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Eroticism

femboitessa said:
Maybe, the facelessness ...hmmm...not sure...maybe its like asking us not to judge her for who she is, but as she she represents - beauty, eroticism, even?
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Oh, not to judge. Yes, that feels right. I know a few people, family & friends, who have either transitioned (or doing so) or prefer not to be identified as fixed gender. During Pride this year (Brighton Pride is a wonderful force to be reckoned with) there were people who have had their face hidden, but came out onto the street, opened up like sunflowers. This year the theme was ‘Ravishing Rage’, so maybe not flowers, but beautiful, dancing flames.

I have a post brewing in the back of mind about secrets and showing…

Yeah, I’m looking again and that’s still a good picture! 🔥
 
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softbird said:
oh oh oh!!! So replayable!! Could this be my avatar? with the Lit gods allow it?
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If it’s what you wish for, then it will happen. I think your current avatar is just exquisite, a mix of subtle beauty and refined mystery. Just like your profile, mixed Chilean and Indian, I find that description so intriguing.

Lucy.
 
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Eroticism is, to me, the promise of what could be should the situation become more sensual and sexual. It is that time period, where you look at the other or at a situation and, for no particular reason, you find yourself in a state akin to sexual awareness. The situation becomes attractive to you without transgressing into the vulgar.

What a wonderful thread. 😍
 
Erotic scene:


At a party once, a total stranger asked me, “could you zip me up please,” she pushed her jet black hair out of the way, she had a superbe neckline reminiscent of prima ballerinas, and, extremely soft smooth skin.

Perhaps she asked me, I thought, because I was older? No threat for her?

There was barely anyone around and she was coming out of the ladie’s room; I was wearing a three piece suit, surely she must have also smelled my cologne, hints of lavender and vanilla.

Such a beautiful woman, late 20s early 30s perhaps, she spoke at a level where one would need to be close to hear or perhaps a trick to make sure I was paying attention to her lips?
She was impossible to miss, how could I, a 40 something man manage to extend this interaction? Would she want to? She did make the first move, albeit, out of necessity, but still others were around.

Not usually one of my issues, the indecision going through my mind was a new sentiment;
“would she accept A coffee and croissant?” I thought? The moment would soon become awkward as I stared into her green eyes after she said a simple and polite, “oh god, thank you”

And then it just hit me, she never stopped staring back at my blue eyes.

“This is a beautiful black dress,” I finally said.

“Thank you,” she said for the second time I had almost miss the first time she said it lost in reverie I was.

“Just one more thing,” she said, those words got my heart pounding. She reached into her small black purse to fish out long black gloves that covered her delicate hands all the way above her elbows a few inches under her arm pits. “What do you think about my outfit now?” She asked in a sweet yet very assured manner.

“I think that you are way to beautifully dress not to have a sublime occasion to attend,” i answered.
 
Secrets: Who gets to see the things behind your mystery? How do they get to see you?

She sees my outer self, my flesh, the light in my eyes and the excited shiver when she runs her nails down my neck and across my shoulder blades. We instinctively know each other to the touch. If I were to offer myself to her, be blindfolded, I would know if she had secretly replaced herself so she could watch, by knowing the way her fingers move on me, her hair brushing against my thigh as her lips wrap around me, and conform to the shape of me, the tingle of her tongue making my nerve endings dance, the aroma of her body oozing from her pores; Smelling her musk cascading over me, with the taste of her anticipation dripping onto my lip as she hovers above my mouth, poised to lower herself onto me. She is my grounding.

IMG_0449.jpeg

https://postimg.cc/4H6vmTRC
https://postimg.cc/K3xkpkwV
https://postimg.cc/Cdhb490K


She sees inside me: my existence, my philosophy, my soul… being presented for her to know and take. I would entrust her with the things that please me, arouse me, make me ache with desire but also the things that sting and hurt me. I adore her for what she gives me in return, like prizes for offering myself with courage. She is not a trophy, not an object, but my equal. She shows me the light that shines through the trees when I savour the moment: the art of the dancing shadow and light. I can take flight and imagine her giving me all the limitless pleasures I always wanted, gripping tightly, on the edge of a beautiful climax for as long as she wants to torment me. Her imagination lights a fire in me that could burn for one hundred years. But there are still privacies, depths, that are still to be discovered, should we want to go deeper. If we wish to be submerged, just for a while.

https://postimg.cc/CnR1QGJc
https://postimg.cc/KKQ8cqH9

IMG_0447.jpeg
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Who, if anyone, would see all of me? She is not here. Gone, but not obliterated. Beyond my reach; my soulmate; who is only able to watch over me and guide me, not by my side to openly face the world together, but I eternally feel her hand on my shoulder.
IMG_0456.jpeg

There are always secrets, aren’t there? We can hide together in plain sight, if we know the codes to each other. Then, our privacies are on show… but only we see beneath the veneer while the rest of the world is oblivious. We are all on show then… but the ambiguity, the blurred thresholds between the exhibition and the private contribute towards these fleeting, erotic moments.

