Eroticism

[Coconutty70]

https://imgur.com/a/zBHiNMT

(JP Greene, typewrittenlovenotes)

Obsession. How many times will I need to touch you, kiss you or feel your intimacy before I become obsessed with you? Once? Twice? I promise you, no more than five times. Let me in, so that every moment of my day will be connected in some way to you. I can’t be without you any longer; I am intoxicated by your existence!

 

[TheVegasMark]

Pretty sure that's a sexual request.

You have read that correctly...

 

[lifeis2short2b]

You have read that correctly...

An Agreement and a like....Let the games begin.

 

[softbird]

The body has its own philosophy, its paradigms always shifting, metamorphosing in chameleonic adaptation. It’s contours are sinuous rills of our imaginations, and each new adornment turns it into landscape, art, weapon, theology, desire, vengeance, wrath, love.

Vittoria Cerretti is all of this.

 

[softbird]

https://imgur.com/a/zBHiNMT

(JP Greene, typewrittenlovenotes)

Obsession. How many times will I need to touch you, kiss you or feel your intimacy before I become obsessed with you? Once? Twice? I promise you, no more than five times. Let me in, so that every moment of my day will be connected in some way to you. I can’t be without you any longer; I am intoxicated by your existence!

You sound like one sending a coded missive. Are you?

 

[peekingone]

The body has its own philosophy, its paradigms always shifting, metamorphosing in chameleonic adaptation. It’s contours are sinuous rills of our imaginations, and each new adornment turns it into landscape, art, weapon, theology, desire, vengeance, wrath, love.

Vittoria Cerretti is all of this.

Beautiful

 

[softbird]

See how she blends with light into the world around her. See how she eludes capture, eludes our comprehension. And yet, she is real, real, in the immediacy of our apprehension. How often do we miss the erotic present, and we only get the traces of their having been there?

The erotic never stays, it is like apparitions that plague the soul by their ephemeral nature.

 

[softbird]

More than anything, I love the way lines are drawn on our bodies, the soft fabric harnesses that cross us like erotic grids on a map, vast and cosmic - the strap of the shoulder, the clasping arms of a brassiere, the clinging embrace of a panty line. They are avaricious, but they are also subtle angels of form, shaping our contours, sculpting us




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[softbird]

His hands on me, they are a call to something, a bidding, beckoning. The touch is not the key. What unlocks is the intention, the iteration of intention - silent, unspoken.

 

[paddyboi]

You sound like one sending a coded missive. Are you?

I wanna spend more time with this . . . . To be drawn into an insatiable desire. Oh my soul!

 

[bookworm69]

See how she blends with light into the world around her. See how she eludes capture, eludes our comprehension. And yet, she is real, real, in the immediacy of our apprehension. How often do we miss the erotic present, and we only get the traces of their having been there?

The erotic never stays, it is like apparitions that plague the soul by their ephemeral nature.

View attachment 2558726

I think the word “plague” is the most accurate verb possible to describe eroticism as it cannot be consciously ignored.

 

[paddyboi]

More than anything, I love the way lines are drawn on our bodies, the soft fabric harnesses that cross us like erotic grids on a map, vast and cosmic - the strap of the shoulder, the clasping arms of a brassiere, the clinging embrace of a panty line. They are avaricious, but they are also subtle angels of form, shaping our contours, sculpting us

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The fifth, and final photo in this collection, is by far one of the most erotically intriguing photos i have seen: the rib bulges under the skin, their spunal cord ripples, the ever so subtle skin fold just beliw their panty line, the bra within their tan lines, the hair pulled up revealing hoop earings, and the low back “beauty mark”! O la la, magnifique photo mademoiselle!

 

[softbird]

@paddyboi ’ s post, strikes at the very core of the erotic. If flesh is life, the skeletal is the sign of our mortality, our deaths.

And yet, there is such a dark, profound beauty in the calcified structures of our anatomy, the bone scaffold that holds our flesh, exuding an eroticism we ignore for the pleasures of the flesh.

