Eroticism

[softbird]

Wow.. so much to catch up on!

Cartography - I love the comparison to the form of the body. One examines the topography of the landform on a map by way of contour lines. You take that analogy and apply that to the female form. That exquisite observation of such delicate contours. Then we apply lighting to those contours through photography to accentuate and highlight. Or hide and disguise.

Can that same ephemeral principal of light casting shadows be captured in music...? Maybe Cocteau Twins came close.

I love the Twins! And this is one of my favourites!!

 

[softbird]

Tension. Restriction.

Sometimes less is more

This is new.. ethereal.. sinister almost..

 

[softbird]

In the spirit of the erotic in other forms, I thought of Flamenco. The dance is so controlled, so precise, it becomes more about the restraint of the body, and its grace in that restraint..


I can’t take my eyes off her

 

[softbird]

Pina Bausch is mesmerising, demanding in her precise art. Her dance pieces delve deep into pain, longing, and the moment of the woman’s awareness of her own desire, a desire that frees but also destroys.

Here is the full version of her Cafe Muller. It’s 40 minutes or more.

 

[Rob_Royale]

A very good thread idea. It brings to mind the image of my wife in her bra and panties brushing her hair in front of the mirror. I find it wildly beautiful and erotic.

 

[paddyboi]

The unsaid - how delectable it is! Language steps in the way of meaning. Because words, while beautiful, poetic, cadenced, are always like the stars in the sky. They are merely reflections of light emanating from the stars which are light years away.

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So true my friend. So very true. And “unsaid” well too.

 

[bookworm69]

In the spirit of the erotic in other forms, I thought of Flamenco. The dance is so controlled, so precise, it becomes more about the restraint of the body, and its grace in that restraint..


I can’t take my eyes off her

Yes, proof that eroticism can encompass movement. MMmmm.. But, please note: her moves are slow, often discrete arches ... almost to be perceived as moving art. Beautiful.

 

[sunset_dreaming]

I love the Twins! And this is one of my favourites!!

I still remember hearing their music for the first time over 30 years ago - it was the 'Aikea-Guinea' EP. Floored would be an understatement. What was I listen to? My upbringing of Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd followed by teen years of Black Flag and Fugazi did not prepare me for that....

That EP still gets time on my turntable today. It is beyond timeless. (plus the production is insane when played on vinyl)

Oh... and Ethel Cain is touring here in Feb next year

 

[softbird]

Some of this is not easy to watch. physical manipulations, lost souls, uncertainty, longing, loss, coupling, patterns of intimacy, embracing… quite a lot to absorb. It’s dance, so obviously ‘bodily’ but the surreal physicality is suggestively erotic. It’s quite sculptural, isn’t it?

It’s hard to watch, I think, because it is honest, so dark, so real, and oh so human, all too human. There is, in her pieces, a tragic eroticism. It doesn’t make you soar, or become intoxicated, but there is certainly a kind of rapture.

 

[softbird]

Yes, proof that eroticism can encompass movement. MMmmm.. But, please note: her moves are slow, often discrete arches ... almost to be perceived as moving art. Beautiful.

Yes. I fall in love with Bausch each and every time!

 

[softbird]

Something steamy.

View attachment 2563284

We both know what’s happening.

The dry, prickling heat penetrates my skin, a bead of sweat runs down my temple, falls across my cheek, and drops onto my upper chest, and is trapped in my hair. I don’t try to wipe it away, as another will join it momentarily. The sensation of internal moisture exiting through the pores of my skin is invigorating! I feel the next trickle of sweat running down down my spine, steering into the area between my buttocks, where there is a cavity that the towel doesn’t reach. I let it run down, arch my back as it teases its way down, and then I feel it dissipate.

And we both know what’s happening.

