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GIRL ON BOY: Pegging – Anilingus – Fingering » Follow

This GIF reminds me of Johanna, the daughter of one of my mother’s church friends who, in hindsight, was almost certainly sexually abused throughout her childhood.

At six, Johanna was a pretty and knew it. Around adults she adopted an affected shyness. One-on-one she was not unfriendly as long as you did exactly what she said. If you didn’t, she could be viciously mean..

I was a year older and not especially friendly with her. But kids make all kinds of alliances against boredom and it didn’t hurt that Johanna wanted to undertake something illicit.

She explained to me that although her mother had forbidden it, she wanted to rebuild her Fort.

The Fort, it turned out, was a sort of tent. It had a house shaped frame formed from interconnecting black plastic rods. Said rods needed to be smuggled from her upstairs bedroom through the living room crowded with adults and downstairs into the sun drenched rec room.

It took an hour or so to erect the frame and fit the nylon skin tattooed to resemble an idyllic suburban house over it.

Johanna told me that we were going to play house. She was the dad and had to go to work; I was the mom and she expected me to clean the house and have dinner ready when she got home.

She marched off upstairs; I opened the zippered front door and went into the house– inside it was too small for me to stand up all the way.

Johanna came in behind me and asked why dinner wasn’t ready. I said I hadn’t expected her so early.

She demanded that I come outside with her. Standing beside the Fort she told me she was going to punish me and pulled down my underwear. I tried to pull them up with both hands but she seemed to have expected this and fondled me. Her touch was clumsy; it made my insides feel strange.

She shimmied the waist of her own underwear down and told me to touch her between her legs

She guided my hand and fingers, pressing her body roughly into mine as she explored me with increasing insistence.

I started to feel like I was melting before I remembered how to move, pushed her away and ran upstairs.

…

Five years later, I was waiting for my mom to finish with a church elder’s meeting when Johanna shoved me into the men’s room. Inside, she quickly checked the shower area and stalls before menacing me with the chrome blade of a Swiss army knife. She pushed me back against the wall and pushed metal edge against my throat.

I will kill you unless you stick your tongue in my ass.

Surprisingly, I wasn’t scared or worried for my safety. What upset me was having no notion whatsoever of what she really wanted.

Before anything more could happen, my brother walked in on us. Johanna brandishing the knife and charged at him. He sidestepped and she spun, pointing the tip of the blade at each of us, threatening grievous bodily harm if we told anyone then disappearing into the hallway.

…

What happened between us failed to traumatize me. And I bear her no ill will. All she did was tell me to do something when asking would have worked– Johanna was not unattractive and in spite of my deep reservations with regard to anilingus, it’s likely I would have complied.)

I haven’t thought of her in more than a decade. And seeing this GIF my first thought was not to immediate flashback to the aforementioned incidents. I started off thinking about how there are two types of BDSM imagery: those pathologically preoccupied with power dynamics and those focused on the role trust plays in transgressing bodily boundaries. I categorically dislike the former; the latter tend to really get under my skin because I cannot help attributing metaphorical significance to them.

I know I am not normal but when I trust someone it’s not that I expect them to want to tie me up and do whatever they want with my body as much as I just would have no qualms whatsoever if they did. I sincerely feel my trust entitles them to places just as much of a claim on my body as I do. It is as if through friendship I am already completely naked, restrained and at the mercy of another–much like this boy.

It occurs to me that Johanna probably shared this feeling of base nakedness, The difference lay in her willingness to strip others to level the field.

I do not accept such wonton disregard for consent. At the same time, I don’t comprehend why it would ever not be okay to ask for something as long as it is okay to decline.

You’d think most people’s curiosity about the bodied-ness of others would thrill at such openness. Most leave you restrained and walk away. A few will willingly touch you, even fewer will admit they want you to touch them the way you want to be touched and maybe once in a lifetime someone will summon from you a certain degree of the grace which transcends mercy.

Source: fistmehard

On the list of things I’m not into hentai ranks just below the term alpha male used in any non-zoological context and slightly above asparagus—seriously those mini-pine tree-looking shits embody the worst aspects of celery and olives.

Although it’s part of a tendency toward exploiting gender bending for extreme and kink potential, this image gets me very hot and bothered.

The style of hair, clothing, shoes, breast and body language all suggest a teenaged female bodied individual. Yet, this teenage girl is stroking an erect penis protruding from between her legs. She has already come everywhere but still propulsive semen spews out of her.

As I do not even pretend to read Japanese, the context of the scene is lost on me. However, I think its functions better that way—at least for me. I imagine this girl is hearing her older brother fucking his girlfriend and the thought of what the bodies meeting is too much for her to take so she squats, hikes up her nightgown and begins to masturbate.

