The witty and lyrical debauchette and Kasia have raised a flag for the cause of artistic pornography. They want to create:

Haute porn with a heart. Erotic material that’s authentic, intelligent and aesthetically beautiful. Postmodern porn. A sexual New Yorker.

At one point in her post about their plans, debauchette seems to me to suggest that our society suffers from a false divide between raw porn and art, though I may have radically misunderstood her.

I have found a great deal of art that is raw, obscene, and graphic. But I agree that there’s not nearly enough of it, so I’m thrilled about what they’re doing. This is what I want to see.

Women and men. Men and men.

Men. Not (just) beautiful women, elegantly displayed. I display them here all the time, but that’s because gorgeous female nudes are available everywhere, visually at least. It is not hard to find a woman’s body offered up for the viewer. [Excuse language bordering on feminist argot.]

No disrepect intended to the pair’s stunningly evocative photographs of Kasia.

* * *

What I want in porn is not a “softer” touch, nor is it a story, necessarily. I want to see raw sexuality. I want the feeling that I am almost there, the feeling of being a voyeur or even a participant in a sexual tryst. That’s what I consider pornography: images with heat.

I hope debauchette and Kasia succeed at that, and more. As Kasia says on Beautiful and Depraved:

Welcome filthy fuckers. You’re all invited to partake in the new pornographic revolution. We’ll be soliciting open calls for contributors in the very near future.

To the barricades, everyone!

Photograph of Kasia under Helmut Newton’s desk via Beautiful and Depraved. All other images from the addictive blog Darker Sights and Sounds–and thanks to AtlantaBondage for tipping me off about it.

I took a minute to shuffle some of the links under “visual bliss” at the bottom of my blogroll–and I added, among other things, modfetish, which was the source of the Deseo “samurai girl” illustration below.

We’re trying some new things around here too . . . and seeing how they go. A change of pace can be a good thing, I keep repeating to myself.

By the way, Deseo sells cute and curvy tank tops, for those of you looking for new things to add to your summer wardrobes, as well as half-a-dozen prints (including this pouty little samurai).

So there I was, trying to get myself installed for the summer with Robbie in as sinful a manner as possible, when some kind of Karmic moral force decided to slap me on the wrist for it.

A very large and unpleasant burp occurred in my plans; the result was that I spent three days and nights in steaming hot weather alone in a hotel in the middle of nowhere, with no internet access.

And no sex.

On the fourth night, Robbie came to rescue me from hell’s waiting room. Being with him is always exciting, but compared to the last few days, being here now is most definitely paradise.

From the creepily sexy work of Michael Hutter, pervert extraordinaire.

Whenever I get back from time away I need time to catch up.  Whenever busy times wind down, I have a feeling of starting my life from scratch.  Combine the two and I feel like a newborn plopped into the middle of a thirty-something’s life.   I feel glued to my computer screen, scared to do grown-up things.

So for now I’m cleaning house–online and in real life.

Thanks to kinkerbelle for getting Vargas’ name to scroll to the top of my mental Rolodex.

I am back home.

I woke at birdsong and automatically reached in both directions to find Robbie. He wasn’t there of course. There were a couple of cats, but it’s not the same.

We had a visit full of up and downs that I won’t describe in this particular post. But to me it’s enough to note that we didn’t kiss or touch to speak of for 48 hours of the hours we were together and that we didn’t have sex for 72 hours. (I tallied it up during the everlasting drive home.)

We have never done anything like that. There is an electric current between us that is almost irresistible . . . or if that is mangling a metaphor I could use the standard but more cliche image of a magnet. Earth moving under my feet; sky rockets in flight; thunder, lightning–whatever words I choose to put to it, the desire doesn’t go away, especially when I’m in his three-dimensional presence.

Lying in his bed on the nights we didn’t touch, I still felt it, felt it across the three empty feet of space between us. When he rolled over and I glimpsed a shoulder, or the rippling muscles of his left arm, or his forehead furrowed with worry, my fingers danced with the need to touch him. When I lay curled on my side of the bed, the wanting felt like a snake coiled under the bed, ready to strike me, at least, at any time.

Nastassja Kinksy and the serpent, Los Angeles, California, June 1981

I’d move and it would rattle through me; I’d imagine him reaching across the arc of space between us to pin me down and say something like, “This is one night you’re not turning me out!” But he didn’t. We don’t live in a movie, and he doesn’t play this game when he is angry.

He wasn’t angry when I left, and neither was I. Sad, upset, hurt, confused, but not angry. When he is like this, he needs quiet–his own space, that distance between us in the middle of the bed.

Now if I could only figure out what I need.

Above is Richard Avedon‘s iconic portrait of Nastassja Kinski.

A few people in my life have cause for celebration today . . . they know who they are.


Bottoms up, boys n’ girls!!!

Martini on PinkMilk‘s tab.

I have always not-so-secretly wanted to do a meme. In general I think they’re rather silly, and I don’t like the idea of being tagged. But as I’ve said, I really like quizzes.

So when I saw this one on m‘s site, along with a general invitation to everyone to participate . . . that seemed good.  (Go ahead, please do give it a whirl if you like–Greenwoman has as well.)

Here’s to fours.

Four Girls

four unusual places you have had sex:

1. on the porch, tied to the closet, pinned against the banister
2. in the woods in England, not far from some fields of rape
3. in a church converted into an apartment building
4. in a borrowed apartment in Paris that featured a pet rat

four erotic books you’ve read:

1. Nicholson Baker: Vox and The Fermata
2. Rose Tremain: The Way I Found Her and Music and Silence
3. Jane Alison: The Love-Artist and The Marriage of the Sea
4. (The one I told my lover about that convinced him I wanted to be a sex slave.)

four of your favorite erotic zones:

1. lips
2. neck
3. shoulders
4. feet

four sexy experiences you want to have: (must cheat; so many more than four)

1. pick up my lover in a bar, as if we didn’t know each other
2. get locked in the cage and/or the cellar
3. have group sex we are both way happy with, especially if it’s at Dark Odyssey
4. get to the stage where my lover and I need with a deep and visceral certitude several TwistedMonk hemp rope kits and possibly some steel suspension rings

four favorites:
1. position…from behind
2. sex toy…wrist and ankle cuffs
3. porn…The Fashionistas
4. sexy music…the kind of music on the Stealing Beauty soundtrack

four sexy things you like to wear:
1. my collar(s)
2. garter belt, stockings, no panties
3. silk
4. whatever he wants me to

Viva Ultra Boys

Impishly odd foursome art by vivaUltra, via Sex in Art.

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