Untitled

Via gingercrush.

Deep Currents

This journey through our lives, unplanned and random, develop our personas and our personalities through experiences, partners, and actions.

Every fuck and every fetish. Every decision and every mistake shapes us, every horny conquest and drunken flirtation. Each experience adds notches to our belts, builds our confidences and refines our ability.

Yet with every new sexual experience, it stands in relief and in contrast to the previous ones. I still remember the first time, in the backseat of the car at the drive-in. The sweaty urgent fumbling. That shaped every fuck I attempted since.

I remember the cheerleader dropout I lusted after and was never able to get close to. She ignored every comment, every word as I watched her at the pool. Her rejection broiled and obsessed me and still informs my approach when I'm interested...verbally or in writing, anywhere.

I remember the ones I wished didn't happen. And I remember the one that happened over and over, hotter and hotter every time - a volcano of sex, until the inevitable break with her about something else unrelated.

These experiences are no longer within my grasp. They happened and left without my letting go. My memory is caressed by the teenage girls I see, flat stomachs, still exploring in the afternoons how much to let me feel them once, beneath their silken elastic.

Now they let the young jocks feel up their titties, their budding pussies. Not for me anymore.

My desires are a continuum that shift and evolve. Layers of senses co-mingled upon previous urges. The stirrings inspired by the divorcee at the end of the block who flashed us, accidentally on purpose, the beginning of my erotic gravitation to milfs. Her tank tops loose and open, drooping to show no bra, her shorts a little crooked, low down on the crack of her ass. I now suspect she grew into her sexuality just as her husband split the scene, and she was left to look locally, desperately, for anyone to notice her. In that way.

That scenario still completely gets to me. I was once free to flirt and kiss anyone I fancied. I caressed, licked, and came upon the thin red pussy hair of my ex-wife, a visual dream space that satisfied and is still a primal sense memory - my continuing obsession / fantasy with the light thick amber hair between her tall thighs. A fetish for redheads - formed first by the previous images in magazines, furtive glances, and personas I encountered in my horny adolescence - flows deep in my sexual psyche.

Each woman I fucked was a redhead wanting to get out. These currents I can't escape - my closest fantasies not possible to again be possessed or attained. They boil under every caress, every glance of hanging tit, every rude or flirty gesture, every exhale of orgasm.

My wife is not a redhead, nor tall, nor as young as she used to be. But her other attributes are the fuel I fuck to get off on, and they fuel the kindling of my sex, layering over older memories of summer beaches and bikinis, back-of-car fumblings, and red-haired masturbation. Seasoning and complimenting the present with more innocent past, that was full of promise for a future that was undetermined and endless with opportunities.

Ginger

via gingercarpet.

Mirrors

At here.

Two-Way Mirror

In a quest to find authenticity and inspiration in the bottomless offerings of online porn I encountered an increasingly interesting and engaging aesthetic in the “amateur” “self-shot” webcam videos proliferating. I put quotes around “amateur” and “self-shot” because often in spite of advertised promises those turn out not entirely to be the case.

You'd think that hardcore porn would be "authentic" enough with its endless "proof" of real-time real-people events. Yet the subtext around those uncheatable images are an art and an artifice to themselves.

I’ve talked a bit academically in my Aesthetics of Mediation posts (visible by searching the "mediation" tag along the right there*), trying to document and analyze the nuances of the form, for the most part I’m guessing unintentional but adopted as formulaic tropes by users/producers. Not through study or intent but through mimicry and positive feedback loop for what simply works.

I love watching the folks pointing the camera at themselves and performing for me – an anonymous future viewer. Me and unknown thousands more.

I focus more on the solo acts. Women looking into the camera or their webcam window on their computers. Looking at themselves and then pulling aside their sweatpants and panties and spreading their lips to show us how they play with themselves. Less interesting to me this month are the webcam or tripod-shot events in which someone fucks their girlfriend and then uploads it on xhamster. Or better, follows their wife around in a hotel room with a Panasonic while their wife gets fucked by a strange black man they met through Craigslist. Nor am I considering here the “hidden cam” genre, which is also voyeuristic but not a subset so much as an offshoot of disembodied male gaze theory. (Another academic treatise for another time.)

