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Showing posts with label artistic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label artistic. Show all posts

Snowjob

One of my very favorite memories is the time Jennifer and I stopped for a short walk somewhere on a mountain pass in the Cascades. We'd planned on staying at a mountain cabin owned by a guy from work. He was nice enough to let us use it, and gave us a map and the secret code for the alarm and the hiding place of the key. Unfortunately, the snow was so deep, we couldn't even make it a quarter mile off the highway. We tried to drive up to a rustic mountain resort we'd heard of, but that, apparently was snowed in and closed for the season. So we retreated, back to the highway to a small town, which was little more than a gas station and a motel. We stayed the night at the motel, and normally would have had great travel sex, but as I recall, there was no hot water, no heat, and the fuse blew when we tried to turn on the lights. They eventually fixed the lights, but after what seemed like three strikes, we called it a day and went to bed.

The next day we decided to return to the city, but before we went, we crossed the highway, and walked down a dam. The reservoir was frozen over. After the dam, on the other side, the road climbed up a stell hill, winding into the mountains. We hiked about a mile. We snapped a couple photos, and in one  Jennifer lifted up her jacket and flashed me. She then, without any prompting, squatted down, opened my pants, and took out my cock. Even though the air was biting cold, the warmth of her hands immediately made me hard. She began to suck me, right as snowflakes began to fall. Normally, when you're getting sucked off by the woman you love, you don't think about anything else. But I started thinking about the snow and if we'd get back before it piled up and if the pass would get snowed in and if we'd have to spend another night in that cold, dank motel. And the more distracted I was, the harder it was for me to cum, and so the harder she sucked, gripping me with her hand and really going at it. She was not distracted. In fact, she seemed totally turned on and focused on my erection which seemed larger than usual, hard in the cold air, and thick in her hand. As she pumped me, I could feel the cum begin to build in my balls. 

Just then, I saw, far in the distance, another couple walking up the same road. They were too far away to tell if it was a man and woman or two men, or who. But they were headed for us, and I had my pants open and she was kneeling in front of me, bobbing up and down on my cock. If I could see them, they could probably see us, and could no doubt tell exactly what was going on. 

I told her people were coming. This seemed to make her go faster and harder. She pulled her mouth off my cock and held it open, her tongue, inches from the tip. She does this when she's feeling extra naughty. She wants to feel me shoot on her face, and she tells me this. She likes to talk dirty to me and tells me to cum on her face, to let her feel it. The people are closer now. I can see that it's a middle-aged couple. They are still far away, but they've surely seen us by now. Jennifer is gripping me with both hands, jacking me up and down, her face eager and waiting. Until I shot a large, pent-up load onto her face.

She pumps out every drop. Then she zips me up, and stands quickly. The couple is now so close we can see they are walking a small dog dressed in a red sweater. Jennifer's face is dripping with cum. We can't walk down the hill past them, so we turn up and try to put distance between us and the dog walkers. As we stride, our breath scatters in the cold air. She is glowing with sweat, rosy cheeked, and splattered with cum. She is letting it evaporate on her skin. She says she likes the feel. She says it's good for her complexion. She says it makes her feel naughty and slutly. She says having the couple see what she was doing turned her on even more. She says her underwear is soaked. She says she wants me to fuck her up against a tree, yanking her pants down just enough, and taking her from behind. Hearing her say this makes my half-hard cock twitch and regain a little stiffness. 

Her hand is down her pants as we walk, and she is rubbing herself. She says she's so close she could climax if we stopped. We've now put the couple almost out of sight. They've stopped, either to let their dog do it's business, or because they saw us and are keeping a respectful distance. She stops, her back to the couple. She's rubbing herself. I am standing in front of her, watching the couple. She asks me if I can see them, and I say yes. She asks me what they are doing. "Nothing," I say. "Just standing there." This seems to get her even hotter. She's rubbing herself harder, getting wobbly in the knees, and her face has the look of bliss. "Can they see us?" she asks. 

"Yeah," I say. "I think so."

She smiles. "I'm going to cum," she says. Her head rolls back, her eyes squeeze shut, and her mouth goes slack as she shutters and moans. Then louder, she gasps. Then louder, her orgasm cries echoing off the hills. "I'm cumming," she cries.

The couple with the dog look up, but they can only see her from the back. Maybe they didn't hear. Maybe it was bird or something that caught their attention. Sound carries in snow. The couple turns and leaves. 