 

[bookworm69]

@paddyboi ’ s post, strikes at the very core of the erotic. If flesh is life, the skeletal is the sign of our mortality, our deaths.

And yet, there is such a dark, profound beauty in the calcified structures of our anatomy, the bone scaffold that holds our flesh, exuding an eroticism we ignore for the pleasures of the flesh.

MMmmm... that insight is dark and deep, which brings to mind, the axiom: "beauty is skin deep.' But, that's not true because the lasting beauty of "the bone scaffold" is underlying.

Maybe not so dark, but still deep. Thank you for these thoughts.

 

[softbird]

MMmmm... that insight is dark and deep, which brings to mind, the axiom: "beauty is skin deep.' But, that's not true because the lasting beauty of "the bone scaffold" is underlying.

Maybe not so dark, but still deep. Thank you for these thoughts.

It's my pleasure.. I like thinking about these things. There is a certain dark thrill of thinking of my body in this way...It's as if I am becoming an artefact, constructed out of my own mind!

 

[bookworm69]

It's my pleasure.. I like thinking about these things. There is a certain dark thrill of thinking of my body in this way...It's as if I am becoming an artefact, constructed out of my own mind!

And, this artifact* (i.e., your mind) is always a work in progress. I like that!

(*or, was "artefact" ... a pun? if so, )

 

[softbird]

I think about borders of ten - physical borders, emotional, psychological, ideological ones.

They make me feel renwed with each crossing - like a re-invention. But some borders are beautifully erotic, because they mark the difference between awareness and unknowability, between the familiar and the incomprehensible, between the comforting and the excruciating.

If we stand at the border of things long enough, we begin to see something else, something deeper beyond us.





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[softbird]

And, this artifact* (i.e., your mind) is always a work in progress. I like that!

(*or, was "artefact" ... a pun? if so, )

It could work as a pun, I can see that very clearly... Everything is a work in progress, isn't it? I think we often forget that. One doesn't achieve completion except when we're on our deathbed - literally...!!

 

[Coconutty70]

You sound like one sending a coded missive. Are you?

You’re seeking it? You’re seeking it! If I could see your face, would I find the beautiful intention in your expression? Something elusive; asking the question reveals your desire… the opaqueness holds it discreetly though; veiled. Despite the way in which your words and imagery are so explicitly delicious, it’s the discreet, suggestive, mysterious nature of the erotic that floods the body with the heat of arousal. The power of suggestion allows us to seek between the lines and imagine the unseen… so maybe my missive is your own one, @softbird, that you wish to hear… or imagine. The meaning is yours to own. I have my own too. Shhhhh… **I place my finger on your lips**

When everything is quiet and in repose, whisper it to me: lean in closely, so I feel your lips brush against my ear while I listen. Until then, I will long to hear it, like a thirst.

Feather
Today, when I went to my car
To go meet my good friend for coffee
And to visit another friend
And her baby
Who we hadn’t seen in quite a while

I looked down to see a feather
resting on the handle of the door
A little feather
Tiny, really.
Soft gray down
Belonging to a baby bird
I would guess
likely a pigeon
I’m sure.

Entirely, common
in a city like this
in a back alley
Where rows of parking spots hold cars
like mine
Where trash is left
Food discarded
And city birds congregate
To do the things city birds do.

And I immediately wondered,
Who was this bird?
Where she was going?
And what this might mean,
this little feather
From a little bird
Just clinging to the door handle
Of my car

Could it be a sign of freedom
Or of the things that fall away and get left behind
Of going places or
Choices made
What sign was this
For me to make note of
and apply
to my own life?
After all, it was balancing ever so
precariously
Right on the handle of my car
This seemed important – this small detail
in the way that small details
often do.

