The Monochrome Idattempting wonder, being watched (2016)

There are a host of problematic aspects with this:

The light is flat/dead, akin to the sort of light you get from a side table lamp where you have the hot hour glass spot pattern caused by the way the lampshade shapes the light but also as the diffuse spill the shade itself transmits.

The dynamic range is noticeably compressed–the darkest area being the shadow cast by the young woman’s chin; the brightest area is the triangular reflection (a skylight, would be my guess) in the mirror behind her right shoulder.

It’s some EGREGIOUS #skinnyframebullshit, too; further, the problems are compounded by the fact that– as I’ve talked about before: a frame’s functions is either restrictive or indicative (and really it’s at it’s best when it is a bit of both.)

The trouble here is that this frame is restrictive–with the exception of what I’m calling the reflection from the sky light–there is no sense of space beyond the frame being relevant to the information in the frame. This being the case, the frame lines are amputating the young woman’s legs rendering her immobile and unable to get up and leave the frame if she chose to do so.

I do have to give the image maker some props, though.  Despite the awkwardness of the angle of the young woman’s head there is a sense conveyed that she wants to be here and seen like this–the shadow cast by her eyelashes against her cheek, and the way her mouth (whether or not you can clearly see it) suggest her lips are ever so slightly parted and that she’s trying to tune into the sensations of the vibrator pressed against her subtly glistening clitoral hood.

Despite the numerous technical flaws, this does deserve some praise due to the fact that it manages to capture the vulnerability that comes from letting go of any sense of self to grab onto the visceral experience of pleasure with both hands. That aspect of it is crystalline in it’s clarity here.

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.

Henrique Soares – Socks Addict (????)

Call me Scatterbrain Jane.

i’m in day five of exile to the Midwest for family vacation and I am thoroughly out of sorts.

I can’t leave NYC for long before I start to miss it fiercely. Fullblown homesickness kicked in last night.

This is almost certainly not an MTA escalator. Still the tableau is strikingly familiar.

The second reason is probably impossible to explain: I find this image painfully arousing.

Yes, it’s soemwhat the dress–hypocritical considering I prefer dresses only as long as I am not required to wear them.

It’s not a thigh-high fixation either; they are super cute and all but I am usually too mesmerized by their texture to notice fuck all else. Also: yes, texture is a turn on.

No, what gets me is where the fabric ends + skin begins, where all thought winnows to a singular wanting

The semi-circular hint of skin between hem + waist, an arm peaking out beneath a sleeve, the way a pendant separates neckline from shoulder’s slope–edges are the thing.

I wish I knew something about the origins of this drawing. The minimal line work is suggests far more detail than is actually present—a style reminiscent of Japanese manga; the rough sketch look harkening back to Schiele.

What attracts me even more is the way the scale suggest a Lolita-esque subtext.

Now—full disclosure—I am not into the whole Lolita thing. I’ve tried to read the book on several occasions and I just cannot summon a single shred of empathy for Humbert or Dolores. (Perhaps that is in fact the point.)

There is a part of me that gets the whole Lolita thing. Although it has less to do with what the idea started as and more of what it has become; namely, despite the polar differences in their intentions, a strong overlap exists between those who are attracted to pubescence (i.e. hebephiles) and those who are attracted to female bodied androgyny.

While a good many things distinguish these two types of individuals what warrants my inclusion in the latter category is primarily my deeply held conviction that explicit individual consent forms the fundamental basis for all relationships. That and the fact I am enormously preoccupied with female bodied-ness in general and female bodied androgyny in particular.

I began to regularly masturbate around the time I was eight. I had no idea what I was doing but rubbing against a pillow made me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

At the time, my home life was a mire of abuse and neglect and these pillow sessions became one of the ways I tried to fill the hole where parental and community nurturing should have been.

The worse things got the more time I would spend chasing that warm and fuzzy feeling.

I guess I realized what I was doing was called masturbating when I was eleven or so. It wasn’t until I was fourteen that it established any sort of relationship to anything more than pure sensory stimulation.

All my female friends had male friends. Boys weren’t interested in me and I wasn’t especially interested in them. But at the same time, I felt weird. I saw the ways boys looked at the girls. And I knew that it was how I looked at them too. The difference was my relationship with them was fundamentally different. My female friends shared with me things they never would staring boys. It was a privilege that I was determined not to abuse. And I refused to indulge in any sort of masturbatory fantasy involving my friends out of respect for their privacy.

When I masturbated, I closed my eyes but never imagined what it would be like to share my body with another and have them share their body with me in return; instead, I focused on generalized aspects of female bodied-ness: breasts (always flat/smallish, the exponential D’s of porn stars cup sizes have always grossed me out), clitoris’, labia and vaginas. Yet, it wasn’t the visualizations themselves that edged me closer and closer to orgasm, it was about trying to see the thing so clearly in my mind that I could feel for the briefest moment something inside myself projected outwards as if it were real. The closer I managed to come, the more exquisite my climax.

I have no idea when I first became aware of cunnilingus as a thing—perhaps in my late teens. By that point, I knew way more about the variations and varieties of sexual congress than anyone in an Xtian school should have.

I became fixated on the idea of going down on a girl. Looking back I find this strange given that even the thought of tasting my own secretions—let alone anyone else’s—was enough to induce retching. (Oh, let me number as the stars the multifarious joys and wonder of sexually repressive indoctrination.)

The first female bodied individual I went down on was my best friend some years later.

We had been messing around for about a week and I remember standing behind her in the living room of her apartment my left arm around her, up her shirt cradling her right breast in my left hand; my index finger stroking her nipple. She turned back toward me so our passion could communicate itself without words via lips, tongues and teeth.

My right arm stretched down her bare stomach, pulling holding her against my body; my wrist disappears behind the waist of her mauve panties, fingers curving clutching as my slickened fingers shuttled side-to-side over her clitoris. Her lips shook and her head fell away from my mouth making the angle to awkward for me to follow. I kissed her chin and then her throat.

Her breathless voice came in short, sharp gasps: tell me what you want.

Can I go down on you?

She pulled away from me, letting my hands slide off of her and turned away to modestly step out of the black cotton watching as I tasted the wetness coating my fingers. It reminded me of raspberry vinegrette.

With her left hand covering her sex, she lay down on the rug and spread her legs. I knelt and crawled towards her on hands and knees.

As I approached, her hand lifted then fell away to mirror the other already at her side.

A single pea sized droplet of moisture was suspended in her fiery fur. I felt a profound reverence. Not the quiet reverence of a church but the rushing clarity that comes in the crushing noise of a furious storm.

I settled from my hands and knees to my belly.

Her fingers ran through my hair and I could feel her heat on my face.

Wetness drawn by gravity traced a line along the inner edge of her right labia minora. I thought: do what you would want her to do to you, closed my eyes and followed the line all the way up as if it were melting ice cream in a cone.

Shivers shook her thighs as the flat of my tongue crested her clitoral hood. I retraced the same path down again, flicking my tongue tip once right and once left as I descended. I sucked up the drop I had first seen on the way up again.

And then I stopped thinking about what I was doing and just acted. I listened to her the pitch of her moans, the pace of her breath, the tightness of the fingers she knotted into my hair.

Of course, as her panting became more rapid and she began to move her hips in time with lips and tongue, the doorbell rang. (When I tell you that I have the worst luck ever, you won’t believe me but I shit you not after we dressed and opened the door it was, and I shit you not: Jehovah’s Witnesses.)

I am still not enamored with my own taste. Although I will admit when I am feeling alone—which is more often than not lately, I will lick my fingers after pleasuring myself.

It’s weird but it never tastes like anything.