Tag: erection

Source unknown – Title unknown (XXXX)

I like this v., very much.

Yes, I do have a fixation upon creative, non-sexist strategies for the visual depiction of ejaculation.

& yes, there’s def/ room for improvement as far as the line work here…

…but: the core idea–the physical act of seminal ejaculation as an event resulting in beauty–reads unambiguously as-is

& this is exactly the sort of work that if I ever had a space to truly claim as my own, I’d want this displayed prominently. I gives me very warm and fuzzy feels.

(Also, I’m borrowing knitphilia’s pretty masculinity and crafty cocks tag because they are v. apropos.)

the-secretpervert – submission to porn4ladies (2014)

Although these lack fully differentiated tonal range and the content/ composition announces them as cockshotus vulgaris, there is at least something charming about them.

I am probably being disingenuous–it being unwise to project the subconscious internal on the manifest external and label the result: interpretation–but this reminds me of Peter Hujar’s breathtaking portrait of David Wojnarowicz.

Whether or not that free associative jump stands up under interrogation, I think the common denominator–both depict male bodied individuals masturbating–is applicable here.

Adding masturbation by no means ameliorates concerns over presumptive entitlement associated with male-bodied exhibitionism but in this case the image reads less like look-at-what-I’m-doing-doesn’t-it-make-you-horny and more what-I’m-doing-makes-me-horny-and-I’m-curious-as-to-the-visual-mechanics-of-the-action.

Interestingly enough that does actually lead right up to what attracts me to these images: a very dear friend once confessed to me that although she masturbated frequently, she had only ever made herself come perhaps three times.

One of those times, she hadn’t intended to masturbate, she’d just been curious about her own genitals and employed a hand mirror to ease closer examination.

In her retelling, she didn’t realize she was going to come until it was too late to stop. Fifteen some years later, she still claimed it as one of the three best orgasms in her life.

For me, this image invokes the same feeling of someone explaining their sexuality to me not in an effort to invoke arousal–although if that happens as a side effect, so be it; but to instead share something true about themselves without fear of judgment or reprisal.

I can’t help but find that attitude incredibly sexy.

Our Naughty Adventures – Submission to Let Me Do This To You (201X)

There’s this essay that’s been bouncing around in my head for more than a year. It has to do with the junctions, disjunctions and ruptures in the terms ‘erotica’, ‘sexual explicit imagery’, ‘pornography’ and ‘Art’.

I have some 30 pages of notes but sitting down to write in earnest is a real struggle for me.

It’s a shame, really–being able to call on such an essay in the analysis of this image would pay rich dividends in the case of this image, especially given that I’d be inclined to label this as both ‘erotica’ and ‘pornography’ but less willing to attribute any strong artistic merit or suggest that depicting and erect penis precludes sexual explicitness.

What’s sexual here is the position of the female body in relationship to the male. The image clearly captures a moment prior to the commencement of sexual congress; in other words, the image titillates through implication.

There is a sense of artistic pretense–high contrast, black and white, shot with a strobe there’s also the feeling that what is presented is a crop from a larger image; or, what should have been a composition centering on a wider angle of view.

Artistic shortcomings aside I do find this image to be highly erotic as it includes a number of things that dampen my undies: the fact that although not wearing a stitch, the female bodied participant is presented in such a way that her nakedness is hidden at the same time the male bodied participant is visible for all the world to see. (In this case I also really dig the acute angle of his erection and way the flash draws attention to the texture and tone of his foreskin.)

There’s also something intangible about the image that conveys for me  a sense of craving a lover’s body so much it causes physical pain. And with that aching transforms the carnal union into not only an approaching of ecstatic bliss but a drowning of pain in pleasure.

Source: letmedothis

Source: Unknown (Earliest post)

Whoa. Fuck me, why isn’t this a video?

There’s a veritable treasure trove of dynamic visual potential what with the driver nearing a point when he will ejaculate onto his shirt and abdomen with his friend following suit shortly thereafter. Add to that the transgressive bonus points of being in a car and therefore implicitly in public gives the proceedings a deliciously transgressive charge.

Moreover, as a video I would be less likely to note to notice the personally triggering asymmetry between the passenger’s attention to the giving of pleasure and driver’s focus on receiving it.

…

When I was five, my military family relocated to the South Pacific. Up to that point, I had lived a relatively insular life so it really wasn’t quite the shock one might have expected.

With my father traveling around the Pacific Rim for months at time, my mother became increasingly dependent upon her membership in the Seventh-day Adventist church–especially the pastor’s family.

They had two children. Ellie was four year’s older than me, Will, a year and a half.

Will had blond hair, blue eyes and a deep tan. He could ride a bike without training wheels or a helmet, collected Smurf figurines and was the most worldly kid I had ever met. He was my first ‘friend’.

In hindsight, Will was a little off. He was secretive, volatile and detached. Of course, all that registered to me was his mom would more or less let us watch cartoons whenever we wanted.