And while certainly such transgressive impetus appeals to me, also there is the pleasure she clearly derives from her behavior—which seems much more than simple auditory voyeurism.

I can’t help thinking she is not fantasizing about the act of sexual intercourse or having sex with the participants she is overhearing en flagrante delicto. No, it seems as if she is imagining someone claiming her body with such reckless abandon.

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.

Is not the most erotic portion of a body where the garment gapes? In perversion (which is the realm of textual pleasure) there are no “erogenous zones” (a foolish expression, besides); it is intermittence, as the psychoanalysis has so rightly stated, which is erotic: the intermittence of skin flashing between two articles of clothing (trousers and sweater), between two edges (the open-necked shirt, the glove and the sleeve); it is this flash itself which seduces, or rather: the staging of an appearance-as-disappearance (Barthes, pg. 9-10).

Perhaps it’s the introversion suggested by the huddled pose or the comely skin. My eye—wishing it was a tongue—darts and circles the erect left nipple.

But the wetness of wanting is thwarted by the shallow depth of field which pushes my gaze away over oceans of cream floating morning glories, wilds rose and springs of red baby’s breath before being pulled back again over small breasts and pale skin to sunlit shoulders and long strands of red silk hair.

And in this seeing I have an honest-to-goodness itty-bitty petit mort every time I glance at this picture.

No, it’s closer to a lover shifting slightly and the movement sending cascades of shivers outward through the ebbing pulsing of orgasmic spasms.

A feeling not unlike the memory of pixie with snow white skin, wire straight, carbon black hair and mischievous eyes wider than miles of un-translated manga: I gazed as she reached across the table, her motion pulling the lower edge of her too-small t-shirt away from the waist of her too-large belted jeans. Thinner than a rail, the ridges of her spine led my eyes down to the orange on purple Victoria’s Secret underwear.

Edges are important. Particularly given their extensive history of being manipulated in order to objectify and sexualize the female body—expertly lampooned by Duchamp’s Etant Donnes.

But the headless woman does have anonymity. And where this previous implied women as little more than fodder for men’s sexual appetites, it now is put into service in order to facilitate the open expression of a sexual identity from behind the safety of a mask.

To be clear, I think that’s awesome; but like all awesome things, it is not without its problems. In this case, the line between anonymous expression and exhibitionism is razor thin at best. What is presented as artful and considered frequently suffers as a result of compositional inconsistencies necessitated by the requirement for anonymity.

This beautiful photograph is one of the few that manages to be rigorously consistent in its composition while also employing the frame edge as a means of masking idenity. A slight shift in perspective, however, would have almost certainly transformed it into something either nakedly exhibitionist or visually impoverished.

It for that reason I think most photo dabblers would do well to borrow from the book of Bellocq’s brother by making a thoughtful image first and then blacking out faces and identifying features later.

Source: vaginabubbles

Maybe a week or so ago, the lovely sextathlon re-blogged a post featuring images of Michelangelo’s David side-by-side with a photo of a nude male pin-up appended with an question as to why the former is defended as Art and the latter is deemed obscene.

My suspicion is that the party line runs: the skill required to carve a nude dude from a chunk of marble exceeds what is needed to plunk a hunk down in front of a camera.

The dichotomy really centers on the way male nudity challenges invisible assumptions, i.e. the spectator will be straight, white and male or deferential to such a perspective.

Michelangelo was likely gay, David—a homoerotic sculpture. But Renaissance aristocrats didn’t get their dressing gowns in a twist because the work was conceived with fail-safes to diffuse the “gay”: the contrapposto of Greek statuary was the lingua franca among Firenze’s intelligentsia; also, naming the piece after a mensch who was such a bro that he had a man killed to bone his wife further obfuscates its homoeroticism.

On the other hand, photography is a relatively young medium and as such there are fewer ruses to diffuse perceived affronts to the invisible ‘heterosexual norm’. Thus: an image of a cock is, well… a cock—and most likely totes gay.

Pornographers, and trench coat clad old men standing on street corners, have done fuck all to ameliorate matters. Both reduce heterosexuality to metonymy—men are their swollen manhood; the sight of which is somehow sure to start vaginal secretions dripping down thighs.

With all that bullshit, I guess people see the hairless semi-hard cock tucked between the boys shaved legs and immediately dismiss the image as “gay.” Maybe, they are a wee bit sensitive and wonder about the subject’s ambivalent gender identity.

Fuck that noise. And should your eyes’ appetite not be omnivorous enough to appreciate the meticulously considered, conceived and constructed pulchritudinous depiction of longing, then fuck you, too.

Source: pervalicious

chichispalabanda:

Artfully depicting masturbation is not an easy feat.

The act is private, sequestered. Thus, the question of how one came to be able to witness such goings on becomes a central—is it voyeurism, exhibitionism or a bit of both?

