fellatio – Page 4 – Acetylene Eyes

Source unknown – Title Unknown (20XX)

The way I feel about the Marquis de Sade is not unlike how I feel about hentai–downright irresponsible in its extremity but at the same time relevant and necessary due to its radical openness to a dizzying spectrum of non-traditional experiences.

It’s like that infamous Terrence quote: homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto, or for the non-Latin kids: I am human, and nothing of that which is human is alien to me.

Sure, that doesn’t go along way to explain tentacle sex, and I’m not going to start going out of my way to become familiar with hentai but I do feel that there’s a virtue to obsessively cataloging depravity in all it’s shapes and forms.

Yes, it’s easy to see that sort of thing as a checklist or map–a curriculum for sexual deviance. But, two counterpoints: if so, why bother–I mean isn’t the fun of it at least partly in the novelty? And, those who insufferably follow maps and extant formulas obsessively, lacks the proper imagination to truly embrace depravity.

I feel like–at its best–hentai manages to invent simple, straightforward means of depicting expressions of sexuality that are like nothing I’ve ever seen before and also vaguely synesthetic. For example, looking at this it’s almost as if I can feel it as if I were there.

Unfff.

Source unknown – Title unknown (20XX)

When ever someone tells me: you write well. I always kind of look around with an expression like: I do?

It’s not that my grammar is atrocious–I made it through to my senior year in high school without ever being taught anything about the mechanics of writing. (My senior AP English teacher tried but eventually gave up and instead taught me how to hear something wrong in a sentence–which doesn’t really help as I am too impatient too go back and read 90% of what I write out loud after I finish it.)

But, writing is actually a painful process for me. I don’t particularly care for it but my soul demands it. What finds its way out onto the paper is usually such a poor approximation of the thoughts I struggle to fit to words.

The reason I mention all this is because for all my awkwardness and social phobias, I’m more comfortable with gestures–specifically using touch as a means of bridging the gaps between words and thought.

A hand placed on an arm in an unpremeditated way can have the effect that stylists will tell you saying the name of the person to whom you are writing can have in fomenting intimacy.

A hug can been domineering, as a means of trying to draw someone out of an emotional morass, and (counter-intuitively) a way of giving yourself permission to let go of someone.

Meeting others who speak this language of–for lack of a better term–gestures, is rare. They are always fighting to convey something of the immense silences of being a person who has lost full access to their first language and instead always fumbles for the almost right words in a faulty second tongue.

I love this .gif because of the way his lips twist at the most sensitive spot. The way the coating of saliva on the cock glistens. But most of all I have the way the stroking hand says all at once: “what you are doing to me feels divine” and “your skin is beautiful and soft” and “every part of you belongs to me”.

:::shivers:::

Source unknown – Title unknown (200X)

Netflix’s Sense8 was renewed yesterday–the shared fictional birthdate of the series eight protagonists.

I’m not sure why I gave it a chance. The reviews were middling at best and I already have arguably too full a plate of shows that I follow with something not unlike religious devotion.

And truthfully, I spent the first three episodes frustrated and highly critical of the proceedings. But something shifted right around the 4 Non Blondes full cluster sing-along–I found myself weeping uncontrollably.

It’s not a perfect show but it is in my opinion a great one for all the ways it’s daring to challenge the conventions of what we should expect from entertainment.

One of the things that it manages–one thing which despite some of the notably sexist conventions of say the Matrix–is to push the Wachowskis’ tendency for inclusive diversity in casting to a heretofore never realized extreme. But beyond that, there’s a decidedly queer bias to the program. Virtually all the sex is either group sex or queer sex.

The image above reminds me of one of literally hundreds of scenes that have subsequently become stuck like a splinter in my mind. In it two gay characters, begin to make out. Things escalate rapidly and they forget that there dear female friend is watching them. She slides her hand down her stomach and into her bikini, beginning to masturbate while watching her friends fuck.

Under the direction of less attentive storytellers, it would have easily seemed creepy or inappropriate. But what shines through the scene is a respect for both an honest, unguarded personal expression and respect arising from deep connection and understanding of the boundaries of others.

It’s that feeling that I’m frequently trying to channel through this project. I think I fail more than I succeed. But I do hope that sometimes you feel it, too.

And truthfully, although I know it’s just a silly sci-fi show…Sense8 does make me feel marginally less abandonded and alone. I think that’s one of the reasons I cried when I found out it was renewed. Because I desperately need more Riley, Sun, Lido, Nomi, Capheus, Kala, Will, and Wolfgang in my life.

More fabulously open and forward thinking depictions of queer sex are just a stellar fringe benefit.

Source: ouledsoltane

X-Art – My Best Friend’s Boyfriend feat. Katka and Mikah (2011)

There are like a fucking million and half things I don’t like about this scene. Let’s start with the fact that it typifies the heteronormative porn trope that all women are bisexual and the cisgender male gets to reap the benefits. (And that’s not to shame any sort of bisexual women who have negotiated consensual best girlfriend sharing with their boyfriend arrangements–I say more power to y’all.)

I don’t like the implicit assumption and the subsequent straight cismale entitlement is particularly intolerable.