On day, Will said we were going to play ‘Butt Work’. I didn’t know what that was but he said he’d show me. He spread a blanket on the floor of the closet and told me to lay down on it. I did.

Now take your pants off. I did.

I was embarrassed. Will slid the closet door closed. I wiggled out of my underwear.

Spread your legs. I did.

There was a click and a flash of light. I realized Will had his Spiderman flashlight. I the fingers of his left hand spread me. I fidgeted.

Hold still.

After what seemed like forever, Will extinguished the flashlight.

My turn. I scooted to the side and before I could get my underwear and shorts back on was laying naked from the waist down with his legs spread. I tried to replicate what he did to me but I didn’t understand what I was doing.

After a second or two he angrily took the flashlight from me. You don’t know how to do it, right. He grabbed his shorts and slipped out of the closet.

…

The second time Will suggested we play ‘Butt Work’, I had an erection before I could even get my underwear off. I couldn’t lay down on the ground and Will was cross with me.

…

The third and all subsequent times, when Will wanted to play ‘Butt Work’ he would shove his hand down the front of my pants and push my penis down between my legs until I was laying flat on the ground.

It wasn’t traumatic and it didn’t really bother me. Even when things progressed from spread my ass and eying anus to blowing a stream of exhaled breath onto it. This led to him using small twigs to tickle me. I didn’t necessarily like what was happening but I enjoyed the attention even if I didn’t understand what he got out of it, it was clear that he was deeply invested in the proceedings.

He never again let me try to do what he did to me to him though.

…

I can’t remember the first time he penetrated me with his finger. I did not like it but the attention he gave me afterwards was so much more focused, seemingly sincere.

…

One afternoon, Will and I had been playing hide and seek for most of the morning around my house. My father had come out and was mowing the lawn. We’d made a game of trying to sneak up on him but since he always knew we we’re coming after him the game lost it’s appeal.

I found this centipede in the gutter adjacent to my house. Centipede’s were a fairly regular siting but this one was easily four times the size of the one’s I was accustomed to seeing. I called Will and predictably, he began to poke it with a stick trying to knock it off the grate into the drain.

Or at least that’s what I thought we was doing. Instead, he managed to hook it onto the end of the stick and thrust it towards my face. I freaked out and ran but I made it maybe three strides before I was suddenly flat on the grass and dazed.

Will had tripped me. I heard the lawnmower. Will was on top of me. the lawnmower droned closer. Will pulled my shorts down around my knees and shoved his finger into me up to his second knuckle. He wiggled his finger up-and-down rapidly.

The lawnmower stopped. There was a shuffling sound and then Will wasn’t on top of me. He was sprawled three feet away.

My father put me on my feet. Roughly dragging my pants up. Hurting me. Red faced and screaming. The gist of it was what is going on, what are you perverts doing, I’m going to call your parents. Go home. I don’t ever want to see you again.

…

I didn’t understand what had happened/what was happening.

Inside the house–with the lawn left half mowed–the interrogation began. I wasn’t especially ashamed and I certainly wasn’t traumatized but I knew that to be truthful about all the specifics would be a very bad idea. I explained merely that it was a game. I refused to admit it had a name or detail the specifics.

Looking back, I realize my parents thought I was gay and they figured this was an early manifestation that they needed to discipline/scare out of me. My punishment was being grounded for three months; I would go without dinner every evening during that same time and since Xmas fell during it, festivities such as presents, stockings and the like were categorically cancelled for me.

…

As a form of protest, every night while my family ate I laid under the Xmas tree. My mother has always had this stupid fixation with the ‘country’ craft aesthetic and instead of bulbs the tree was festooned with red glazed plastic apples. I would sit with them bobbing directly above my face.

Generally, there would be some comment along the lines of me using the time productively to meditate on what I had done wrong.

Instead, I imagined the apples were real. Imagined how they might taste, if I could just reach up, pluck one and bite into it. I didn’t feel like I’d done anything wrong. And more than once the apple motif made me wonder if maybe this is how Eve felt.

Inside Flesh – Hostage (2011)

Suka Off is a Poland-based artist collective founded by visual/performance artist Piotr Wegrzynski.

The second member of the collective is Wegrzynski’s partner philologist and performance artist Sylvia Lajbig.

For all intents and purposes, Inside Flesh is the arm of Suka Off concerned with the production of explicit pornography.

Inside Flesh is a mixed bag. They insist upon unity of medium and message in porn; eschew mainstream porn.

A lot of words get bandied about with regard to their work: dark, kink, fetish. All lazy designations. The work Inside Flesh makes fixates on the violence of physicality. Depictions of intercourse are reduced to a visual amalgamation of genitals, erogenous zones all while imposing a rigid post-human mechanical anonymity.

I appreciate the attention to detail, the seamlessly glitchy/degraded production aesthetic. Further, a good bit of their work I have explored, not only embraces but emphasizes the potential beauty of the viscous effluvia accompanying human carnality.

