least in the moment to remind the person of the impact I’m having on her body.  When we are done I will fold up into your arms like the scared, shy dyke I am who you allow, in this instance, to trust my instincts for both of us.

Source: sircupcake

This post is guest curated by azura09:

Although you can find a video of a pretty girl with a strap-on almost anywhere, it’s rarer to see an an exhibitionist/voyeur scene where all the participants are female. In spite of my issues with the beauty ideals on display here, I’m attracted to this .gif because I have a good idea where I would fit into this scenario. And it’s not always a place I’ve felt comfortable occupying. 

I remember not having better words than “I’d like to be be beaten up a little” to describe the need to come out of sex slightly worse for wear. Even at the time, I knew this was straightforward desire, not a confession that I wanted to be splayed out and at someone’s mercy on a regular basis.
 
But what I didn’t know was that declaring these desires was a step toward feeling comfortable shaping someone else’s. And this .gif appeals to me because, while I’m not much of an exhibitionist, I wouldn’t mind showing my partner off in a scene like this, pushing them down on a hard surface while acquaintances in party dresses watched from a distance I negotiated beforehand.

This post is guest curated by azura09:

Hello, I’m azura09 and I’m taking the helm of Acetylene Eyes from May 1-7. We’ve been friends for a number of years and they’re one of people I’m most comfortable talking to about sexuality, gender, and my enthusiasm for porn (both queer and otherwise). I admit that I’m not a photographer and that I have very little working knowledge of what constitutes an artful photograph. Because of this, I’m simply going to focus on images that turn me on and attempt to explain what it is about them that makes me shiver in anticipation. Thanks so much to Acetylene Eyes for allowing me to put my (slightly less refined) taste on display this week.

I’m starting this week off with an image that makes me feel safe.  A kind of safe that seems specifically queer to me, one I’ve never seen straight porn get quite right. It’s that vulnerability that comes with realizing you (and the person you’re with) are on equal footing:

It’s nice to push you down,

make your open your thighs,

 watch you fan your hair out like I got to drown in the best ocean

        to find you, but this isn’t what I need

and I’m telling you, look at all the things you can eat, even as I’m worrying that

I shouldn’t

eat you down to whispering bones.

 queeremmaclaire:

Carson from Crash Pad series with Brooklyn Flaco

Source: msemmaclaire

rawpix:

Apr25†h♥days/of…love★

Normal
0

false
false
false

EN-US
X-NONE
X-NONE

/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:”Table Normal”;
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-priority:99;
mso-style-parent:””;
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin-top:0in;
mso-para-margin-right:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt;
mso-para-margin-left:0in;
line-height:115%;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;
font-family:”Garamond”,”serif”;}

Modesty with grace notes of clumsy couldn’t-give-a-fuck-less shyness is sexy as fuck.

Source: purienne

This is exactlythe sort of thing I wanted to feature when I started Acetylene Eyes—something to aim a one finger salute in the direction of all the endless rehash of explicit imagery with only two criteria: keep the titillating bits visible in the frame and in focus; something with a modicum of consideration for composition, form and content.

As an image maker invested in questions of public vs. private—particularly as they pertain to the politics of graphic nudity and sexual tableau—this image fascinates me.

Its hallucinatory blush is reminiscent of the rotoscoped animation in Waking Life and A Scanner Darkly and invokes the feeling of a memory which may have only ever been a dream.

…

During my junior year of college, I was assigned a room in a flat with six other students. I knew not one of them on move-in day. But nine months later, six of us were very close; two in fact, remain, very, very dear friends.

Another dear college friend enjoys describing me as “violently allergic strangers and bullshit;” so it was a bit surprising that I gone on so well with my flat mates.

All I can say by way of explanation is I have never been as comfortable in my own skin as I was sharing space with these people. Virtually everything I know about living in, participating with and fostering a community comes as a result of those nine months—everyone looked out for everyone else in the most simple and touching ways.

Within two weeks, no one locked their doors. Within two months doors were rarely closed and no one really knocked so much as peaked their head inside to ask if it was okay to come in.

One of the many amazing memories I have of this time has the same hypnogogic quality as this image.

It was toward the end of the term. I had come back from my morning class (Russian) to find the flat empty. My intent had been to nap but between the mild hangover from the night before and caffeine that allowed me to drag my ass out of bed in time to make it to class I couldn’t fall asleep.

The thought occurred to me that if I could get myself off, there was a better than average chance I might be able to pass out again. And it was one of those rare times, when as you get started you realize your body is ready and willing but the orgasm you are chasing proves elusive.

My eyes were closed so I didn’t realize Lela in the room until I heard her exclaim: Oh…

I suffered a litany of close calls as a teen but somehow no one had ever caught me in flagrante delicto until that moment. I stopped masturbating but more in the pausing the action instead of the trying to hide what I had been doing. It surprised me that I neither felt horrified or even a little bit ashamed.

