the end hnt

This week's Half-Nekkid Thursday celebrates the end -- the end of the year and the end of a decade. Here's to hoping you have a happy 2010! Thanks for stopping by my blog this year, and I hope to see you back next year.

Also, here's a shout out for PimpAndHost.com, a great free site I recently discovered where you can host naughty pictures and they don't give a rat's testicle about the content or how many clicks you get. I'm starting to host stuff there because they don't dial down the resolution like other sites or go apeshit if you show a nipple...or more.

here's looking at you, kid

Now this is just scary. Moments before consummation, she pulls off her blouse, and suddenly your big seduction scene turns into a horror movie.

Thanks to Sweat Shop Sissy for bringing this to my attention.

fly naked?

The recent close-call on Christmas Day in Detroit, where an alleged terrorist had explosive powder sewn into his underwear, got me thinking.

Would people volunteer to fly naked if they knew it would make their flight safer? Guaranteed, this would have to be a personal choice -- you could choose between clothing required and clothing optional flights. But if you chose one of the latter, airport security would be a breeze and you'd feel safe with your fellow passengers. Of course, all carry-on items would be prohibited, and they'd have to keep the plane a bit warmer.

Maybe there could even be an all-naked airline. Call it NudeAir. Or EdenAir. Or AirFree.

kinky people

Keeping in touch by phone or email just isn't the same as seeing someone in person. I'm reminded of that so much during my brother's visit.

He is probably the greatest walking repository of fascinating anecdotes I've ever met. I miss this in his emails and IMs because he tends to be a different kind of conversationalist online. You can only draw him out in face-to-face conversations.

Like my parents, he's a shrink, but unlike them, he talks about clinical experiences. He never says if someone is or was a patient for ethical reasons, but he does predicate his stories by beginning "I know of a case..."

Today he told us of "a case" he knew about involving a woman who could not have sex with her husband unless he first put on woman's makeup, perfume, and lingerie. For many years he indulged her and they had an otherwise normal marriage. It's not that she was attracted to women, but she felt threatened by men, having had some abuse in her past. Dressing the husband like a woman got past that anxiety.

You could assign nefarious motives to the husband, saying men would do nearly anything to get laid. But you could also see in this a great romance, a man who so loved a woman he was willing to do anything for her.

I thought what a great movie or novel this could make if you took the latter approach. The trick would be to make it heartfelt without stooping to broad comedy. If done right, it could nearly break your heart.

naked women wielding chainsaws

I have no idea what this is about, with dozens of naked women denuding a fallen tree. I find it amusing they're protecting their heads with hardhats and some are wearing ear protectors, but flying chips could hit their tits, and they might be scarred for life. How, exactly, do you get splinters out of your nipples?

oh charlie

So Charlie Sheen has been arrested again, this time on Christmas Day in Aspen, where they don't suffer fools gladly. Is this a surprise? He might find that Colorado is not so tolerant of celebrity criminals as California.

I'm not crying any tears. I have never been a Sheen fan because I think the whole clan is a bunch of scenery chewers and headline hogs. They must buy their narcissism in the bulk family size. I don't get their popularity. Charlie reportedly earns $850,000 per episode for his sitcom.

The mugshot is a hoot, though. Charlie looks like he's doing some serious emoting. He also looks like he's had a bad dye job.

happy holidays

Merry Christmas and happy holidays to anyone who is reading this today. I hope you have a blessed day spent with those who are special to you.

As some of you regular readers will know, this is also James and my one-year wedding anniversary. He is the greatest gift I could ever hope for and fills my life with indefinable joy each day. I love him more and more as time passes. I hope everyone, who doesn't already have such bliss, will find a wonderful person who completes you, too.

Christmas panties HNT

Darling Husband accidentally (on purpose?) left some gift panties on a chair after he wrapped some gifts in the kitchen. I thought I would model them for this week's Half-Nekkid Thursday.