These have their own power, certainly, and in the right mood they get me there. Let us consider the webcam video in which the subject looks at you as they expose their …personal habits.

Unlike produced porn, which have some sort of set-up (whether or not it’s as simple as a gonzo “these women have big asses” shot in a living room in the valley, or a slightly more developed “pizza guy needs to get paid”), the true amateur webcam video looks out to the viewer. Rather than setting up a narrative in which we can “believe” a fantasy playing out, it simply depicts someone being sexual.

She (or he) jerks off. Slowly or with an object. They display themselves, legs open, in their kitchen or bedroom, making eye contact without presupposition that it is anything else than what it is. And the address – the eye contact – the open camera – the filming and posting – seals a new agreement between the subject and the viewer.

She is doing it for you.

Rather than being a closed narrative loop, with a beginning, middle and end, (in spite of what peaks, valleys and climaxes may be experienced) the webcam event invites and insists on the viewer, you, me, to participate. At least conceptually. The display, not artfully posed in narrative repose but intrusive and explicit, opens the diagetic space to a void of meaning in which the only requirement is that a viewer be watching. It is not a “hidden cam” in which the subject does not do what they do – masturbate – without knowledge of their act as performance. This is specifically one, but in true unmediated documentarian style, without director or crew. It breaks with aesthetic narrative tropes that construct closed and limited worldviews we only observe without feeling participatory, except perhaps through classical empathy. (“She was lonely so she blew the neighbor. Wish I was her neighbor.” “Nice ass.”)

Instead, these clips are “amateurs” who are not getting paid to display themselves (we don’t think. The more we believe this the more we are turned on by a sensed (I discuss the clues of authenticity in other posts) authenticity.) nor are they “creating“ content for paysites.

These are people masturbating. Masturbating in public. Documenting it for strangers they don’t know for a future period of time they have no control over.

In this context, these clips, stripped of narrative closure as they are, elicit our response primarily as privileged viewer. They turn the narrative mask of meaning back on us, exposing and playing out forbidden events while refusing to provide meaning through context, and therefore keeping open our unresolved narrative expectations so that our viewership becomes the reason for the event. She’s doing it for me to watch.

This forces us to engage, intellectually and emotionally, in a mode that exploits our cognitive discomfort and interrogates our participation in watching.

And we engage physically as well, and pull out our cocks, and masturbate right back.



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* Some of the videos I'm discovering that were previously uploaded are "not currently available. Please try again later". Google/Blogger changed their video upload plug-in in 2009 to a more Youtube-centric design and these may need to be reupped.

Distraction at the Pool Party

Cock, Hair, and Not Quite

I've been playing, surfing and licking myself for hours. For weeks.

Those of you who have been following this journey I've been forging on this blog have noted - I started with memories of my sexual and fondly fading past, only to turn towards the present.

My sensual being (which includes but not exclusively sex) was formed in another time, in which pictures of naked people and descriptions of adult and naughty practices were more hidden. They were kept in certain bookstores, in certain hard-to-obtain magazines. There were no communities easily accessible to share, compare and leer at.

The opening up of Ryan includes not only reminiscing but feeling more comfortable doing so. The early posts, 2+ years ago, had a certain amount of confessional pain to them when I wrote, but to be out - anonymously but relieved - had a spiritual, erotic and healthy charge that motivated me to continue.

I've explored not only my own thoughts, hang-ups and desires, but other of you in the blogosphere as well. As blogs become in a way obsolete being taken over by the hit-and-run instant gratification of tumblr, I still reach out and get out-reached to people who seem to enjoy what I'm trying to get at.

Episodically, anecdotally.

Thanks for reading as I figure this out for myself - just as you all are, post by post, day by day, and partner by partner.

Celebrity Fetish