Giangiacomo PepeUntitled (2013)


Much of this rocks my socks: it’s shot on film, contains explicit nudity and the model is my ‘type’ to a T–thin with small breasts and geeky glasses; for good measure: throw in my permanent association of watermelons wjth Tsai Ming-liang’s brilliant (screw the critics) and perverse The Wayward Cloud.

There are at least two things about it that bother me, however. I don’t want to bring the body hair fetishism fire down, so let me start by saying: when it comes to body hair I believe–without equivocation– your body, your rules.

The trouble is due to the ubiquity of utterly depilated female bodies, undue cultural pressure against body hair exists and by existing it makes it more of a struggle to go your own way.

There’s the matter of her amputated legs, too. (Such is never justified–especially in the context of images featuring full-frontal nudity–but at least there is a compositional sense to it–her navel marks the center of the frame, the upper frame edge just misses her raised forearm and the concrete door jamb running along the second vertical third.)

I feel compelled to compare/contrast Pepe’s work Lina Scheynius, Igor Mukhin and Ren Hang. Yes, there’s extensive variations in styles, themes and tone: Scheynius is playful, Mukhin, insular and unflinching and Hang walks a fine line between confronting taboos and centering them on his audience.

In a similar vein, Pepe leads with his fetishizing of the female body.

The feels such fetishizing gives me are a complicated knot I’ve been wrestling to unravel for more than half a decade.


Exclusive Teen PornTeen Threesome featuring Peach + Kyara (2012)

I would really rather skip the citations here because ExclusiveTeen Porn’s features a downright creepy website.

I am more surprised by how unsavory it is than I really should be considering my first reaction to this was SMASH THE PATRIARCHY!

But between the third and fourth syllable of ‘patriarchy’ I’ve registered the red outlining the lower crest of Peach’s right ear, pink flush speading through her checks. And Jesus Christ, her expression–eye closed, lips pressed hard against enamel. trying to focus on sensation, to concentrate to not lose the rhythm, holding out against surrender but want to fall hopelessly hard, now and forever.

My thoughts shift back to how bankrupt this is of artfulness or subtlety. Don’t get me wrong the more graphic the depictions of sex, the happier I am. But I just don’t see how this is anything other than an effort to cater to the basest aspects of what society whispers behind its hands is the stuff firing masculine sexuality. This fellow has two young women who are presented as focused on his sexual pleasure. (Admittedly, the rest of the series does pay lip service to an interest in the women’s pleasure.)

There’s momentary fluttery where I realize that Peach’s labia are just crowning the swollen corona of her lover’s erection and you can see his glans peaking out. That has to feel exquisite.

This isn’t art. Not even close. It’s not supposed to be. Ultimately though it’s like only being able to eat candy when you want something healthy and substantive.

I guess I just don’t understand how with a seemingly legit location with reasonable lighting and people who are willing to be photographed doing virtually anything, why more of a thought isn’t given to presentation.

Put another way: given all the same ingredients, I fundamentally believe it is possible to make art. The fact that no one ever tries is something I take a little bit like a kick in the teeth.

Not to mention it is some insufferable #skinnyframebullshit.

Two final notes:

  1. there is another version of this image floating around Tumblr. It looks terrible. Why do people insist on doing this?
  2. this image has been cropped a quarter of an inch or so on the bottom to remove a watermark.


Easing into the scene

KalkiBodhi Archives


I don’t usually post flat out porn but I find something about this impressive.

It’s not the composition. A full third of the frame has been cropped out and although I loathe cropping, in this case it’s a vast improvement.

Still, the best bokeh in the world can’t mask the dead light of a rented-for-the-day Hollywood Hills mansion.

What’s more the framing is too close to ground the participants in their environment and too far away to really get an eyeful of the action.

I won’t bother going into the relationship of proximity to the action–beyond a certain point the camera ceases to be independent from the action it’s recording. The trouble with that is the camera is fundamentally incapable of participating in the action. (Ask: were I standing at the distance the camera is would I be watching the proceedings or would I be a part of them.)

There’s the stereotypical absence of body hair–totally your choice if that’s how you are comfortable but, for my part, I resent the implication that smoothly shaved genitals and underarms are the norm.

Also, despite my ironic discovery that I am really into at least the notion of group sex, I am somewhat put off by threesomes. Excluding MMM and FFF (which I didn’t even know was a thing until last week), FMM and FFM threesomes tend toward degrees patriarchal heteronormativity and lipstick lesbianism that I like to convince myself don’t really exist.

For example: dude bros high-fiving over some young woman’s back, the it’s not gay as long as our dicks don’t touch mentalities or the way FFM fantasies are inextricably embedded in the weave of patriarchy.

If women could bring strap-ons to the party or a boy would eat a dick or take it in the ass, I would be all over threesomes. (Although I admit I despise slut-shaming so overwhelmingly that a part of me really digs that FMM pairings result in a +2 partners for the woman; while each boy only gets a +1.)