We're leaving for the airport in a few hours to pick up my brother. I'm so excited!

think of the children

After I posted a rhetorical question about whether I had found a horrid tattoo that could not be topped, a reader directed me to the gem below.

I can't decide which one is worst, but I do believe the two owners of this artwork need to meet. Then again, maybe not. Think of the children they could produce.

is sex addiction real?

Salon has a great feature up this week that seriously questions whether sex addiction is real or just prudish moralism wrapped up in a catchy phrase.

The article leans to the latter point of view, and maybe that's the reason I liked it. So-called sex addiction has become a convenient excuse for some people, but for others it's a club they attempt to use to push their point of view. Somewhere along the way, anyone who likes sex and lots of it runs the danger of being labeled a "sex addict."

"Diagnoses of sex addiction often rely on the patients' feeling ashamed about their behavior," the article concludes. "We live in a world polluted by sexual shame and taboos. You might feel embarrassed about your porn collection -- but is it because you're morally opposed to it or because you worry your significant other might find it and ream you out? Do you regret last night's one-night stand because you did it compulsively without being able to stop, or because you're afraid of being labeled a slut? As Susie Bright put it, we're all 'fearful of lust' and 'being found out' as sexually abnormal or sick -- but that doesn't mean that we actually are."

It's a terrific article. I recommend it.

the not-so-lovely bones

In my continuing saga to review big holiday movies before they've opened, thanks to my friend Ted, I'm here to warn you away from The Lovely Bones, which is a complete mess.

I loved the novel, as did many readers, and was woefully disappointed by the film adaptation. Everything that was wonderful about the book is missing in the movie. If you didn't read the book, like Darling Husband, you'll probably be confused beyond measure like he was.

Director Peter Jackson goes apeshit with the special effects, and they overwhelm the movie while drowning out the story. You almost have to wonder if he was attracted to the project simply because of the chance to film his personal vision of heaven. He seems utterly at a loss to comprehend the bones of the story.

Some performances, notably Susan Sarandon and Stanley Tucci, are too mannered and over the top. Mark Wahlberg is badly miscast while Michael Imperioli and Rachel Weisz have paper-thin roles with little to do. Saoirse Ronan is cute and works hard, but her part has been so deconstructed from the novel that she ends up seeming cliched.

In my opinion, this is a must-miss holiday film. You might consider missing the DVD, too.

eye candy

I like this photo because it asks a lot of questions. What is he doing in that rather fussy room with the gaudy drapes and Art Deco furniture that looks like it belongs to his grandmother? Who is he that he's so fascinated by himself? He's something of a trinket in a room full of collectibles.

I am always fascinated by photographs and have been wondering if maybe this is something I should study if I do go back to school. I think I have the aesthetic sense of what would make a good image; however, I don't know if I could make one. How much of photography is training and how much is innate talent?

one year later

Today, I was reading over entries in my personal journal from this time last year. This can be a bit surreal at times, because I know exactly how I felt when I wrote the pages. Yet I feel like I have grown so much in the intervening period that the words almost seem like they were written by a different person.

A year ago, I was agonizing over whether getting married was the right decision. Now it seems like such a no-brainer. A year later, I have absolutely, positively no regrets.

It's times like this I wish you could send a postcard or email to yourself in the past. Dear Self, for God's sake would you stop beating yourself up over this? It'll turn out fine -- much better than you imagine. Now snap out of it. Sincerely, Yourself from the future.

A year ago, I didn't quite know to trust my instincts, likely because I still had some confidence issues. Today, I feel so much more confident about myself. I think some of that growth came from within, but also being married to the love of my life made a big difference. His strength is infectious.

hotel hell

Everybody gets spam. We've all seen it -- the Viagra, the designer handbags, the pain medicines, the Nigerian sweepstakes, the security department at a bank you've never heard of. The senders are dubious at best and most likely resulting from viruses on infected clone computers.

Lately, however, I've noticed an increase in spam from what might be called legitimate businesses. These are being sent by real companies under the guise that you've done business with them in the past although you never have. They have some wonderful promotion they're trying to sell you. They have links to click to read all about their earnest-sounding privacy policies and links to unsubscribe.

