Tag: erection

topoftheshaft:

Time Seems Like a Blur When You Cum

Bill in Exile – Load Dump (2010)

Let’s consider the previous poster’s comment because I think it’s actually insightful af.

It’s impossible to describe the taste of coffee to someone who has never had it. But you don’t try to describe it, you brew a cup and say: taste this, it’s warm and delicious. (Or, if you’re me and can’t stand warm beverages, you break out the Chameleon Cold Brew.)

It’s interesting: before I ever used marijuana, a number of people had explained to me what it was to be stoned. I remember being like uh, wait, I don’t get it.

After I smoked up, I totally got it. There’s no way to describe it. It’s like the taste of coffee–once you’ve had it, you’ll never forget what it tastes like. But you also don’t ever remember not knowing what it tastes like.

Literacy is probably a better example. Once you learn to read you know–practically–that at a certain point you didn’t know how; but the knowing overrides the memory of not knowing. (Like I’m a bit precocious in that I remember very specific things from as young as six months. So I can remember seeing signs before I was able to read and being able to read them in my recollection even though I couldn’t have read them at the time.)

Again, that only works ex post facto. You sort of have to walk to the edge and jump.

Consider this scenario: you’re sitting in your room and suddenly the brightest red cardinal darts in through the window and lands on the back of a chair. The incongruity is stunning to you and the surprise of it shakes your brain out of it’s perpetual classifying and organizing: this is inside, this is outside; me vs. not me, when do I need to leave to meet Su for dinner, etc. But in that moment of unplanned surprise, there is the briefest of moments where you are too surprised to label or otherwise interpret the scene.

And when you tell people about it your explanation will last ten times longer than the moment did. Our eyes see and even though we can’t see the act of our eyes seeing, that is how our brain processes it–we see routinely as if through a mirror darkly. But in moments of self-transcendence it’s like the experience of needing glasses and never having had them and then when you put them on you’re just like OMFG at all the details you’ve been missing.

Interestingly, virtually every account I’m familiar with as far as mystical/self-transcendent experience involves the distension of time. You can see 100 things for every one you’d normally notice and because your brain is too shocked to filter any of it, it just all comes in and you absorb it.

So the person who posted this image is actually very much on point with their observation. Orgasm does share a number of points of commonality with transcendent experience in my… er, experience. And if I’m not mistaken that’s why church and state are so down on drugs and an openness to sexual expression–when you realize the kingdom’s keys are within your grasp why would you give the first half a fuck about an institutional intercessor?

Source unknown – Title Unknown (201X)

I’ve yammered on at great length before about distinguishing between selfies and self-portraiture–but where is the line?

Strictly speaking, this isn’t a selfie. Except… the process that went into making it is almost certainly comparable. I mean the view could be a screen cap from chaturbate that’s been desaturated…

I think anything where you’re consulting a live view in order to compose and frame the image counts as a selfie. Thus: if you’re composing your shot and then setting the self timer before running to get into position–that’s a self-portrait. A micro 4/3 camera with a flip around screen that you can just look at to position yourself in the frame without getting behind the camera is a selfie still.

The question of whether selfies can be art is mired and wrapped round and round with barbed wire because the context is tied up in the context of selfies, where one is trying to appear a certain fashion aligned with their digital curation of self. Not that an artist can’t do that, it’s just that it’s been done already–so that means do it better than Cindy Sherman or go the fuck home. (Sherman was a self-portraitist, so there’s that, too.)

The context of selfies hinges almost entirely on authorial intentionality–and that’s a totally BS line of questioning. Was the selfie an ontological virtual back of the memory of an event–I know I was here because pics, it did happen. Or, is this the version of myself I’m aspiring to be and the selfie is part road map, part fuel for the trip ahead. (Baudrillard would have a freaking field day.) Is it a form of self-care–a radically body positive reclamation of creating a new context wherein you exert a degree of agency in how you are seen by the world (which you may not have recourse to in your day-to-day)? Is it about saying: sharing something with others instead of insisting upon digital attention in the form of likes, regrams/reblogs, etc.?

And please don’t mistake me: I’m not willing to say oh, vanity, vanity all is vanity and dismiss something as art due to a concept that is so steeped–historically–in misogynistic fervor. Whereas I do believe that Art is more about what’s given than what’s taken.

I just worry that so many of the impetuses for selfies are centered upon style over content–essentially canceling out any sort of compositional logical or visual grammar in a quest for something that is on-brand (stylistically consistent) and on fleek (immediate and attention inviting).

I think this is nowhere less front and center than with dick picks. I mean any photo or image that is erotically charged is already fueled by the dichotomy between what looks good and feels good. Models don’t point there toes because it makes it easier to hold a position, they do it because it slims and shapes the body in ways that have come to be accepted as aesthetically desirable.

It seems there are two kinds of dick pics, generally speaking: the look how hard I am help me out type (which the above is not) or the I was really turned on and felt attractive.

This is definitely that latter type but it’s interesting because it is unified in content and form in such a way that it doesn’t seem to be making a choice between what looks good and what feels good. It’s played toward the camera but in a way that conveys a lot about the subject.

Or, perhaps, I’m just once again reading entirely too much into random porn on the Interwebz.

Source: perfectlysuperphilosopher

Santy Mito – Choke de fuerzas… (2016)

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite.  Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong.  We say bread and it means according
to which nation.  French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure.  A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment.  I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can.  Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling.  And maybe not.  When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records.  But what if they
are poems or psalms?  My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind’s labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton.  My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey.  Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body.  Giraffes are this
desire in the dark.  Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not laguage but a map.  What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.

–Jack Gilbert, The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart

Source: santymito

viiviid – i m p u l s a t i n g from Serene Minimalism collection (2016)

This is quite lovely but I would argue that it’s not–strictly speaking–pornography.

But, you inquire, there’s a great big old erect phallus carefully positioned and–presumably–ready to get down to business.

I mean, yes…that’s true. But notice there’s nowhere for it to go.I mean you can argue it’s going there but I don’t see it like that.

There’s something here about anticipation–a desire without a means of satiation.

The image possesses an unresolved tension. In the face of that tension, other things effervesce; for example: the style of this is exactly half woodcut, and half Matisse cut-out.

It also reminds me a bit of shunga–which tends to exaggerate the act of sexual congress but also features awkward positioning or feet and arms. I mean it’s clearly that the cock haver’s feet are splayed out to the left and right but they don’t seem to completely align quite right.

I do really love the tension between the two hands. The hand on the kneeling figure’s left flank is so worshipful and reverent. Whereas the other hand is so forceful–holding it just below the elbow joint allowing it to both pull back and twist the arm, rendering it immobile and to a degree controlling the body to which its attached much the way a leash and maneuver a pet.