An unsaid tension between hesitant strangers; recognition from glimpses of each other by the pool… and now in here; hot; building sweat in unison, eyes directed downward, momentarily. We fleetingly glance up, taking turns to catch a snapshot of each other. I finally linger my gaze, focusing lazily, with my eyes on your slipping towel, my upper lip moist, my cheeks blush, my chest soaked in sweat, a pool gathering in my navel as I fake a nonchalant pose. The heat between my legs is making me swell, I can feel the sticky moisture there as I shift my weight, and I don’t hide the shape of my tumescence; my towel is pretending to keep my modesty… but I’m waiting to be caught by your reciprocating gaze. I want you to see how this is making me feel. I slide the towel aside enough to show you how I am.

And we both know what’s happening.

I can see I have finally caught your attention; I can feel the caress of your eyes on me. The sweat is beading and dripping down the inside of your thighs, where your towel doesn’t reach, but where you know my eyes can. I imagine my hand disrupting the wetness; smearing the saturation. Moving it up your thighs, with no intention of pausing until I come to the place where you are most wet. I can feel a pending eruption from this volcanic heat. The heat makes your hair curl, wet, snaking locks cling to your neck and your shoulders. Your face is peaceful, your cheeks relaxed, your eyes closed for a moment, the back of your head resting on a right-angle of the aromatic spruce, chin pointing up. I hear the clicks of the expanding timber, the aroma of pine, and the creak of the bench as you gently shift your weight, lift your leg and place your heel up onto the seat, with your toes curled over the edge. I receive the felt sense of you exposing yourself. I imagine running my finger over your lips, under your chin and unravelling your towel, which now only loosely covers your breasts, allowing me to admire their shape. We both want this, it is unmentioned; nothing is said, but we both know what’s happening.

I don’t want you here… and I know neither do you. How long will we perform this anchored dance? We will wait until we are synchronised in a mutual moment of aching desire, voiceless, stepping out into the cool air, spontaneously dropping our towels, stepping naked into the cool shower. I will follow you in, press myself against you, so we can release the heat upon each other, in a gasping, grasping, shivering, penetrating, groping, uncontrolled moment of passion. This is how the sauna marks the beginning.

Our eyes meet and we both know what’s happening.

https://postimg.cc/y3WBLC1K
https://postimg.cc/Z0DJCnH5
https://postimg.cc/McthN3rp
https://postimg.cc/rKW7MwYb
https://postimg.cc/pmrGyV0R
https://postimg.cc/c6rY2K5R
https://postimg.cc/2LjdJTMr
https://postimg.cc/MM6jKHDY

How evocative. Your words are quite beautiful, rapturous, even? The idea of a stranger and the protracted dance of restraint before the leap outside, all this is what this thread has been about- the sublime distance between desire and consummation, the liminal spaces. I live your writing, and I love you for being here.

I love all of you for being here!

 

[softbird]

Something steamy.

View attachment 2563284

We both know what’s happening.

The dry, prickling heat penetrates my skin, a bead of sweat runs down my temple, falls across my cheek, and drops onto my upper chest, and is trapped in my hair. I don’t try to wipe it away, as another will join it momentarily. The sensation of internal moisture exiting through the pores of my skin is invigorating! I feel the next trickle of sweat running down down my spine, steering into the area between my buttocks, where there is a cavity that the towel doesn’t reach. I let it run down, arch my back as it teases its way down, and then I feel it dissipate.

And we both know what’s happening.

An unsaid tension between hesitant strangers; recognition from glimpses of each other by the pool… and now in here; hot; building sweat in unison, eyes directed downward, momentarily. We fleetingly glance up, taking turns to catch a snapshot of each other. I finally linger my gaze, focusing lazily, with my eyes on your slipping towel, my upper lip moist, my cheeks blush, my chest soaked in sweat, a pool gathering in my navel as I fake a nonchalant pose. The heat between my legs is making me swell, I can feel the sticky moisture there as I shift my weight, and I don’t hide the shape of my tumescence; my towel is pretending to keep my modesty… but I’m waiting to be caught by your reciprocating gaze. I want you to see how this is making me feel. I slide the towel aside enough to show you how I am.