They're obviously trying to skirt the law, because you can only receive spam if you've asked for it. They're going through the motions of pretending you asked for it, when of course you haven't. What are you going to do if you don't like it? File a complaint with the FTC? How will you prove you're right? And what will be the result?

It's a creeping annoyance, and it's getting worse. I'm an American with American email addresses, but I live in Australia, so who knows what law covers me?

Today I received spam from a major hotel in the U.S. I've never visited under the guise they want to "welcome back" a "favorite customer" like me. There's a click-through link to unsubscribe that doesn't work. There's a click-through link to their privacy policy, which they obviously don't follow.

I guess companies like this are resorting to anything in the bad economy, and they're hoping whoever enforces spam laws won't bother them, because enforcement is probably toothless anyway.

Rather than waste time complaining about this, I simply went to a major hotel rating website and wrote a scathing review about this hotel I never visited, complaining about dirty sheets, bugs, an odd smell in the room, rodent feces in room service food, an employee who groped me, and more.

I figured if they want to pretend I visited their hotel so they can send me spam, I might as well rate them on this non-existent visit.

back to the beach hnt

We made it to the nude beach the other day, as you can see in this week's Half-Nekkid Thursday shot, where I'm actually almost naked except for the sunglasses you cannot see.

I used to be very diligent about not standing with my hands on my hips, because it made my boobs look smaller. When you're a stripper or an exotic dancer and not particularly stacked, you have to make certain not to hold yourself in any pose that de-emphasizes the bust. I once did this subconsciously, but I've gotten so lazy.

The water was still rather cold. The Pacific always seems colder here than it did in California, but maybe that's just my imagination.

the pill

I heard on the radio the other day that the birth control pill is fifty years old. If you're on it, like I am, imagining a world without it is not easy.

While the pill could legally be sold in the United States starting in the late 1950s, contraception was still illegal in some states until 1965. That blows my mind, to use a phrase from that era. Imagine facing a criminal trial because you used a condom. What a time traveler from 1962 would think seeing all the advertising today promoting condom use.

The future is still vague for the male pill. How many men would really use them, versus how many men would say they were using them but weren't? The woman is the one who wants the guarantee, so as far as I was concerned, I was perfectly happy while unmarried to be the responsible party. No use paying the price for his fuck-up.

While I had many disagreements with my parents, I do thank them for putting me on the pill early. Otherwise, I'm sure I would've ended up pregnant by fourteen or fifteen. I don't understand parents who can afford to put their kid on contraception but don't, apparently thinking that stumping for abstinence will do it. I'm sure some of those parents learn otherwise the hard way.

Darling Husband and I have been seriously talking about starting a family soon, so that will mean I have to go off the pill. That's sort of like being up on the high wire without a net for me. The idea that something could be happening inside my body, once off the pill, still seems a little weird, like I'll turn into a ticking bomb or something.

a tattoo that cannot be topped?

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it's complicated

My friend Ted sent a box crammed full of new film screeners, freebie DVDs that are sent to movie business creatives at the end of the year to pander for Oscars and other awards. Because he's a member of the AMPAS, WGA, DGA, and more, he receives multiple copies of the same movies. Knowing people "in the biz" is fun because they pass along goodies like these -- DVDs that can be watched at home for movies that have not yet opened in theaters anywhere in the world.

He sent some action/war stuff for Darling Husband and some serious stuff for me like Lovely Bones and Crazy Heart plus a bunch of comedies. Included in the batch was It's Complicated with Meryl Streep, Alec Baldwin, and Steve Martin; the film opens in the States on Christmas Day and in January or February in the rest of the world.

Both James and I found Complicated to be a big disappointment. You'd think with the cast you couldn't go wrong, but writer/director Nancy Meyers manages to fumble badly. The concept is pretty simple: a married man (Baldwin) ends up having an affair with his ex-wife (Streep), the latter who is also dating her architect (Martin). The execution, however, leaves much to be desired.

