Posted by alfanihuiiiju9
Posted on 12:56 PM
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What a lovely view. Golden light, and her blonde hair glinting in the sun. Her breasts soft and full.
The sweetest thing is that this is a self-snap, standing over the camera that she's set on self-time. It reminder me of when she stands over me, offering her curls, and the wet soft skin beneath, to my waiting mouth.
Posted by alfanihuiiiju9
Posted on 12:31 PM
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Here's Katie, a 20-something gal who goes by the moniker "Improper" on her tumbler blog. What a cutie. She looks so much like an old friend of mine, Caroline, who I had a huge crush on for several years.
This is a new favorite photo, combining so many sexy elements: outdoors in winter, cute hipster glasses, cute sweater, no pants!, and she's growing her bush back of cute red hair. And of course the cute smile/grin/smirk. All in all, sexy.
Posted by alfanihuiiiju9
Posted on 7:11 PM
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From the very beginning, the sex with Rachel was good. She was very relaxed and open about her sexuality, and never afraid to try something new. Surprisingly, for as much as we loved sex and as much as we'd already done on our own and with past partners, neither of us had any experience with vibrators or other sex toys.
Rachel said she'd always wanted to try a vibrator, but just never had taken the next step of ordering one. So, for a present, I went to a local adult store and bought her a vibrator. I saw lots of different shapes and sizes, from small pocket rockets to giant double-dildos. Since neither of us really knew where to start, I decided on the most basic, a smooth plastic torpedo-shaded vibrator. It took 2 AA batteries. A twist of the handle controlled the speed. It was pretty loud, actually.
I took it home and gave it to Rachel. She eagerly wanted to try it. She laid back on her bed, naked. Soon she was lost in her own world. I took a photo to capture the moment.
She loved her torpedo vibe, but in time we added to the collection: a jelly butt-plug, anal beads, nipple clamps, and eventually a better vibrator, larger, quieter, and more powerful, shaped like a cock, with textured bumps and nub to stimulate her clit. After a while, the original toy didn't get much time out of the shoebox we kept under the bed, but we kept it, because it was our first.
Posted by alfanihuiiiju9
Posted on 8:49 PM
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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.
Detail 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?
A 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.
Posted by alfanihuiiiju9
Posted on 8:27 PM
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My last year of college, my girlfriend Jennifer and I had flown up to Oregon for the Chirstmas holiday, where I bought a pickup to drive back to college to have for the last semester of senior year and to use to move. We wanted to make a road trip of it, so on New Years day, we set out in the new truck.
We drove south over the Siskiyou Pass and down into Northern California. We then turned East, to climb over the Sierras into Nevada. On the pass, we were caught in a huge snow blizard. It was literally a white out. Cars and trucks were spinning and fishtailing, and sliding into each other. It was truly terrifying. Even with the windshield wipers going full speed, all we could see was a pelting sheet of snow, and the blur of taillights. We pulled off the highway at the first exit we could.
The two main hotels by the off ramp were already sold out from other drivers like us trying to wait out the storm. Luckily, we found a room in a small motel. It was one of those places that sort of smelled like mildew and had rough skratchy towels and a lumpy bed. But for us, it felt like we'd completely lucked out. As the storm dumped snow outside and trucks and cars continued to swerve and collide on the highway, we kicked back, grateful to be safe, and warm, and with each other.
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