kalkibodhi:

Easing into the scene

KalkiBodhi Archives

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I don’t usually post flat out porn but I find something about this impressive.

It’s not the composition. A full third of the frame has been cropped out and although I loathe cropping, in this case it’s a vast improvement.

Still, the best bokeh in the world can’t mask the dead light of a rented-for-the-day Hollywood Hills mansion.

What’s more the framing is too close to ground the participants in their environment and too far away to really get an eyeful of the action.

I won’t bother going into the relationship of proximity to the action–beyond a certain point the camera ceases to be independent from the action it’s recording. The trouble with that is the camera is fundamentally incapable of participating in the action. (Ask: were I standing at the distance the camera is would I be watching the proceedings or would I be a part of them.)

There’s the stereotypical absence of body hair–totally your choice if that’s how you are comfortable but, for my part, I resent the implication that smoothly shaved genitals and underarms are the norm.

Also, despite my ironic discovery that I am really into at least the notion of group sex, I am somewhat put off by threesomes. Excluding MMM and FFF (which I didn’t even know was a thing until last week), FMM and FFM threesomes tend toward degrees patriarchal heteronormativity and lipstick lesbianism that I like to convince myself don’t really exist.

For example: dude bros high-fiving over some young woman’s back, the it’s not gay as long as our dicks don’t touch mentalities or the way FFM fantasies are inextricably embedded in the weave of patriarchy.

If women could bring strap-ons to the party or a boy would eat a dick or take it in the ass, I would be all over threesomes. (Although I admit I despise slut-shaming so overwhelmingly that a part of me really digs that FMM pairings result in a +2 partners for the woman; while each boy only gets a +1.)

All that notwithstanding, the sex portrayed here avoids the appearance of mechanization. Note: how the boy on bottom’s mouth hangs open–already beginning to recite baseball statistics in his head; his eyes open only enough to trace his erection from its based until it disappears below the cleft in young woman’s ass. For her part, she looks as if she actually really wants to give head to this muscle-y gent–she uses her hands to stroke his shaft and tug on his testicles.

This lacks the rote performance of pleasure as result of mechanical repetition that ruins 90% of porn for me. And while it does occur to me that it is unlikely the scene ends in mutual pleasure for all parties, what strikes me is in spite of the pornographic trappings, there is a a feeling that at the least this woman is respected by these men; they may even acknowledge her as capable of deriving pleasure from this exchange.

I am not sure I could articulate how I jumped to such a conclusion. Yet, I do find it interesting that–not that it is degrading for a woman to have a man ejaculate on her face if that’s something she wants–but if you look at the other sample images from this scene the muscle bound guy pulls out and comes on the her stomach while the other boy spills himself onto her breasts.

kalkibodhi:

Tops

KalkiBodhi Archives

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This is exactly and uncannily what I want when I am feeling horny distilled to some #skinnyframebullshit that had decent color before some fucker futzed with it.

Still though: unf and total sploosh.

kalkibodhi:

The wall

KalkiBodhi Archives

Hitting the floor face-first woke me.

The overhead light was on already.

Thick fingers knotted in my hair; pulled till my toes pirouetted and twirled.

Alternating between being dragging and scrabbling for footing, my father hauled down two flights of stairs and planted in the unfinished basement.

The poured concrete floor was frigid.

I felt something splash onto my foot. Looking down, I saw blood clotting into my pajama top and crimson dots scattered around my bare feet.

I raised a hand to my face.

“Ten-hut!”

My hand flew to my side.

I could see Kyle crying out of the corner of my eye—a spectacular tactical blunder but Dad ignored it.

Not an especially auspicious omen.

After nine years, these sessions had grown predictable: all fuss-and-bluster at first until my father found cadence, began to enjoy the sound of his own voice and the tone would shift adversarial to professorial.

These professorial lulls never lasted. But at least while they did, I could turn off my mind and preserve energy for the worst to come.

The 2 AM lecture this morning was on the subject of Integrity (capital-I) as exemplified by Bolt’s A Man for All Season.

I had not absorbed a word of it but after an hour, the electrical buzzing of a silence that stretched several seconds too long snapped me back into full focus.

 “The body follows the head,” my father said.

And with a sinking feel, I knew what followed.