I opened my eyes. Lela, all freckles and strawberry blond hair was standing maybe four feet away from me staring at me.

Wow.

Her right hand flew up to hover an inch or so in front of her eyes; her pale hand seeming paler against her reddening face.

Uh, hey, I need to ask you something. Um…could you, you know, definitely finish taking care of this but maybe put on a towel after and come out to the kitchen for a minute?

Instead of backing away room, she merely turned, dropped her hand from her eyes and pulled the door to but not closed behind as if she was just trying not to disturb someone who was sleeping.

I’d assumed I wouldn’t be able to finish but I quickly found my rhythm again and came like gangbusters in less than five minutes.

As soon as I could I slipped on a t-shirt and pajama bottoms.

Lela was sitting on the stool at the breakfast bar, still a little red faced, reading a photocopied packet.

Before I could say anything she had her arms wrapped around me.

There were no apologies because none were needed. No embarrassment or shame. For the first tim in my life just exuberant acceptance.

I inquired what the hug was for and she responded that’s what I came looking for you for in the first place. That and—sheepishly—to see if you’d let me borrow your car so I drop the donated food at the shelters tonight?

Source: newkidsonmycock11

Rehtaeh Parsons with a rescue dog

*** Trigger Warning ***

Rehtaeh  (Heather, spelled backwards) was a sensitive, an avid reader and a straight-A student until, at age fifteen, she attended a party at a friend’s house.

There are some basic details to which all parties agree:

  • Rehtaeh had a great deal of vodka in a short period of time
  • She engaged in sexual activity with up to four boys.
  • Digital images of these encounters were captured.

Accounts diverge from here.

Rehtaeh claimed she was raped. Her family and a small group of friends believed she was telling the truth.

However, the majority response to her accusations was at in the best case insinuations of “buyer’s remorse” with a heaping helping of slut-shaming on the side and malicious bullying and ruthless harassment when images of the exchange began circulating in her high school.

Rehtaeh’s family relocated but the traumatic fallout followed them.

After a year, the case was closed the case due to lack of evidence in a he-said, she-said situation.

Rehtaeh had already not been doing well and on April 4th, 2013 she hung herself in her bathroom. Her mother tried to save her but by the time she broke door, the damage was irreparable.

Her family removed her from life support on April 7th, 2013.

…

Attention to Rehtaeh’s story came on the heels of the verdict in a Steubenville, Ohio rape case.

The details were nearly identical: a party, alcohol, images of star football players gloating about their sexual conquest, a girl who was raped and a community who categorically defended the perpetrators in the face of damning evidence against them.

During their trial, Trent Mays and Ma’lik Richmond insisted they couldn’t have raped the victim because they weren’t violent.

When both were found guilty there were two very sets of responses. Without any concern for the victim many talking heads trumpeted the stain this would place on the lives of two promising young men. Another faction saw the punishment meted out for the crime as far too lenient.

Henry Rollins wrote an exceptional piece—which is really worth reading in its entirety—implicating rape culture while refusing to let the perpetrators off the hook.

It is obvious that the two offenders saw the victim as some one [sic] that could be treated as a thing. This is not about sex, it is about power and control. I guess that is what I am getting at. Sex was probably not the hardest thing for the two to get, so that wasn’t the objective. When you hear the jokes being made during the crime, it is the purest contempt.

As lucid as his insights are they fall into the same trap as those who foist the term ‘rape culture’ as a readymade framework for calling out the insidious cultural prerogative resulting in one woman being raped every two minutes in the US.

In other words, in the time it takes to read this post two women will have been raped.

Only one will report the crime.

…

I object to the term rape culture. I don’t deny its existence as much as readymade-ness of the accompanying critique. Inversion is never subversion.

To perhaps put it better: blaming rape on ‘rape culture’ is analogous to blaming kidney failure for killing a cancer patient. Yes, the patient died because their kidneys stopped working but what caused the kidneys to stop working came as a result of a broader systemic malfunction.

The problem with the way things are now is that the burden of proof is placed on the shoulders of the victim—missing and misconstruing the onus. Rape is the result of a failure to seek and receive consent. Thus from a legal standpoint what happens after the non-issuing or retraction of consent is rape, full stop.

…

Why can’t we focus on consent instead of the crime which arises from discounting it?

First off, while there are a fucking shit ton of resources on rape statistics, preventing rape, surviving rape, etc. there is very little substantive material pertaining to consent.

But I only found two decent resources: Reed College’s Sexual Assault Prevention and Response document as well as a similar document from Vassar. The former is impressively thorough; the latter, more vital.

But the documents only tell us what any person who with an ounce of humanity already knows: flirting does not constitute consent. Further, drugs and alcohol render their user incapable of consenting.

Still women are raped and blamed by their rapists using the most specious and conceptually flimsy sexist notions.

This is literally not difficult at all but beautiful people like Rehtaeh Parsons continue to suffer and fall as a result of the sins committed against them.