lesbians – Page 4 – Acetylene Eyes

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I would never claim this is a great (or even good) image: the off-kilter composition and offset flash suggest equal parts luck and artsy pretension.

And from a standpoint of image politics, it’s problematic for all the usual reasons: frame edges ‘cutting up’ and ‘immobilizing’ the three young women along with implicit kowtowing to the porn manicured male gaze that expects a smooth, depilated pubis.

I am not willing to give this a pass. However, I do appreciate the focus on a FFF threesome–something I wouldn’t mind seeing more often. Especially, if like this image, unfeigned desire (closed eyes, flushed faces and chests) and intimacy (holding hands, reaching caresses, giving and receiving of pleasure) feature in the proceedings.

Source: sexhappy

Clips from the first part of this scene can be seen on XVideo.

***

My first instructor in film school was a regal woman of Indian sub-continental extraction. On the first day while I second guessed all the decisions that had brought me there, she went around the room, greeting everyone by name with a Namaste + a bow; she explained it meant the spark in me acknowledges the spark in you.

***

About a month ago, an acquaintance/friend was chatting with me. We had been talking about a number of superficial things when the topic suddenly shifted to childhood trauma. I had to figure out ways to deal with [the] darkness, and they were definitely not healthy, she said.

***

When I was eight I was preoccupied with black holes. They intrigued me because light could not escape them.

I wondered if one could focus darkness in the same manner as a flashlight focused light + and the respective beams were pointed directly into each other which would win out?

***

Why isn’t there a word for the darkness in me will not turn away from the darkness in you?

There is but it is not a word. I speak it with lips, with tongues + touch. And while I speak everything is dew wet—new and true.

***

This darkness in me stares into the darkness in you.

Source: collection-nu

danishprinciple:

Anna Mathilda Eberhard

Part of Eve’s Discussion by Marie Howe

It was like the moment when a bird decides not to eat from your hand,
and flies, just before it flies, the moment the rivers seem to still
and stop because a storm is coming, but there is no storm, as when
a hundred starlings lift and bank together before they wheel and drop,
very much like the moment, driving on bad ice, when it occurs to you
your car could spin, just before it slowly begins to spin, like
the moment just before you forgot what it was you were about to say,
it was like that, and after that, it was still like that, only
all the time.

kalkibodhi:

Tops

KalkiBodhi Archives

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This is exactly and uncannily what I want when I am feeling horny distilled to some #skinnyframebullshit that had decent color before some fucker futzed with it.

Still though: unf and total sploosh.

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The sixty nine or if you are French—and when aren’t they beyond on point when it comes to inventing honey-tongued terms for sex acts?—soixante-neuf.

Ahem, I am, uh…a bit of a fan.

I have never actually seen Pretty Woman but a lot of people I knew in high school liked to trot out that line Julia Roberts’ character gives about kissing being the most intimate thing two people can do to justify their own philosophy of abstinence. (Really, I went to an Xtian high school.)

Although I consider it unspeakably stupid to insist one activity is the most intimate to and for everyone, I think there is a fucking compelling argument to be made for having someone’s face between your legs with your genitals in their mouth while your head is between their legs with their genitals in your mouth.

If that weren’t enough the only scenery is some cycloptic asshole staring you down.

Plus with a little bit of pactice balancing both partners can use both hands in the proceedings.

And besides a spoon position can you think of any other arrangement offering such maximal skin-to-skin surface area?

No matter whether you agree or not, there is a decided lack of sexy images featuring soixante-neuf. I think that’s the main reason I dig this image: it admits this isn’t supposed to be photogenic; it’s supposed to be about how it feels.

Source: Flickr / albert_wong

The first thing I notice—okay, truthfully the second: the first thing I notice is the muddled lighting design—has something to do with the difference between ‘work’ and ‘labor’.

I am not especially fond of work and I tend toward laziness.