He grabbed my throat, his fingers tightening.

I knew to breathe in shallow and slow.  Not to panic. But his grip was too tight.

When you are being can’t breathe is nearly impossible to keep your arms ramrod straight at your sides. I was terrified but I was also certain I would rather suffocate than show that fucker I was afraid of him.

Not to mention, the level of disrespect fearing the man who claimed to love me would entail. Things were bad now but if that happened they would be so much worse.

And just then in that perfect moment a shiver shook my shoulders.

I was on tiptoes again, pulled towards him; held by my neck, my windpipe collapsed. Out of the corner of my eye, I could just see the snarling grey-whites of his eyes shining in his wax-fruit, steel wool stubbled skin.

I stared straight ahead, refusing to meet his eyes, to beg him not to kill me. Black spots swirled and yawned over the porous blue-grey cinderblocks in the middle distance.

“Control the head, control the body.” He said, his voice perfectly calm as he nodded my head for me.

Warm wetness bloomed in my sinuses again. I tried to snuffle it back. Couldn’t breathe. My head like it was going to explode.

A drop. Another. More splattering admist the nests of black hair on his arm.

He felt it and shoved me backwards and I fell sideways, landing on my hands and knees, gasping.

He pulled at the tail of my blue shirt, stretching the material so that he didn’t have to kneel and rid himself of my residue.

I suppose it makes sense that I am completely whack-a-doo about being touched.

And it’s not even being touched so much because I am fine with it as long as I am not thinking about it. If I am thinking about it and you aren’t one of maybe five people, I am likely to launch you into orbit.

There aren’t any easy rules to it I can articulate even to myself, let alone anyone else. Still, this image turns me on in some ineffable way.

But it also makes me sad. There is only one person I would allow to hold me like the young woman above. And although I trust her completely, that wouldn’t be why I would be okay with it. I’d be okay with it because she wouldn’t do it unless there was some truth in the action. I don’t know another way to put it except to say that with out me knowing it was what I craved, this woman knows me enough to grab me by the neck, force me up against a wall and whisper with her lips against my ears how very, very pretty she finds me before enumerating all the unspeakable things she intends to inflict upon my body. Calling me a filthy slut because she knows what I want even when I don’t.

While I know this is likely a behind-the-scenes production still from one of those ‘feminist’ sites who employ female image makers to work with their models—i.e. Abby Winters and the breathtaking I Feel Myself—I still can’t help but impose a bi-curious-art-student-enlists-lesbian-friend-and-girlcrush-to-masturbate-on-camera-in-their-dorm’s-laundry-room narrative to it. (Lest you think my grip of situational realism is faltering due to excessive porno consumption: I attended a prestigious liberal arts college where that was exactly the sort of thing happening on any given Tuesday.)

And truth be told I asked my fair share of girlcrushes to masturbate on screen in my various student film efforts—more than half agreed with little if any reservations.

Coming from a conservative Xtian high school where boys were expected to be boys interested romantically but not sexually in girls who were girls—wholesome, chaste and asexual—such openness was refreshing but also a little unnerving.

I never actually filmed any of those who agreed to masturbate on camera. Part of it was my own shyness but it was not shyness as a result of shame. (Whether or not I filmed it, I would do just about anything to be permitted to watch one of my friends bring themselves to orgasm.) The truth is, as I have mentioned before: visual depictions of masturbation present a thicket of critical concerns with regard to exhibitionism and voyeurism.

Instead of mirroring, this image employs a surrogate to de-emphasize exhibitionist facets, underscoring the voyeuristic intentionality. A beautiful young brunette leans against a wall while sitting astride a washing machine (which I imagine is mid-spin cycle). Bokeh renders her in blurred focus: her pants pushed down around her shins, her legs and bares knees akimbo, right hand reaching down across her taut stomach, disappearing between her thighs; erect nipples showing through the thin white cotton of her t-shirt and an expression that is a bit of a Mona Lisa smile– somewhere between feigning orgasm and the actual shift where realization dawns that orgasm is imminent.

A young woman—barefoot and clad in a blue sundress with small white polka dots, has climbed on top of the row of washing machines also and monitors her friend with a video camera. Her face is hidden by her long golden hair. She seems thoroughly engaged with her friends experience.