We give them 10 minutes or so of a head start before we, too, turn and head back to our car.



Tube Socks Rule!

Panayiotis Lamprou: the casual power of an intimate portrait

This is a reposting of an article originally written by Sean O'Hagan for the Guardian. It is one of the most thoughtful and thought-provoking articles we have ever read. Our sincere appreciation to Mr. O'Hagan for his work and we hope by helping the dissemination of this work, the conversation is carried to wider circles, resulting in deeper and more meaningful conversations around this topic.


Lamprou's Portrait of My British Wife – on the shortlist for this year's Taylor Wessing photographic portrait prize – is a private moment made public. But when does art become voyeurism?


Photographers have taken explicit photographs since the invention of the form. It is still a surprise, though, to see Panayiotis Lamprou's image, Portrait of My British Wife, on the shortlist of this year's Taylor Wessing photographic portrait prize. It is, as the Guardian's arts correspondent, Mark Brown, put it (perhaps understating the case somewhat), "arresting because of its intimacy". It begs the vexed question, when does art become voyeurism or, indeed, pornography?
Lamprou photographed his wife sitting outside their summerhouse on the Aegean island of Schinousa. She has just finished eating an omelette and the dirty pan sits on table at her elbow. She is staring at the camera with a gaze that is difficult to read, wearing a short dress – or long T-shirt – and nothing underneath. Her legs are apart and her vagina is visible beneath the skirt. There is something both coy and provocative about the portrait, which, according to the photographer, was not originally intended for public display. (What changed his – and her – mind?) It will be interesting to see how the National Portrait Gallerydisplays the image when they exhibit it in a show of 60 of the submitted portraits in November.
EMBARGOED TIL 16/09/10 Jeffrey Stockbridge photograph for the Taylor Wessing photographic prizeDetail from Jeffrey Stockbridge's photograph of twins Tic Tac and Tootsie Photograph: National Portrait Gallery/PA
Undoubtedly many visitors to the gallery will find the image shocking, even offensive. Ironically, its tone of languor and intimacy sets it apart from the other three shortlisted portraits, all of which are provocative in different ways. Indeed, both Jeffrey Stockbridge's portrait of Tic Tac and Tootsie, twin sisters who have turned to prostitution on the streets of Philadelphia to fund their drug addictions, and Abbie Trayley-Smith's portrait of a young girl at a charity for obese children, could be considered more voyeuristic and exploitative.
Lamprou's portrait, though, cannot use the defence of social documentary or reportage. It is a private, intimate moment made public and, however consensual the contract between photographer and subject – and husband and wife - much of its arresting power lies in this uneasy dynamic. Do we, as viewers of what was originally an intensely private exchange, become voyeurs?
Lamprou's intimately explicit portrait is a very different kind of photograph than, say, the formally driven Teutonic female nudes of Helmet Newton, the hardcore imagery of Robert Mapplethorpe or the garish art-porn of Araki. Neither does it fit into the fashion-porn genre indulged in by the likes of Terry Richardson. Again, it is the intimacy of the setting – and the fracturing of that intimacy – that sets it apart and may even, for some viewers, make it even more problematic.
In both its explicitness and its blurring of the boundary between the private and the public, Lamprou's portrait calls to mind the taboo-breaking work of the young American photographer, Leigh Ledare. His book, Pretend You're Actually Alive, is a visual and written portrait of his mother, an erstwhile exotic dancer, who is both a narcissist and an exhibitionist. Over the years, he has photographed her in various explicit poses, both alone and with a succession of younger lovers, and the titles alone - Mom Spread With Lamp (2000) – give some indication of the content.
When Nan Goldin included Ledare's work in her selection for theRencontres d'Arles Festival, last year, it caused considerable debate among visitors, many of whom found it either offensive or disturbing. (Ledare, for the record, is a charming, well-balanced individual, and the book does work, in an albeit disturbing way, as a fractured chronicle of a thankfully singular strain family dysfunction.) It does beg the – now quaintly old-fashioned – question, are some things better left to the imagination than the camera? Or, more pertinently, the gallery wall?
Interestingly, too, it is nearly always women who are the object of the camera's gaze in these provocative photographs. (Mapplethorpe, a gay man, and Richardson, a self-confessed exhibitionist, both turned the camera on themselves, but they are the exceptions.) Would, one wonders, a full-frontal photograph of a relaxed, sun-dappled Lamprou taken by his wife be as arresting or provocative?
Taylor Wessing Photographic Portrait Prize - David ChancellorA photograph by David Chancellor of a 14-year-old American girl hunting in South Africa. Photograph: National Portrait Gallery/PA
What strikes me most about Lamprou's portrait – apart, of course, from its explicitness – is its apparent casualness. It has none of the heightened formal power of David Chancellor's portrait of a 14-year-old girl astride her horse with a dead impala. Instead, it looks, at first glance, like a holiday snap – but that, too, is part of its odd, and confusing, power. The dirty pan, the cluttered table, and the blurred chair in the foreground are all familiar signifiers of that certain feeling of relaxed torpor that descends on us when we settle in to a holiday. It's just that the eye is drawn elsewhere; we are given licence to look, to linger, to transgress the boundary between the accepted and the forbidden – at a cost, perhaps, to all of us, the photographer, the subject and the viewer … and to our ever-shrinking imaginations.