Work is not a thing from which I derive pleasure. I do it because I prefer a certain degree of misery to living on the street at the mercy of my growling empty stomach.

Labor, on the other hand, while not necessarily intrinsically pleasurable does possess the capacity to induce joy.

Even that is perhaps too abstract. A better way to put it would be saying: work is unloading the truck; labor is not unlike making a game of unloading the truck.

On the surface, that sounds stupid. But everyone has experienced this transformation of dull, repetitive tasks into games: Joe stacks boxes on the loading dock as quickly as he can with Margie hefting them onto a conveyor belt even faster in an effort to allow her to stand around—if only for a second—and gets to friendly needle Joe about how slow he’s moving.

Sex is a form of labor; or, it should be—with give and take, friendly but unrelenting pushing of boundaries.

One gets the feeling that these two young women are working. This is a job for them. But their eye contact, the intense focus of the woman on the left and the pink flush to the girl on the right suggest that both are holding back, racing to make the other first in succumbing to a shuddering ecstasy.

But unlike most races, there are no losers—only winners.

Kara Neko and Brittany

Ibn Arabi, a venerable Sufi mystic, understood reality as the breath of Allah—praise upon him.

All was tohu va bohu until Allah—praise upon him—breathed out, creating the world. But, upon breathing in again this newly world vanished, returning to Him to be annihilated. Until he breathes out again, calling another completely formed reality into existence.

This notion is called continuous creation.

In case that is not entirely clear there is one of those rare perfectly serving metaphors: cinema. A reel of film consists of thousands of individual frames. Each frame only a little different than the one before and after it. As the strip runs through the projector at a continuous rate, a shutter that blocks each frame as it appears and before it disappears; thus the stream of discontinuous images appear to be continuous, fluid.

Over the last four years, I have spent a lot of time thinking about stories: making some up, listening to others them their own, stripping them down like that crazy uncle who thinks he can not only fix the toaster but make it work better if he can only get it put back together again.

And I am realizing that well-told stories are almost always acts of continuous creation.

Take these two exquisite young women in the above ~~photograph~~ image. (’~~Photograph’ as it’s likely this is a 6×7 image scanned from 120 color negative film~~. EDIT: Kara contacted me to correct this was taken with an iPhone by her boyfriend.) Despite the awkwardness of the framing—seriously we all see you are observing the rule of thirds but nothing was gained by this not being framed horizontally!)—this is a seed which contains an entire narrative within it.

Look at just what is within the frame: an uninspired bedroom in a small apartment, daylight streams through the windows (yes, plural—check the mirror over the bed).

Invariably, despite even Hollywood’s best efforts one lover always ends up undressed before the other. And here the naked one leans towards the other eyeing her bust line—her pose is assertive, communicating a physical desire but her distance is close enough to make her desire clear but still respectful of possible reservations. She of the bustier appears uncertain, her hands a mix of openness and hesitation.

The story is here. There are different ways it can go, yes. But one person is more in love than the other. Both see the edge of the cliff approaching but what you survive is always preferable to what might have been. The tension holds even though we already know how it all ends already.

Source: sookie-m

I love their closed eyes, the bright flush to their faces, the bodies tense with forestalled impatience— I want you to enjoy it, enjoy me enjoying you enjoying it—a full-blown sensory flashback: I remember my knees shaking and teeth transformed to mercury quivering in my gums and the weight of knowing— God himself did make us into corresponding shapes like puzzle pieces from the clay; knowing is not enough against wanting, wanting to see this through tired-tired eyes spread holy-holy awed and wide as the wet of lips meeting and our fumbling lead boned find those secret fleshy spaces with their tiny, tiny alters to bear and burn lonely so many offerings.

The pale one, her fingers slid up almost to the wrist into the others blue-grey briefs, deeper; while she is herself caressed through white knickers— I remember the slick groove of a dew pussy leeching through cotton and then glistening silken on gliding fingertips.

Source: femaleboner