Tag: female nudes

Source: Unknown

As far as terms go: ‘fisting’ is problematic.

It’s used because well, duh it’s hell of effective–immediately obliterating any ambiguity regarding its meaning.

Yet, with ‘fist’ routinely associated with  the context of ‘fighting’, ‘fisting’ arrives on the scene back filled with at least an implicit connection to violence.

In keeping with this fisting depictions tend to emphasize the extremity and violence of the act. I don’t want to yuck anyone’s yum–if someone wants to have violent sex with (a) consenting partner(s), I support them. But to me, fisting has less to do with extremity and violence than trust and intimacy–again not that those things are in any way mutually exclusive.

…

She lay face down on the bed in my dorm room. I sat beside her, two fingers to stimulating her g-spot.

Shimmering pre-orgasmic tremors curled my fingers slightly and  I began to twist my wrists side-to-side.

More. Her voice strangled and husky.

I introduced my right ring finger. Letting it gently plumb her wetness, her warm depth.

I teased her clitoris with my thumb for a moment before corkscrewing my fingers in her again, Her body began to tense.

With both hands she reached back, grabbing my arms: more.

Four fingers; More.

Quick–like dropping a heavy rock into thick mud, my hand was consumed up to the second joint of my thumb.

Are you okay? I asked.

She nodded, pressing my pillow around her face with both hands–a muffled: don’t stop.

I met resistance, pushed into it until little by little the widest part of my hand disappeared.

Her breathe–short, sharp gasps sending shimmering contractions racing along the musculature of her back and thighs

Instinctively, I licked the finger tip and gently massage her clitoris with my left hand. A long, atonal moan stretched itself out from her throat into the room. I twisted my hand so the first knuckle of my thumb moved over her g-spot.

Her moan stuttered and caught in her throat; my hand was suddenly immobilized and then shimmering spasms cascaded in waves.

Source: assboobstits

passius:

porn4ladies:            passius:

Olga Karasik – 404 2013

The use of the mirror here is goddamn inspired– obscuring both women’s faces within the frame. (See!! There’s no reason to decapitate yourself in your images to maintain your anonymity. A little creativity goes a long way and makes for better pictures.)

It’s obviously beholden to Francesca Woodman; but it wisely cribs a page from the rock and roll rule book for performing cover songs: make it better than or do it different.

Karasik filters Woodman’s concerns through her own aesthetic sensibility in a way that marks it as reinterpretation instead of a rearranging of elements in a template.

Sadly, it’s either some #skinnyframebullshit; or, :::shudders::: cropped. (I loathe a we’ll-just-fix-it-in-post attitude. Do it right the first time or go the fuck home. Post-production is a safety net in the unlikely chance it becomes necessary; the entire fucking point is not to need it.)

I guess at least evinces some thought went into the decision to opt for the skinny frame.

Source: banishedfromcamelot

This post is guest curated by azura09:

Although you can find a video of a pretty girl with a strap-on almost anywhere, it’s rarer to see an an exhibitionist/voyeur scene where all the participants are female. In spite of my issues with the beauty ideals on display here, I’m attracted to this .gif because I have a good idea where I would fit into this scenario. And it’s not always a place I’ve felt comfortable occupying. 

I remember not having better words than “I’d like to be be beaten up a little” to describe the need to come out of sex slightly worse for wear. Even at the time, I knew this was straightforward desire, not a confession that I wanted to be splayed out and at someone’s mercy on a regular basis.
 
But what I didn’t know was that declaring these desires was a step toward feeling comfortable shaping someone else’s. And this .gif appeals to me because, while I’m not much of an exhibitionist, I wouldn’t mind showing my partner off in a scene like this, pushing them down on a hard surface while acquaintances in party dresses watched from a distance I negotiated beforehand.

This post is guest curated by azura09:

Hello, I’m azura09 and I’m taking the helm of Acetylene Eyes from May 1-7. We’ve been friends for a number of years and they’re one of people I’m most comfortable talking to about sexuality, gender, and my enthusiasm for porn (both queer and otherwise). I admit that I’m not a photographer and that I have very little working knowledge of what constitutes an artful photograph. Because of this, I’m simply going to focus on images that turn me on and attempt to explain what it is about them that makes me shiver in anticipation. Thanks so much to Acetylene Eyes for allowing me to put my (slightly less refined) taste on display this week.

I’m starting this week off with an image that makes me feel safe.  A kind of safe that seems specifically queer to me, one I’ve never seen straight porn get quite right. It’s that vulnerability that comes with realizing you (and the person you’re with) are on equal footing:

It’s nice to push you down,

make your open your thighs,

 watch you fan your hair out like I got to drown in the best ocean

        to find you, but this isn’t what I need

and I’m telling you, look at all the things you can eat, even as I’m worrying that

I shouldn’t

eat you down to whispering bones.

 queeremmaclaire:

Carson from Crash Pad series with Brooklyn Flaco

Source: msemmaclaire

passius:

I have reservations about this image: it can’t seem to make up its mind whether it’s entirely preoccupied with titillation or intimacy.