Or perhaps it is just this
that the bird flew by
and lost a feather
one she’ll never notice
(I’m convinced, you see, that she was a she)
and then the wind blew from the north
heading south – like birds do for winter
and lifted the feather
and carried it until it hit my car
and there it stuck.
no more or less than that.
Perhaps we want so much to
ascribe meaning to things
Because we feel so accidentally assigned
To this life
To this particular set of circumstances
No reason given solid
Enough to explain the random
happenstance of it all.

To make sense of
the good and the bad
The way things happen to people we love
Or to ourselves
And we can’t stop it.
The gains and the losses
The way love ends
The rough gash of it all.
And people leave, even when you believe
with all that holds belief
That of course they will stay.
The works published or ignored
The bank account sliding from full to empty
The lucky pennies thrown in fountains
without any idea if wishes come true.
And the raw pulse of anxiety
Rising from all the unanswered questions

All the misunderstood signs
Call it karma or fate or destiny
or religious preordination
or just that simple yet specific serendipity.
the days and weeks and months
Where they seem in our favor
And they others
when they are not
Signals sent into space and returned
with a resounding yes
Wires crossed. And bodies unwound
Or lovers who collide in space
in a way that makes no sense
in a way that is just as random as
that tiny feather on my car door handle.

And all this went through my mind
in that moment
In that rush of thoughts
as I picked up the feather
And held gently in my hand
up to the light
With fingernails painted red like wine
And then placed it gently in the empty cup holder
In the center console of my car

keeping it for some strange reason
Some desire for it to mean
something

to say that this is not without significance
this small gray feather

and maybe that is what
makes meaning
In the end

Simply this.
Simply our desire
To take notice of
The smallest things
To mark them as important
To wonder about their mystery
And the wisdom they bring
To hold them close
to pay attention.

To say that this
Just this
right now
it
matters.

(Jeanette Leblanc)

 

[softbird]

Barbora Podzinkova was alone at home one afternoon, and saw the whole world borne through her body. The urge to inhabit the world, to become it and then to drown in it was all-consuming, and so, like wind, like whispers, like the wisps of dandelion she floated, in and out, into each room, by the window sill, and kissed the sun as the sun wrapped itself, craven, hungry thing.

I have always loved her (oh how many are the women I have loved!) and I am terribly jealous that Andreas Ortner has captured her this way. Like a knife, she slashes across the canvas. I can hear the flesh tear like a red bloom.

 

[Coconutty70]

If we stand at the border of things long enough, we begin to see something else, something deeper beyond us.

 

[softbird]

You’re seeking it? You’re seeking it! If I could see your face, would I find the beautiful intention in your expression? Something elusive; asking the question reveals your desire… the opaqueness holds it discreetly though; veiled. Despite the way in which your words and imagery are so explicitly delicious, it’s the discreet, suggestive, mysterious nature of the erotic that floods the body with the heat of arousal. The power of suggestion allows us to seek between the lines and imagine the unseen… so maybe my missive is your own one, @softbird, that you wish to hear… or imagine. The meaning is yours to own. I have my own too. Shhhhh… **I place my finger on your lips**

When everything is quiet and in repose, whisper it to me: lean in closely, so I feel your lips brush against my ear while I listen. Until then, I will long to hear it, like a thirst.

Feather
Today, when I went to my car
To go meet my good friend for coffee
And to visit another friend
And her baby
Who we hadn’t seen in quite a while

I looked down to see a feather
resting on the handle of the door
A little feather
Tiny, really.
Soft gray down
Belonging to a baby bird
I would guess
likely a pigeon
I’m sure.

Entirely, common
in a city like this
in a back alley
Where rows of parking spots hold cars
like mine
Where trash is left
Food discarded
And city birds congregate
To do the things city birds do.

And I immediately wondered,
Who was this bird?
Where she was going?
And what this might mean,
this little feather
From a little bird
Just clinging to the door handle
Of my car

Could it be a sign of freedom
Or of the things that fall away and get left behind
Of going places or
Choices made
What sign was this
For me to make note of
and apply
to my own life?
After all, it was balancing ever so
precariously
Right on the handle of my car
This seemed important – this small detail
in the way that small details
often do.

