DamianCain
Virgin
- Joined
- Mar 31, 2009
- Posts
- 27
Yesterday, for Father’s Day, I made my family take me to the Metropolitan Museum of Art so I could take them on a tour of my favorite paintings and sculptures.
Yes, in my home, we’ve renamed Father’s Day, “My Dad: Celebrating the Dork Within.” One stop on the tour is a room of 19th century Western European paintings and sculptures. Every time I go to the Met (about half a dozen times a year), I spend at least 20 minutes admiring 2 of these paintings. Gazing at them. OK, they’re pictures of hot women—I ogle.
Judge me if you will, but as far as I’m concerned, “Fine Art” museums are loaded with dirty pictures made before the invention of photos to run home and jerk off with. Just as good as Playboy (a little dated, but take a look at Portrait of a Nude Woman by Raphael); Penthouse (try Courbet’s The Origin of the World); Playgirl (Hell, Michaelangelo’s David); or Pedophilia Now! (any number of paintings by Balthus).
But I digress.
I took my wife and kids to see these two 19th century paintings: Joan of Arc by Jules Bastein-Lepage and Salome by Henri Regnault.
I was amazed by my wife’s response. Bastein-Lepage’s Joan is my image of Absolute Beauty in a woman. Her delicate features, intelligence and spirituality are an icon of the woman with whom I would want to fall in love. I explained to my wife and kids that I gaze in reverence at Joan on every trip to the museum.
My 14 year old son agreed, Bastien-Lepage’s Joan bears an irresistible resemblance to his mother—and my wife of more than 20 years.
I could think of no higher compliment to my wife than this comparison.
Regnault’s Salome, on the other hand, is a woman I’d just want to fuck the shit out of.
Well, my wife was pissed off as hell. She didn’t want to be my image of True Love. She just wants to be the woman I want to fuck and dump. (I guess Love and Devotion are over-rated.)
I confess, Regnault’s Salome has little in common with my wife, physically or in terms of personality. His Salome has a body that my wife doesn’t share. She’s the kind of thick, fleshy girl that always turns my head on the street.
His Salome is empty-headed with a blank look in her eyes that asks for nothing more than the pleasure of a good, hard fuck for the sake of fucking. There is no intelligence in her eyes or demand for respect, or even affection. There is just a relish of letting a man fuck you because he feels like it.
Sorry, but that isn’t what my wife is like at all. She is, evidently according to her, cursed by her own intelligence and integrity.
But, there is still something I neglected to tell my wife.
For all for that my wife and Regnault’s Salome don’t share, that empty-headed, cock-loving tramp is an absolutely perfect description of my wife when she’s nude, spread-legged and getting fucked.
Yes, in my home, we’ve renamed Father’s Day, “My Dad: Celebrating the Dork Within.” One stop on the tour is a room of 19th century Western European paintings and sculptures. Every time I go to the Met (about half a dozen times a year), I spend at least 20 minutes admiring 2 of these paintings. Gazing at them. OK, they’re pictures of hot women—I ogle.
Judge me if you will, but as far as I’m concerned, “Fine Art” museums are loaded with dirty pictures made before the invention of photos to run home and jerk off with. Just as good as Playboy (a little dated, but take a look at Portrait of a Nude Woman by Raphael); Penthouse (try Courbet’s The Origin of the World); Playgirl (Hell, Michaelangelo’s David); or Pedophilia Now! (any number of paintings by Balthus).
But I digress.
I took my wife and kids to see these two 19th century paintings: Joan of Arc by Jules Bastein-Lepage and Salome by Henri Regnault.
I was amazed by my wife’s response. Bastein-Lepage’s Joan is my image of Absolute Beauty in a woman. Her delicate features, intelligence and spirituality are an icon of the woman with whom I would want to fall in love. I explained to my wife and kids that I gaze in reverence at Joan on every trip to the museum.
My 14 year old son agreed, Bastien-Lepage’s Joan bears an irresistible resemblance to his mother—and my wife of more than 20 years.
I could think of no higher compliment to my wife than this comparison.
Regnault’s Salome, on the other hand, is a woman I’d just want to fuck the shit out of.
Well, my wife was pissed off as hell. She didn’t want to be my image of True Love. She just wants to be the woman I want to fuck and dump. (I guess Love and Devotion are over-rated.)
I confess, Regnault’s Salome has little in common with my wife, physically or in terms of personality. His Salome has a body that my wife doesn’t share. She’s the kind of thick, fleshy girl that always turns my head on the street.
His Salome is empty-headed with a blank look in her eyes that asks for nothing more than the pleasure of a good, hard fuck for the sake of fucking. There is no intelligence in her eyes or demand for respect, or even affection. There is just a relish of letting a man fuck you because he feels like it.
Sorry, but that isn’t what my wife is like at all. She is, evidently according to her, cursed by her own intelligence and integrity.
But, there is still something I neglected to tell my wife.
For all for that my wife and Regnault’s Salome don’t share, that empty-headed, cock-loving tramp is an absolutely perfect description of my wife when she’s nude, spread-legged and getting fucked.