The more voyeuristic the image, the less intentional it appears and the more it relies upon the reputation of the image maker to supplement its ‘artistic’ merit.

The more exhibitionist the image, the less artful it appears. Exhibitionism being rooted in self-consciousness; the efficacy of the work of art being so frequently measured on its ability to dissolve notions of self and other.

These clips of a larger piece suggest an altogether ingenuous way of subverting this dichotomy: fuck with the distinction between subject and object. What’s the easiest way to do that? Point the camera at a mirror. (And I do not mean any of this teen-girl-shooting-her-reflection-in-the-bathroom-mirror Tumblr noise. I fucking HATE that shit!)

Now, I will not for a second argue that she is unaware of the camera—I am almost certain she is. But is she looking at it or looking at herself in the mirror? This becomes about the spectator watching her watch herself cause and experience her own pleasure.

For me it also has the effect of focusing me on her growing arousal—which while certainly mirroring my own is continually refocused on hers.

Source: tiendadeabarrotes.blogspot.com

Take these photographs—similar in form and content, starkly different in execution.

Top: a stunningly young woman stands on a lanai, skin suffused by white hot tropical light. A medallion—perhaps an inch and a half in diameter—dangles just below her supersternal notch from a thin black cord encircling her neck; a visual trick that succeeds in making her tiny breasts appear flat. Her carefully manicured hands hook a thumb each in the elastic waist of her bikini, offering a glimpse of her depilated pubic area and labia majora. With her head tilted forward and right slightly—she appears as if interrupted in looking down at her body, judging how much of herself to reveal—eyeing finding the aperture and the spectator lurking behind it.

Bottom: Alba, (photographed by the devastatingly talented Lina Scheynius), a stunning young woman stands naked before an amaranth backdrop. Warm amber light—presumably from a window beyond the left frame edge—angles across her chest mirroring the line of her collar bone. Another illumination echoes the angle of the window—correcting it downward slightly— casting white across her right elbow, stomach, hips, unshaven pubis, finally finding her left forearm/hand as a result of the vague contrapposto bearing of her pose. Shadowed, her head gaze downward; focused on something only she can see. A single stray strand of hair escapes the bun atop her head, dangles by her cheek.

I know I am always going on about the politics of frame lines. To what extent I mean that as pertaining to graphically sexual images or all images, I am not sure I can articulate yet.

There is a general “rule” on this matter when it comes to image making: if you have to amputate a limb with the frame edge cut midway between joints instead of closer to the joints; this creating a more life-like rendering. (Don’t ever decapitate! Seriously if you are concerned for your anonymity just take a normal picture and black out your face in Photoshop, already!)

Which of the above follows this rule? What is the effect?

Also, note how the vertical frame edges in the top image do not line up with the fence or the edge of the patio.

The young woman in the top photo is sexually appealing in the extreme. After first blush, she is perfect. At the same time, she is not someone I am convinced could ever be known in any sense. Her eye contact purports a false intimacy, implies that if our paths ever crossed I would be best served to view her as nothing more than her exquisite body instead of seeing her as someone with a life that goes well sometimes, others not so much; who has needs both met and unmet. I am not saying she is objectified so much as reduced to an archetypal idea.

On the other hand: with every shred of context removed except her body, I find myself wondering who this Alba is, what her inner life is like at the same time I am aware that she wouldn’t owe me an answer if I ever met but that if I were lucky she might not mind being asked.

In the end, the last image is for me sexier; like most of Scheynius’ photos its restraint, patience and passion sears itself like a brand onto your visual memory.

How much wonder do we miss?

As if wonder is snow & we are all kids staring up at a smoke grey sky, our mouths wide with waiting for that quick, crystalline tang to kiss our tongues.

For each kiss we catch, how many do we miss?

But, isn’t wonder everywhere—

In the way shy surrender to the certainty of needing tinges the lids of eyes & cheeks with a pink pre-blush patina.

& afternoon light softens the bare, oft-hidden skin below the smooth up-tilt of a chin.

Wonder: the finger slid slyly between lips & teeth—careful to touch nothing.

Pavel Flegontov – December 13

bendmeover:

via www.tendrebulle.fr

I spend a lot of time preoccupied with notions of community—how to foster, improve and sustain them.

I was raised in an insular, religious cultish community. It was neither the best nor the worst situation; it was just another thing that happened to me.

Somehow, I managed to survive it.

It’s now just shy of two decades since I cut ties with that life. It has been for the best, without question.

But I would be lying if I denied frequently feeling rootless—a tumbleweed tossed wherever the fuck the wind blows.

It’s not the group sex that gets me—although I am not opposed to that by any means; it’s witnessing the shame and stigma my former community directed toward any expression of sexuality transmuted into a sublime collective experience.

Source: tendrebulle.fr