All that notwithstanding, the sex portrayed here avoids the appearance of mechanization. Note: how the boy on bottom’s mouth hangs open–already beginning to recite baseball statistics in his head; his eyes open only enough to trace his erection from its based until it disappears below the cleft in young woman’s ass. For her part, she looks as if she actually really wants to give head to this muscle-y gent–she uses her hands to stroke his shaft and tug on his testicles.

This lacks the rote performance of pleasure as result of mechanical repetition that ruins 90% of porn for me. And while it does occur to me that it is unlikely the scene ends in mutual pleasure for all parties, what strikes me is in spite of the pornographic trappings, there is a a feeling that at the least this woman is respected by these men; they may even acknowledge her as capable of deriving pleasure from this exchange.

I am not sure I could articulate how I jumped to such a conclusion. Yet, I do find it interesting that–not that it is degrading for a woman to have a man ejaculate on her face if that’s something she wants–but if you look at the other sample images from this scene the muscle bound guy pulls out and comes on the her stomach while the other boy spills himself onto her breasts.


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.

I find this both—and in equal measure—problematic and arousing.

First, it’s troubling that the scene is presented devoid of context. This could be consensual BDSM play or torture porn.

A part of me assumes, instinctively—given the extremity of the actions depicted, the implication of the scissor clamps dangling from her right nipple as well as the fact that the scene was documented and is now circulating the Tumblr-verse—consent was sought and explicit verbal affirmation given.

My concern is that no one should ever assume anything when it comes to consent.

Thus, a relationship is established between the clip and its audience wherein the predispositions and desires fill in the blanks. In other words: someone like myself—who holds consent as the minimum requirement for sexual expressions—chooses to trust that this shares my ideals. Whereas, another individual looking for torture porn, trusts that there is no need for any suspension of disbelief.

This everything-to-everyone tact bothers me even more than the assumptions with regard to consent; however, it also sheds some light on what turns me on.

I am not really into BDSM although lately I have been posting a good bit of it. I think that has to do with the fact that I sort of have this running argument in my head about which presents first: consent or trust.

And while I cannot dismiss the fact that the thing I like most about sexually explicit imagery is seeing people surrender to whatever they need to get themselves off, what gets me about this image is that it insists that I trust it even though trusting it makes me more than a little uncomfortable, what makes the fluttering rise and fall of her chest as pliers twist her nipple a full 180 degrees clockwise.


Rayne Tupelo (self-portrait)




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You really ought to be following image maker/model Rayne Tupelo if you aren’t already.

Her modeling work exemplifies an unusual comfortable-in-her-skin explicitness you don’t often see.

As comely and edgy as her modeling work is, for me it takes a back seat to her images. Her experience before the camera almost certainly defines how she operates behind it. She shoots models with varying body types and while she does not demanding the same level of openness from them that she expects of herself, her portraits are shot through and through a precocious acceptance of/respect for vulnerability and beauty.

If I could ever get up the courage to photograph complete strangers (or you know, get behind a camera again for that matter), although I’m a fan of Cam Damage, Nettie Harris and Kara Neko, I’d want to work with Ms. Tupelo.

I hate making my bed. Always have. It’s simple cost-to-benefit analysis there’s no payoff that will ever justify the effort required of the task.

I feel similarly about “unwanted” body hair. Struggling to temporarily erase it takes energy, resources and time and becomes a vicious cycle.

Plus, I think body hair can be really fucking cute.

This image isn’t especially great—the camera is so close to the subject that any substantive context beyond the suggestion of a dark bedroom is lost; the flash renders her skin in tones of pink and way too white, drawing attention to her nipples. too white. (Though the graded shadow edging the outside of her left arm is delightful.)

What made me want to share this is what it made me flashback to…

It was one of those early summer days that plays like a coming attraction reel for high summer when everything is molten and shot-through with bayous of sepia toned sweat and everyone still staggering out of winter wool relishes the sheen of moist second skin as if it were the curious touch of a new lover.

I had been called down to wrangle a printer. (Pro-tip: printers are the swing sets and see-saws of the Devil’s playground meant to occupy idle hands.)

The window unit in the small office was spitting air only just less sweaty than the room.

The administrative staff had migrated to another less sweltering leaving a student to field calls. She was dressed in one of those super thin, nearly threadbare hipster graphic tees and a powder blue floral patterned loose knee-length skirt with yellow accents. It seemed like maybe three months ago she’d shaved the sides of her head to the skin, leaving violent curls to cascade darkly down the left side of her face.

She explained the problem was with the printer and went back to searching for the perfect word to fit the meter of some poetic line flickering before her on her MacBook.

The printer was rightly fucked and I wrestled with it while staring without appearing to stare.

As the printer whirred to life, she yawned and extended her hands above her head—stretching, a dizzyingly sexy fringe of hair peaked out above the edge of her sleeve.

She went back to her poem while finished up with the printer.

We ugly ducklings see the world for all it’s terrible fullness of beauty but it remains for us resolutely untouchable.