Honestly, those more social justice oriented objections get the volume turned way the fuck down on them–at least in this gif, less so in the full scene–because I’m so fucking captivated by the reverence with which Katka watches Mikah and her open and unselfconscious masturbatory response. (I think that’s part of the attraction I have to group sex scenarios, the notion of being in a safe space where you are invited to contribute your own individual sexual expression in a fully consensual and accepting environment is a big part of why I bother with this blog–as it allows me to express thoughts and facets of my identity for which there is no outlet in my life AFK.)

I know it’s staged in such a way that she’s splayed out for the benefit of the stud and the traditional male gaze but her authenticity subverts all that–at least for me.

Source unknown – Title unknown (19XX)

I tried to draw attention to this series a few posts back but on the grounds of quality of craft, i.e. adept handling of a diverse tonal range and unimpeachable attention to skin tone/texture.

Yes, some of the framing is awkward but I feel that’s more than counter balanced by the fact that the camera remains at enough of a remove that it remains voyeur instead of becoming an ersatz participant in the liaison.

(And my Wittgensteinian side thrills in the fact that the action–haphazardly framed or not–is firmly grounded in the context of a background equal parts Ostra Studios and anticipating Saudek.

Source: robotromis221168

Source: Unknown

First thing I notice the yellow top.

The second thing I notice is the hair of the young woman in that yellow top. I think she’s v. cute. (As an aside, if I thought for a second I could rock hair clips like that, I would totally steal her style.)

Third, I notice the strategic use of color. Against the offset/bleach effect skin tone palate, the aforementioned yellow top, matching lipstick (nice touch) and the triangulated repetition of BIV spectrum tones–biggest hair clip, eye shadow and scrunchie–all stand out.

It’s definitely some #skinnyframebullshit; but so far it’s 3 points in favor, one against.

Now, to say ‘I have hang ups w/r/t oral sex’ would be an even money contender for the prestigious Understatement of the Year™ award.

These hang ups extend–quite naturally–to depictions of oral sex.

And not just to depictions of oral sex but depictions of sex in general. There’s the simple fact that fucking vs fucking so as to provide maximal visibility to a third party feature all but mutually exclusive concerns.

The truth is I am less concerned with what I see than how it is shown to me.

And I don’t think it’s just me, i.e. a snooty, artsy-fartsy (how I loathe that term and those who use it) snob who only likes B&W films with Russian subtitles that fewer than five people have seen.

Communication/checking in with your partner is just OMFG so fucking hot–a shy does that feel good? or an imploring do you like it when I [insert action]? go a long, long way. Especially considering the typical porn trope involving first time encounters.

But it would also be great if oral sex was treated as it’s own distinct sex act–instead of a preliminary ahead (sorrynotsorry) of the main event. For example: just once I would love to see a cishet boy ejaculate prematurely and after catching his breath, shift his focus to using his fingers, tongue and/or staying erect to attend to his partner’s pleasure.

Source: goo.gl

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

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If the above or something like it were representative of a Platonic form then I could sort of begin to understand why so many straight, male bodied persons have this as their default ultimate-sexual-fantasy setting.

Alas, I don’t think pleasure-giving/sharing-as-caring motifs figure as prominently in these fantasies as pleasure-taking/validations-of-masculinity…

…but really there comes a time when even I have to ditch theory and unabashedly relish in something this thoroughly and enticingly lascivious. (And that’s coming from the same individual who readily admitted finding most blowjob scenes dull.)

The above frame would benefit from a slight shift down and right. Setting that aside—as well as my ambivalence at best toward the Instagram trend—this image is well crafted.

Come on, you may say, explicit images of beautiful young people fucking are not the sort of thing anyone appreciates because of technical merit.

I mean, yeah, this easily succeeds at level of beautiful young people fucking. But, where it blows—pun gleefully intended—the competition away is it’s carefully considered composition.

A lot of people like to drone on and on about composition this and rule of thirds that when all you really need is to realize that composing a visual image is—whether you realize it or not—almost identical to telling a story.

Just as image makers can only represent a limited sliver of the world within a given frame, the storyteller must determine what details serve the story and therefore bear inclusion; as well as those which are superfluous and therefore best excluded.

The skilled storyteller conveys not only the sense of a story but also something of what was excluded. William Carlos Williams’ poem so much depends is the perfect example. It describes two objects; but in describing only the two most necessary objects in the scene our imagination thrills at building a seamless world around them.

The fundamental difference between images and words is that the former allows for the whole and various parts to be taken in simultaneously; whereas even describe something simultaneous by saying: at the same time this and that happened, the linearity of the sentence privileges ‘this’ over ‘that’ by an ‘and’ length measure of time.

The composition of this image guides your eye over the various parts of the image while always reinforcing its place within the whole. For example: before I even take in the extent of his nakedness—fuck, his skin is like milk cooling in the shade—I see the muted variegation of the sedge on which he is splayed.

At the same time it all shifts into sudden focus and I see everything: his outstretched arms terminating in fingers—fierce with whiteness— tangled in the brown of her hair; his hands and her head meeting to form vertex of an inverted V which tenderly frames her right hand taking his erection and guiding into her mouth to a depth only a hair’s breadth above its edged tip.

And the wide gape of his knees, a second non-inverted V, re-frames her body between his legs where she is crouched as naked as he.