This post is guest curated by azura09:


How to bend light

And in the dark we will take off our clothes
And they’ll be placing fingers through the notches in your spine

When I first looked at you in the almost-dark, scared that you would not like my breasts. That I would see disappointment on your face. But you still pushed me to touch you, my fingers climbing your back as I held you and kissed you near your mouth. 

Years pass and I’m used to your hatred of overhead lighting. I expect it when you reach over to turn on the desk lamp or light a candle I don’t like the smell of, wax and apple cinnamon. I’m grateful for the way you now know my body so well it’s not necessary for you to see me, but yet you still want to look.

This post is guest curated by azura09:


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.

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.

This post is guest curated by azura09:


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.

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.


Carson from Crash Pad series with Brooklyn Flaco