Or perhaps it is just this
that the bird flew by
and lost a feather
one she’ll never notice
(I’m convinced, you see, that she was a she)
and then the wind blew from the north
heading south – like birds do for winter
and lifted the feather
and carried it until it hit my car
and there it stuck.
no more or less than that.
Perhaps we want so much to
ascribe meaning to things
Because we feel so accidentally assigned
To this life
To this particular set of circumstances
No reason given solid
Enough to explain the random
happenstance of it all.

To make sense of
the good and the bad
The way things happen to people we love
Or to ourselves
And we can’t stop it.
The gains and the losses
The way love ends
The rough gash of it all.
And people leave, even when you believe
with all that holds belief
That of course they will stay.
The works published or ignored
The bank account sliding from full to empty
The lucky pennies thrown in fountains
without any idea if wishes come true.
And the raw pulse of anxiety
Rising from all the unanswered questions

All the misunderstood signs
Call it karma or fate or destiny
or religious preordination
or just that simple yet specific serendipity.
the days and weeks and months
Where they seem in our favor
And they others
when they are not
Signals sent into space and returned
with a resounding yes
Wires crossed. And bodies unwound
Or lovers who collide in space
in a way that makes no sense
in a way that is just as random as
that tiny feather on my car door handle.

And all this went through my mind
in that moment
In that rush of thoughts
as I picked up the feather
And held gently in my hand
up to the light
With fingernails painted red like wine
And then placed it gently in the empty cup holder
In the center console of my car

keeping it for some strange reason
Some desire for it to mean
something

to say that this is not without significance
this small gray feather

and maybe that is what
makes meaning
In the end

Simply this.
Simply our desire
To take notice of
The smallest things
To mark them as important
To wonder about their mystery
And the wisdom they bring
To hold them close
to pay attention.

To say that this
Just this
right now
it
matters.

(Jeanette Leblanc)

You write beautifully, evocatively even, evoking others' narratives, both mine and LeBlanc's. I could respond with more, I could say, for example, "Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul," or I could say, for that matter, "The thing about feathers is, they know what's been missed," Or, I could even venture, "For glory and brilliance the colours of feathers are unsurpassed [but] some (called subjective or optical colours) are illusions formed by the quills' pattern."
I could, but in the "foul rag and bone shop of [my] heart," I will say, that a question asked is like the optical colours of quilled patterns, read into being by the observer.

Still, it's a beautiful poem! Thank you. It is quite a sensual, erotic poem, actually, and it has got me thinking about the little things, the little things.

 

[softbird]

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Now, he throws my words back at me!

 

[Coconutty70]

Barbora Podzinkova was alone at home one afternoon, and saw the whole world borne through her body. The urge to inhabit the world, to become it and then to drown in it was all-consuming, and so, like wind, like whispers, like the wisps of dandelion she floated, in and out, into each room, by the window sill, and kissed the sun as the sun wrapped itself, craven, hungry thing.

I have always loved her (oh how many are the women I have loved!) and I am terribly jealous that Andreas Ortner has captured her this way. Like a knife, she slashes across the canvas. I can hear the flesh tear like a red bloom.

View attachment 2558827

Wow, she is a very beautiful person. I looked her up and was astonished. I looked at the rest of the images in this collection, and they’re extraordinary. Thanks for sharing.

https://anneofcarversville.com/fashion/2020/7/23/barbora-podzinkova-by-andreas-ortner

 

[softbird]

Wow, she is a very beautiful person. I looked her up and was astonished. I looked at the rest of the images in this collection, and they’re extraordinary. Thanks for sharing.

https://anneofcarversville.com/fashion/2020/7/23/barbora-podzinkova-by-andreas-ortner

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Yes I know this vogue shoot. I have the book with these pictures in them. My favourite is the one where she is standing on a chair over a hedge.. quite gorgeous..