Is it then the secrets that we toy with that brings this feeling of erotic excitement of being on the edge? On the threshold?
 
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Coconutty70 said:
Secrets: Who gets to see the things behind your mystery? How do they get to see you?

She sees my outer self, my flesh, the light in my eyes and the excited shiver when she runs her nails down my neck and across my shoulder blades. We instinctively know each other to the touch. If I were to offer myself to her, be blindfolded, I would know if she had secretly replaced herself so she could watch, by knowing the way her fingers move on me, her hair brushing against my thigh as her lips wrap around me, and conform to the shape of me, the tingle of her tongue making my nerve endings dance, the aroma of her body oozing from her pores; Smelling her musk cascading over me, with the taste of her anticipation dripping onto my lip as she hovers above my mouth, poised to lower herself onto me. She is my grounding.

View attachment 2565272

View attachment 2565273
View attachment 2565274
View attachment 2565271


She sees inside me: my existence, my philosophy, my soul… being presented for her to know and take. I would entrust her with the things that please me, arouse me, make me ache with desire but also the things that sting and hurt me. I adore her for what she gives me in return, like prizes for offering myself with courage. She is not a trophy, not an object, but my equal. She shows me the light that shines through the trees when I savour the moment: the art of the dancing shadow and light. I can take flight and imagine her giving me all the limitless pleasures I always wanted, gripping tightly, on the edge of a beautiful climax for as long as she wants to torment me. Her imagination lights a fire in me that could burn for one hundred years. But there are still privacies, depths, that are still to be discovered, should we want to go deeper. If we wish to be submerged, just for a while.

View attachment 2565276
View attachment 2565277
View attachment 2565278
View attachment 2565280
View attachment 2565279


Who, if anyone, would see all of me? She is not here. Gone, but not obliterated. Beyond my reach; my soulmate; who is only able to watch over me and guide me, not by my side to openly face the world together, but I eternally feel her hand on my shoulder.
View attachment 2565282

There are always secrets, aren’t there? We can hide together in plain sight, if we know the codes to each other. Then, our privacies are on show… but only we see beneath the veneer while the rest of the world is oblivious. We are all on show then… but the ambiguity, the blurred thresholds between the exhibition and the private contribute towards these fleeting, erotic moments.

Is it then the secrets that we toy with that brings this feeling of erotic excitement of being on the edge? On the threshold?
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Eroticism in words and images
 
I offer no pearls of wisdom, I am mere sensation, my contours are maps of emotion.

Sometimes words exhaust me, and this is how I feel today, incapable of expressing myself, of finding the right words, as if speech itself is hijacked by thought.

I am at the brink of something, a line that separates me from joy. Yet joy is always laced with the threat of something else, a shadow. It’s difficult to explain to most, so the words drown in silence.

View attachment 2565340View attachment 2565341View attachment 2565342View attachment 2565343View attachment 2565344View attachment 2565345View attachment 2565347

These images are edges, borders, brinks, rims.

Each day the line changes, the borders redrawn.
 
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I often turn away from the things that frighten me, even the things that are good, because they overwhelm, they flood me with so much joy that I cannot bear the thought of losing this joy, and the fear grips me. It's the same strange sensation of standing atop a high cliff looking down at the ocean, mesmerised by all its beauty, and then wanting to leap off the edge, knowing it will destroy you.

Sonnet: On Being Cautioned Against Walking on an Headland Overlooking the Sea, Because It Was Frequented by a Lunatic​

By Charlotte Smith
Is there a solitary wretch who hies
To the tall cliff, with starting pace or slow,
And, measuring, views with wild and hollow eyes
Its distance from the waves that chide below;
Who, as the sea-born gale with frequent sighs
Chills his cold bed upon the mountain turf,
With hoarse, half-uttered lamentation, lies
Murmuring responses to the dashing surf?
In moody sadness, on the giddy brink,
I see him more with envy than with fear;
He has no nice felicities that shrink
From giant horrors; wildly wandering here,
He seems (uncursed with reason) not to know
The depth or the duration of his woe.

A beautiful poem about the woman's caged wonder, and her envy for the lunatic. But even in this envy, she seems to fear this free lunatic, who roams the cliff with "wild and hollow eyes." Love, desire comes with the fear of being vanquished by it.
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softbird said:
So, I think there is a difference between Eroticism and pure sexuality. While the sexual can also be erotic, the erotic is often not necessarily sexual.
George Battaile said once that eroticism as thriving when it breaks prohibitions, goes beyond the physical, into something else, something we can’t express but feel. Perhaps, he is referring to o something similar to what the Romantics called the sublime.

So this thread is about the erotic, moving away from the sexual to something being it, something more sublime.

Hopefully we can work out what eroticism actually is.

Here are some imagesView attachment 2557864View attachment 2557865View attachment 2557866
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I think it's something implying sexuality in nature but more towards intimacy rather than actual sex acts?
 
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