Deck the Halls

Deck the halls with bows of holy, trim the tree, and such...
really brings in the holiday spirit.

Winter Wonderland!






Ice, Ice, Baby

Unfinished Music, Two Virgins


In October, 1968, John Lennon and Yoko Ono released, “Unfinished Music No.1: Two Virgins.”

Staying up all night at John’s home studio in Kenwood, John and Yoko created the music by recording tape loops of John on different instruments (piano, organ, drums) and sound effects (including reverb, delay and distortion). Yoko ad-libs in response to the sounds. At the end of the session, the story goes, they made love.

The title came, John said, from feeling like they were "two innocents, lost in a world gone mad."

John and Yoko used a camera with a self-timer to take the nude photographs of themselves for the album's cover; the front showed them standing naked facing the camera, the back cover showed them from behind. (The photos were taken at Ringo Starr's basement apartment at Montagu Square, where Lennon and Ono stayed later that year.)

Paul McCartney provided a note on the album cover, which read: "When two great Saints meet, it is a humbling experience. The long battles to prove he was a Saint."

The cover provoked an outrage, prompting distributors to sell the album in a plain brown wrapper. Copies of the album were impounded as obscene in several jurisdictions (including 30,000 copies in New Jersey). John commented that the uproar seemed to have less to do with the explicit nudity, and more to do with the fact that the two of them were rather unattractive and the photo unflattering; Lennon described it later as a picture of "two slightly overweight ex-junkies."

John Lennon and Yoko, you are my heroes. You bared it all for each other and your art. Thank you.

We miss you John. 


Elegance and Grace

View of Two

This has got to be about the sexiest point of view a guy could possibly hope for. Every part tells a story.

Beautiful Soft

Bored in Bend

She was bored in Bend when she had to travel their for business, so she decided to bounce on the bed.

Afterglow

After we make love, she sometimes still trembles with tiny aftershocks of orgasm. She likes to touch herself, gently, slowly, and cum again.

She likes to stretch

Fact: Sex is a great way to increase flexibility.

Coy Caroline

Caroline was never my girlfriend, though I always wanted her to be. I can't even remember how we met, but it was when I first moved back to Portland. I was renting the upstairs of an old bungalow owned by a burned-out hippie. Upstairs I entertained my artistic friends, filmmakers, painters, indie musicians. Caroline was from Canada on a student Visa, and seemed to have lots of time to hang out, paint, do crafts, and just listen to old records from the thrift stores. She had a boyfriend, who was nice enough, but didn't seem particularly artistic. I was Caroline's "art" friend, part actual friend, and probably just as much, a creative outlet.

I was always flirting with her. And when we went swimming in the summer, I was always checking her out in her bikini. She was pretty as a model, with long, straight red hair, light freckles and a devilish smile. She always kept her mouth closed when she smiled, like the Mona Lisa, because she had one slightly crooked tooth. I thought she was stunning. 

No matter how much we'd go swimming, or how many cocktails we'd have, she wasn't going to leave her boyfriend and have the passionate affair with me that I felt we both so deserved. 

Finally, I realized that she loved photography and that I could at least appeal to that. I showed her some arty nudes I'd taken of a former girlfriend and she loved them. I casually suggested that she'd made a great model. She grinned coyly, and considered it with saying anything for a while as she flipped through the images. I could tell she was really giving it some thought. Even her forehead was crumpled up. And her lips were trembling a little. It was very cute. As hot as she was, she was also just a really nice girl. Not spoiled or stuck up. She was nice to everyone. Smart, but shy. Pretty and liked being pretty, but never conceited. The kind of girl in high school that was in sports, but also in the French club, and talked exactly the same to the popular kids as the unpopular. 