The videographer is in sharper focus than her friend but the sharpest focus is reserved for the foreground. This is fascinating as you essentially have the exhibitionism of the masturbator cancelled out by the videographer’s surrogate voyeur which is subsequently transformed once again into an exhibitionist tableau in turn cancelled out by the depth of field’s inferential reminder to the audience that they are voyeurs.

With that in mind, I must mention that skinny frame contributes NOTHING to the image. Whereas, a landscape orientation would have firmly placed the happenings within a public laundry facility; more fully integrated the lines of molding in the lower left of the frame and the darkening far corner above the videographer’s head into the compositional logic of the image and further emphasized that depth of field by including the foreground washing machine; not to mention, you wouldn’t lose the tail of the blue polka dot dress which would further balance the weight of the masturbators naked right knee.

All things considered this is a goddamn gorgeous image succeeds in its own right but truly shines by what it manages through implication. Less is more, after all (and always).

m-as-tu-vu:

by fred.c.fred

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Received wisdom maintains that a boy willing to hold a girl’s hair back is a ‘nice guy’.

Isn’t it more complicated than that? What if a girl doesn’t want her hair held back, wants to hold the boy’s hair back or wants another girl to hold her hair back?

If I were a boy I’d a girl to hold my hair back and were I a girl, I’d want to hold another girl’s hair back.

But I am neither/both and all I have are hair ties.

You know that saying about how a friend will bail you out of jail at 2am while a true friend will be sitting next to you in the cell saying: damn, that was fun.

I think it’s a wise aphorism but I guess I reckon friendship differently than most people.

To me a friend is someone who would ask to tie me up in this fashion and I would without a second thought consent

A true friend would just tie me up and proceed to push me outside my comfort zone and so thorough transgress the bullshit notion of boundaries that I would only be able to whisper Meister Eckhart’s prayer: thank you, thank you, thank you.

youarecordiallyinvitedtopissoff:

Annamaria Kowalsky

I dig this image. Part of it is definitely due to the latent pyro in me. Plus it captures all the best of what Kowalsky—no, not Kowalski—brings to the table as a violist-by-day/photographer-by-night.

Yet, I feel my response has to address the indebtedness of Kowalsky’s work to Brooke Shaden—whose work I loathe.

What makes Kowalsky’s work attractive—besides the violist bit (I am a love fool for musicians, dontcha know?)—is the manner whereby she dodges Shaden’s derivative interpretations with sincere photographic inquiry. Her images tell the story of how she sees herself as well as how she wishes she was seen.

In other words, photo manipulation is not an end in and of itself to Kowalsky—and make no mistake this and much of her work are composites (to which I normally object but if I’ll give Jeff Wall a pass…); instead, the implausibility of her contrived images recall in-between-ness of the moment after you glimpse something you are certain is impossible and the moment before you looking again to discover it was just the play of the light sparking your eyes’ imagination.

youarecordiallyinvitedtopissoff:

Jessica Silversaga

171.

The dreamy ethereality of Jessica Silversaga’s work compliments her affection for fairy tales.

Despite their suffused light and idyllic innocence, her images have nothing in common with the ubiquitous Disney versions except the subject of beauty. But where the mass market films reify the notion that goodness always carry the day, Silversaga’s images employ the mechanism of the original materials—wherein the brutality of cruel, pricking thorns frame the delicate rose, rendering it all the more beautiful as a result of sinister intentions.

The brilliant white of tiles and tub, the few clinging strands of wet hair escaping thin braids at her neck and her averted face are replete with beauty.

But why is she turned away. I question whether she has a face– perhaps there is nothing but ragged skin lining the edges of a gaping black void.

Maybe such a response is a result of having seen too many horror movies. (Although I do not think I am entirely off base… she is after all turning left and as the eye enters the frame and passes left to right over it it becomes clear there is nothing she can be looking at. Interestingly, if this image were flipped and she was looking to her right, I think the singular thought would be she was merely turned away.)

It does not matter whether she has a face or not, what matters is her knowing what it is to hold chaos in one’s palm because like us all she too has a body.

By knowing this, we also know she is not another dime a dozen damsel waiting for deliverance from distress.

She is the thorn and the rose. As are we all.