It’s interesting that in its mission to counter the inconsistent production ethos of mainstream porn and in it’s implicit critique of the tendency of said industry to reduce expressions of sexuality to a field of grinding, thrusting genitals, Inside Flesh actually recreates much of the insipid repetition they claim to oppose.

All that being said, in spite of my general objection to the decontextualization of close-ups, I really do like this image. The sickly light emanating from what appears to be florescent tubes glaring off the coloration mottling the swollen glans, the saliva wet texture of the curled tongue and toothy pearl glint.

Source: insideflesh

A & N – Nympho Ninjas Submission (2014)

Diptych ought to be read seamlessly.

The trouble–which in the end isn’t really trouble at all since it allows a far more benevolent interpretation–is that I initially see these images discontinuously.

There’s the obvious discrepancy in visual langague. The first frame being one of the most infuriatingly egregious examples of #skinnyframebullshit I’ve posted.

Plus, it is oblivious to the politics of frame edge dismemberment. (To anticipate the counterargument: preserving anonymity is a downright lazy justification. There are literally a thousand ways to obscure identifying features that don’t require decapitation. Yes, it just takes a bit more effort on the part of the image maker…

Pairing the first image with the second presents an interesting dichotomy. (It maybe even alleviates the tiniest fraction of the goddamn piss poor decision to opt for portrait orientation in the first image since it allows both images to fit together more intimately within the viewer’s visual field.)

The second image is very nearly perfect. Yes, I have a bias to frame-within-frames and viewfinder peaks but although the second image is great on its own, I think the interplay between it and the previous image are fascinating.

This interplay–as I read it–is a studied subversion of the male gaze.

The leftmost image presents a sample of said gaze; the right explicitly presents the viewer with a female POV.

All sorts of tangents and rabbit trails emerge. But what’s most important is to note that the male gaze is in-built, assumed. It sees the female bodied subject regardless of whether or not she sees–here she literally cannot see as she has no eyes.

Because the initial image informs the following image the female gaze sees but it is seen in its seeing.

(Whether intended or not, the fact that the male bodied subject does not acknowledge the camera is a sophisticated bit of conceptual reflexivity.)

The first frame contextualizes the second. Were one to draw a parallel with art historical tradition and subsequent influence in practice, one would go straight to the head of the class.

In the context of the first frame, the second frame’s richness diminishes the first; underscoring the glaring impoverishment–not to mention bias–of the male gaze..

This is as thoroughly subversive. And it occurs to me that unlike most -isms that take on definition by prioritizing this above that; feminism is a rare ideology wherein the criticism is also a performance of a suggested solution. The act of saying: voice like mine have been silence for centuries, what I have to say is as important as any thing anyone else has to say: therefore I will speak.

Source: nymphoninjas

Source: Unknown

Um… so, uh… yeah: LOVE THIS. For you know, reasons and stuff.

At the same time: I hate it, omfg sooo much.

For once my objections have fuck all to do with curmudgeonly hyper-criticality. I object because I am devastated.

I have been trying and failing to make a self-portrait that is alarmingly similar to this; really, this and my idea two might as well be fraternally twinned.

But to top a sundae of injury with rainbow sprinkles of insult: this is just flat-out so, SO much better than any of my fumbled false starts and artless misfires.

And although I have no intention of giving up–I’m exactly the sort of fool for whom the prospect of defying impossibility actually serves as compelling motivation.

Of course, motivation alone doesn’t address the fact that I am not getting any younger and I will never be ripped with six-pack abs.

But my phenomenal lack of physical attraction isn’t even the most profound hurdle. This was almost certainly taken by another person. I only have and will likely only ever have–sadly: recourse to the self-timer.

Source: Unknown

While I object to the sepia tinge, strobe vignetting and canted frame, the pervert in my is intrigued by this image.

I have certain reservations about imagery depicting threesomes; therefore, I appreciate how the above eschews the typically stultifying heteronormative script.

I read something about fluid sexual orientation. Namely, I don’t stop to ask is that boy gay or bi. (Although I admit that with the way his head is being forced into the woman’s pubis, I could understand that reading.)

Does it really matter? Everyone here is clearly enthusiastically engaged/invested in the proceedings.

‘Straight’, ‘gay’, ‘bisexual’ and ‘genderqueer’ are words, labels. Increasingly, treated as if it were a discrete street addresses: 123 Main Street, Podunkville, ID.

I don’t think it’s that simple. At best, ‘bisexual’ is comparable to one New Yorker telling another she lives in Brooklyn–as opposed to Manhattan, Queens or the Bronx. (As far as I’m concerned there are only four boroughs.)

Saying I am a bisexual woman who prefers women to men is analogous to mentioning that she lives off the Lorimer L stop.

If she really trusts the person with whom she is talking, she might say: I’m on Ainslie between Leonard and Manhattan.

Even that falls short. Each of us manifests a singular sexual persona; labels are broad, vague and ambiguous, they will always fail to summarize the intricacies of our desires. Words merely facilitate communication by nudge us toward a better heading, towards the truth.

Source: st8guy4mf