She loved photography, art. She wanted to be part of that world. She had grown up looking at images of models and movie stars. Of course she projected herself into those images. She also wanted to be a rebel, a little, because she'd always been the A student. But she also was scared and shy about herself, and didn't want to admit that as much as she intellectually accepted her A-cup breasts, she really wouldn't have minded being at least a B cup. She wanted to feel and look beautiful and sexy. And, if she was really honest, she actually loved attention.

"Ok," she said. And smiled her closed smile. "Let's do it."



A Nice Relaxing Bath

She suggested taking a bath to unwind after a crazy day. She suggested she'd help him relax.

Wedding Photog

As a professional wedding photographer, Holly had seen a lot of things. Unfortunately, mostly she saw brides breaking down and throwing tantrums, or puking at receptions from too much to drink. And there was always always always one of the groomsmen hooking up with one of the bridesmaids.

Holly hadn't started as a wedding photographer because she loved weddings. She loved documentary photography. But the fact was, weddings paid. A lot. 

She was hired to shoot for an entire day, or late into the night. With powerful memory cards, her DSLR could literally shoot 1000s of images. She captured it all. Often without people even noticing. With long lens and a trained eye and hand, she could snap a telling moment in a split second. That's what they paid her for. 

Even when she captured a groomsman feeling up a bridesmaid, somehow it still had the look and feel of her other wedding images, the same as cutting the cake, or exchanging rings. She realized, though very quickly, to never show the client what actually happened at their wedding, but only what they want to remember happening. Weddings are a story we tell ourselves, and we never want the truth to get in the way.




Devine 69

When I first began to explore sexuality with R____, we soon discovered the joy of mutual and simultaneous oral sex. It seemed so beautiful that to call it simply "69" was an insult. Somehow we decided to call it "the position of the gods." Our logic, if you could call it that, was that in Greek mythology the gods were both male and female and all equally powerful. Therefore, we figured that the gods must love a position where the man and woman are equally powerful, influencing and being influenced by the other, just as in all the stories we'd read.

Of course I loved it when our love making became passionate and she'd straddle me, press her wet pussy onto my mouth as she took me, hard, in hers. But I especially liked the slow days, when we'd have no where to go and nothing to do but lay naked together. Sometimes we'd roll toward each other, head to foot, and slowly, gently taste each other. It was so passionate, so intimate. We explored almost everything sexual together. Years have passed and we're no longer together. But I still remember R with love and those slow, tender times sharing together "the position of the gods."



Her Time

Saturday mornings, she gets to sleep in. No alarm to snap her out of dreams. No dressing in the dark. The morning light spills in. She's kicked the sheets off, and lays naked on her bed. Her fingers remember her dream and the sensations she felt. Her eyes closed, her fingers know the way.





Rough Rider

We hadn't been together for a year. She'd moved to LA. I'd stayed. We'd broken up, but not really formally or officially, just weren't together. When she came back for a visit, she stayed with me and we were soon in bed. We made love fast, and then rested and made love slow. And we made love in the kitchen, and on the couch.  And then, when I thought I had been completely drained, she straddled me, her butt to my face, and began to stir my limp penis back to hardness. 

All the sex had made my body thicker than usual and my cock large and throbbing. When she held it, she grasped it tightly. The harder she tugged, the better it felt. I wanted it hard. Really hard. She held my balls in her hand and tugged. I bucked my hips up. She knew if she was going to get me to cum again, she'd need to do it hard. So hard. As hard as she could. I didn't hurt, but felt really good. Somehow it was perfect for the mood. She'd never done it this hard before, but it felt exactly right. Her grip was hard and strong. And she talked dirty to me about wanting to squeeze the last load of cum from my balls and how she wanted to watch it. I reached up and tugged on her breast, just before I exploded.

Sunflowers at Sauive's

We went to Sauvie's Island on one of those clear, crisp October days, where the sun is golden and almost looks like summer, but the air has a hint of woodsmoke, and feels like fall. 

We walked through farm fields of sunflowers, and the light was so soft and lovely, that she stopped and suggested we take some nudes. She stripped and the sunflowers, as tall as her head, hid her from the distant road. She looked like a French painting from the 19th Century.







 
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