And we both know what’s happening.

I can see I have finally caught your attention; I can feel the caress of your eyes on me. The sweat is beading and dripping down the inside of your thighs, where your towel doesn’t reach, but where you know my eyes can. I imagine my hand disrupting the wetness; smearing the saturation. Moving it up your thighs, with no intention of pausing until I come to the place where you are most wet. I can feel a pending eruption from this volcanic heat. The heat makes your hair curl, wet, snaking locks cling to your neck and your shoulders. Your face is peaceful, your cheeks relaxed, your eyes closed for a moment, the back of your head resting on a right-angle of the aromatic spruce, chin pointing up. I hear the clicks of the expanding timber, the aroma of pine, and the creak of the bench as you gently shift your weight, lift your leg and place your heel up onto the seat, with your toes curled over the edge. I receive the felt sense of you exposing yourself. I imagine running my finger over your lips, under your chin and unravelling your towel, which now only loosely covers your breasts, allowing me to admire their shape. We both want this, it is unmentioned; nothing is said, but we both know what’s happening.

I don’t want you here… and I know neither do you. How long will we perform this anchored dance? We will wait until we are synchronised in a mutual moment of aching desire, voiceless, stepping out into the cool air, spontaneously dropping our towels, stepping naked into the cool shower. I will follow you in, press myself against you, so we can release the heat upon each other, in a gasping, grasping, shivering, penetrating, groping, uncontrolled moment of passion. This is how the sauna marks the beginning.

Our eyes meet and we both know what’s happening.

https://postimg.cc/y3WBLC1K
https://postimg.cc/Z0DJCnH5
https://postimg.cc/McthN3rp
https://postimg.cc/rKW7MwYb
https://postimg.cc/pmrGyV0R
https://postimg.cc/c6rY2K5R
https://postimg.cc/2LjdJTMr
https://postimg.cc/MM6jKHDY

But I have to say, at the risk of sounding contrarian, there were a couple of images in that list there that weren’t too exciting for me.. I think you know which ones that would be…

 

[softbird]

Today, I am feeling brittle, in need of being wrapped, kept, held. Perhaps it’s the overcast sky, the soft gloom of an a cloudy afternoon, but I feel like crying, of being swept away by something, someone, annihilated, in some strange paradoxical desire for negation. If someone grabbed my wrist now and pulled me into darkness, I would follow.

 

[sunset_dreaming]

Overcast skies can clear and rays of sunlight will stream through.

 

[softbird]

There are some regions of our universe where mysteries remain. Our tendency, and history would attest to this, is to unlock these mysteries.

But the ancients knew that the mysteries themselves, the hidden knowledge was sacred.

I find the neck to be one of the mysteries. When he touches me in the hollow between neck and shoulder, when she tears a line down my neck, across my shoulders, with her finger, I become the mystery, the hidden knowledge, even to myself.

This mystery blooms like a flower, moist with dew, like the universe that opens its arms, as if the song of mystery is sung, not in verse, but in sensation.

 

[softbird]

I love her because she walks away from me, leaves me for another, delights others’ eyes. I long for her more, crave for the sight of her, any opportunity to catch a glimpse, taste the elixir, catch the lightning, so I could say to myself, I felt her, I took the fire from the gods.

 

[NivKay]

There are some regions of our universe where mysteries remain. Our tendency, and history would attest to this, is to unlock these mysteries.

But the ancients knew that the mysteries themselves, the hidden knowledge was sacred.

I find the neck to be one of the mysteries. When he touches me in the hollow between neck and shoulder, when she tears a line down my neck, across my shoulders, with her finger, I become the mystery, the hidden knowledge, even to myself.

This mystery blooms like a flower, moist with dew, like the universe that opens its arms, as if the song of mystery is sung, not in verse, but in sensation.

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Ah! The sweet spot, perfumed garden!