For example, the blocking emphasizes the clean-shaven vulva and anus for the benefit of the male gaze. Not to mention the #skinnyframebullshit—probably enacted to counteract heavy handed illumination as well as suggesting a moment outside space and time. (As visual shorthand, I’ve never felt such a tact work especially well; with maybe the exception of the seamless flashback scenes in The Frighteners—which if not exactly sensible were at least a novel technical exercise.)

However, there are at least two things I appreciate: the stripped down, stepped out of mound of clothing on the floor and the intensity of the intimacy between the two women. The clothing clearly speaks to what happened prior to the moment this single image was captured; it understands seduction as a process, not a single, discrete and isolated event. The chemistry and raw passion these women exude is thoroughly authentic and awesome to see. And in combination with the glimpse the discarded clothing offers of what preceded, this intimacy foretells a great deal of what will happen next.

In other words, there are clear elements of a story; or, put crudely: an incident with a beginning, middle and an end. After all, seductions are essentially narrative.

And if a picture truly is worth a thousand words, then why shouldn’t image makers tell a story, make a poem or preferably both all at once?

selections from Caroline Mackintosh’ Thigh Deep series

This is so how I want to celebrate my birthday this year.

Alas, with two or three exceptions my friends wouldn’t be down for drunken skinny dipping. (And I am way too chicken shit to suggest it as an option.)

Maybe next year. (Probably not though.)

Le sigh.

(Soundtrack suggestion: Oceanic)

Source: nevver

Ilina Vicktoria

An increasing number of image makers claim to have been disproportionately influenced by Andrei Tarkovsky; few benefit from comparison. (Only two come to mind: Bela Tarr and to a greatly diminished and inconsistent effect Gus Van Sant.)

I am not sure Ilina Vicktoria espouses Tarkovskian influences but considering this famous still of Anatoliy Solonitzyn as Pisatel in Stalker crowned with twisted tree branches bears more than a passing resemblance to the top image, I’d say the odds are good she does.

Her angle of view and scale are different. Also, in her photo the branches serve less of a crown than a mobile artfully counter weighted with Siberian dogwood berries. (Also what is with that distorted blob: is it a light leak? How is it’s position so freakishly perfect to balance out the baseboard/floor and curtains at the lower right edge of the frame? It’s slightly unnerving given the clear Stalker reference—a film notable for being shot twice due to the lab ruining the original footage.)

Something deeper links Vicktoria to the famed Russian auteur, something more than similar content and shared nationality, something more like an attitude toward the image. An attitude built upon a belief of what images are meant to do.

Tarkovsky tries to say something about this attitude but his explanations skew all-to-readily toward justification and abstraction. But it wasn’t until searching for the aforementioned still of Solonitzyn for this post that I stumbled upon this awesome article on Stalker. In it, Brecht Andersch describes the effect Tarkovsky’s films achieve as follows:

The members of Tarkovsky’s audience, if only subconsciously, are brought to awareness of their own hidden depths, of the calling of the soul, of the imperative quest for the sacred. To see his films is to experience the process the Russian filmmaker described as “scales falling from the eyes”.

And that is how you can spot the real Tarkovskians even from low orbit: they are less interested in creating beauty as revealing it was there all along. (Not at all unlike Michelangelo trying to free the form which existed within the stone with his Unfinished Slaves—I can’t help but think Tarkovsky had these monumental sculptures just as much in mind as he did Acts 9:18.)

The question I am left with is: how the transcendence of discovering what is in plain sight instead of manufacturing spectacle can be applied to the visual depictions of sexuality (which is itself a pathway to transcendent experience.)

(Kudos to youarecordiallyinvitedtopissoff for once again bringing another mindblowing photographer to my attention that I never would have otherwise found.)

Source: 500px.com

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Sans attribution, there are two directions guesses at credit for any photograph featuring young nudist women can go: David Hamilton or Jock Sturges.

And despite being in color this bears none of Hamilton’s idyllic, dreamy soft focus.

The large-format aspect ratio points to Sturges despite the fact that he works almost exclusively in B&W.

Also, I am pretty familiar with his work and I cannot recall an instance where the subject whose eyes were wide open was this close to the camera without staring directly into the lens.

Further, although Sturges favors vertical compositions to echo the people standing within his frames, this vertical orientation is skillfully contrapuntal, delicately diminishing the horizontal force of the pose by balancing the negative space in the doorway against the blue wooden slats.

All in all, this contains altogether more calculation than I expect from Sturges’ knee-jerk fine art-photographer-as-gilded-voyeur routine.

But it’s the un-self-conscious mien of the model—who, although nude, appears not as a sexualized object so much as a spectrum of being that includes the possibility of sexuality. Such presence in both one’s own skin and a moment has a definite parallel with Sally Mann’s wonderful Immediate Family.