I usually love Meryl Streep, but she's given a nothing role here for which she can do little except giggle in a desperate attempt to string along the thin humor. Steve Martin's role is non-existent until he gets stoned well into the movie. Alec Baldwin is the only one with anything to do, and he's actually very good playing a lovable cad. Meyers seems to think it's funny to make people act as idiotically and puerile as possible, which most of the cast does exhaustively. This is screwball comedy without the comedy.

As well, Meyers has obviously been living too long in the rarified, insulated world of filmdom elitism. Streep plays a divorced mom who happens to live alone in a massive $10 million showplace house while planning a huge addition. People spend money on screen for four-star hotel suites and lavish parties like everyone won the lottery. Women act like idiots, and men act like dolts. The film has so little grounding in reality it becomes nothing more than a tedious exercise in giddy conspicuous consumption. Somewhere in her ivory tower, Meyers apparently hasn't heard the world is suffering a crippling economic malaise and a new frugality.

So if you're thinking about taking in a movie on Christmas Day, I'd strongly suggest skipping It's Complicated. This is filmmaking pandering to a low common denominator while completely missing the mark. The film is definitely a "wait for DVD" release.

subtle erotica

I do not know who made this image, but I think it's wonderfully done. You can't quite see at first glance what's happening. It invites you to explore further, then your realize what you've stumbled upon. I like erotica like this that's many things at once -- playful, creative, imaginative, artistic, and much more.

It's one of more than 1,500 erotic images on my Tumblr page of all sorts. If you're not already Tumblring, it's a great way to collect all your images in one place in an online scrapbook for free. I have no idea how the site makes any money, because it's without advertising.

men in tights

This was not Mel Brooks's best movie, but with some reworking and better lyrics, it could probably be a fantastic stage musical. Considering his success on Broadway, I'm surprised he never explored that avenue.

Always on guard defending the people's rights. When you're in a fix just call for the men in tights!

at sixes and sevens

An elderly neighbor who lives alone had a seizure yesterday and was rushed to hospital a few hours after returning home with her elderly dog who had just had emergency vet surgery for an abscessed elbow. We volunteered to take care of the dog while her owner is on the mend. Rather than try to bring the sick dog to our rather tiny cottage, we just temporarily moved into the elderly neighbor widow's empty house to care for the pooch.

The sweet old lady keeps her house quite tidy and clean, but good gracious is she a packrat. How many thousands of rubber bands and paperclips does an 88-year-old woman need? She has enough food and dishes to start her own chain of catering companies. There is certainly no shortage of reading material, however. I found shelves full of magazines in binders dating back to the 1930s.

The house originally had six bedrooms, of which four still have beds. Darling Husband and I chose the one with the least creaky bed. The doggie apparently slept in the elderly woman's bed with her, but we can't have that for several reasons, including the fact that pooch has a big post-surgical cone on her head to keep from chewing her stitches plus she's not allowed to jump up and down until her stitches are removed. So she whines outside in the hallway while James and I try to be very, very, very quiet in bed.

I titled this entry "at sixes and sevens," a perfectly wonderful bit of dated slang that the elderly British expats here use quite frequently. (And I never realized there were so many of them until I moved here myself.) I researched the phrase a bit on the Internet, and there are no shortage of quite differing opinions as to its origin. The general consensus, however, is that it's used to describe when one is in a situation of confused disorganization. But, hey, if we suddenly need thirty rolls of unopened plastic kitchen wrap or two closets full of neatly folded paper bags, we know exactly where to go now.

gloating hnt

I call this a gloating Half-Nekkid Thursday because my brother emailed from my hometown in the Midwest earlier today. It would only be about 12 degrees Fahrenheit during the day back there and 6 degrees overnight with, of course, more snow.

Darling Husband shot this at the suits-required beach the other day, which we ourselves refer to as various names, including the Upright and Proper Beach and the Ecclesiastically Approved Beach. We didn't have time to drive to the more secluded area where the nude beach is. This was a boo-boo shot because he tripped the shutter before the zoom adjusted so I ended up decapitated.