 

[NivKay]

I love her because she walks away from me, leaves me for another, delights others’ eyes. I long for her more, crave for the sight of her, any opportunity to catch a glimpse, taste the elixir, catch the lightning, so I could say to myself, I felt her, I took the fire from the gods.

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I think I know what you’re saying. The absence fuels the longing!

 

[NivKay]

Today, I am feeling brittle, in need of being wrapped, kept, held. Perhaps it’s the overcast sky, the soft gloom of an a cloudy afternoon, but I feel like crying, of being swept away by something, someone, annihilated, in some strange paradoxical desire for negation. If someone grabbed my wrist now and pulled me into darkness, I would follow.

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Such days are lonely ones aren’t they? Interminable and lonely. I won’t say it will get better. You already know this. But I hold you in my mind in simpatico

 

[NivKay]

How evocative. Your words are quite beautiful, rapturous, even? The idea of a stranger and the protracted dance of restraint before the leap outside, all this is what this thread has been about- the sublime distance between desire and consummation, the liminal spaces. I live your writing, and I love you for being here.

I love all of you for being here!

We love being here!

 

[femboitessa]

Oh my...I think this must be the most goosebumpy thread!

 

[softbird]

Oh my...I think this must be the most goosebumpy thread!

It’s very sweet of you to say.. I’m sure there are other threads like this one!

 

[softbird]

Such days are lonely ones aren’t they? Interminable and lonely. I won’t say it will get better. You already know this. But I hold you in my mind in simpatico

 

[softbird]

“On moonless nights, her keeper lets her out into the garden. This garden, an exceedingly sombre place, bears a strong resemblance to a burial ground and all the roses her dead mother planted have grown up into a huge, spiked wall that incarcerates her in the castle of her inheritance. When the back door opens, the Countess will sniff the air and howl. She drops, now, on all fours. Crouching, quivering, she catches the scent of her prey. Delicious crunch of the fragile bones of rabbits and small, furry things she pursues with fleet, four-footed speed; she will creep home, whimpering, with blood smeared on her cheeks. She pours water from the ewer in her bedroom into the bowl, she washes her face with the wincing, fastidious gestures of a cat.

The voracious margin of huntress’s nights in the gloomy garden, crouch and pounce, surrounds her habitual tormented somnambulism, her life or imitation of life. The eyes of this nocturnal creature enlarge and glow. All claws and teeth, she strikes, she gorges; but nothing can console her for the ghastliness of her condition, nothing. She resorts to the magic comfort of the Tarot pack and shuffles the cards, lays them out, reads them, gathers them up with a sigh, shuffles them again, constantly constructing hypotheses about a future which is irreversible.” - From Lady of the House of Love, Angela Carter.

 

[femboitessa]

“On moonless nights, her keeper lets her out into the garden. This garden, an exceedingly sombre place, bears a strong resemblance to a burial ground and all the roses her dead mother planted have grown up into a huge, spiked wall that incarcerates her in the castle of her inheritance. When the back door opens, the Countess will sniff the air and howl. She drops, now, on all fours. Crouching, quivering, she catches the scent of her prey. Delicious crunch of the fragile bones of rabbits and small, furry things she pursues with fleet, four-footed speed; she will creep home, whimpering, with blood smeared on her cheeks. She pours water from the ewer in her bedroom into the bowl, she washes her face with the wincing, fastidious gestures of a cat.

The voracious margin of huntress’s nights in the gloomy garden, crouch and pounce, surrounds her habitual tormented somnambulism, her life or imitation of life. The eyes of this nocturnal creature enlarge and glow. All claws and teeth, she strikes, she gorges; but nothing can console her for the ghastliness of her condition, nothing. She resorts to the magic comfort of the Tarot pack and shuffles the cards, lays them out, reads them, gathers them up with a sigh, shuffles them again, constantly constructing hypotheses about a future which is irreversible.” - From Lady of the House of Love, Angela Carter.

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Ok you can stop hurting me with all this beauty now!