My brother is coming to Australia for Christmas so he will be able to join us in our gloating soon. I have not seen him for more than a year, and I'm hugely excited about his trip. He is my only close relative, likely because we're both in the Black Sheep fold. He's like the somewhat older male version of me. Part of why I'm excited is that he and my husband will really get a chance to know each other. They only met for a few hours once before, so now they will be able to spend more than two weeks together.

When he's here, I'll try to talk him into posing for a guest HNT shot, even if all the naughty bits are covered.

Tiger Woods and me

I want to begin by stating that I categorically deny rumors linking Tiger Woods and me romantically. Yes, it's true, the number of woman now rumored to have slept with the golfing legend is reaching crowd proportions, but I will not dignify the claims that Tiger and I had an illicit relationship.

Reports that my cellphone contains over 400 text messages from Tiger are flatly untrue. My phone only holds 200 messages total, and most of those are from David Letterman and Mark Sanford. If Tiger had texted me, which he didn't, I would have removed the messages at his request, which I deny that he ever made. I erased all the messages that never existed shortly after they were received.

Reports that Tiger frequently compared my breasts to the gently sloping hills overlooking the thirteenth hole at Pebble Beach are nothing short of absurd. Had he said anything like that, which he didn't, it would be the eighteenth hole at Oakland Hills. I deny that he ever compared any part of my anatomy above the waist to any topographical features.

I will continue to deny these wretched rumors, or at least until a tabloid comes forward with a figure in excess of $500,000 for my side of the story complete with many sexually explicit cellphone pictures of Tiger with me that, until that time, do not exist. Hereafter, all press inquiries about my special nonexistent friendship with Tiger should be directed to my agents, managers, attorneys, publicists, handlers, and assorted hangers-on.

the green-eyed monster

Beware, my lord, of jealousy. It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on. --Othello

I try not to be an envious person. It's a very unproductive emotion. It's sort of like a cancer that just eats away at everything it touches, leaving nothing good behind in its wake.

A friend from Los Angeles emailed the other day to tell me a girl we both know mutually has landed an incredible modeling gig. To be honest, I never liked the beneficiary of this good fortune. She's a spoiled child who failed to grow up and who made no serious effort at her modeling. She lived the good life, thanks to a monthly check from Daddy.

To rub salt into the exposed flesh, she had nothing going for her. She had an odd shape, a plain face, and terrible posture. Her skin was pasty and her grooming close to nonexistent. Personal hygiene was not her strong suit.

So how she ended up with this gig defies understanding. It's not something she's made up, either, because the photographic evidence is quite clear. And from what I hear, this success has very quickly gone to her head.

Meanwhile, my modeling career and that of most everyone I know creeps along -- a little gig here, a possible there, a comp next week, nothing much to report.

Allowing myself to be consumed by envy over someone else's good fortune -- and the fact it's undeserving -- would serve me no good. Yes, it would be tempting to make a little wax effigy and have at it with needles and tacks.

But I refuse to give in to this. Life is a marathon, not a 100-yard dash.

Of course, in the down-is-up world of fashion, yuck is the new pretty. The model below is not the one I know, but I ask the rhetorical question -- what's with her just-out-of-the-shower hair and the asocial borderline personality expression? At least the prop stud is cute.

too cute

Don't worry, I won't soon be posting whimsical poems about unicorns and rainbows. That notwithstanding, I couldn't resist posting this.

While the kitten is certainly cute, this little game will probably only end up making it more ornery as an adult. Notice that it attempts to bite several times.

does she want to sleep with you?

I heard an interesting piece today on Radio National, which is like Australia's version of NPR.

A scientific study was recently completed by a psychology professor in Sydney who found a nearly foolproof method for men to determine if a female acquaintance wants to sleep with you.

Look at her feet.

If, while sitting, she points her feet toward you, in a slight V formation, you're good to go. She wants you to give it to her now.

If she holds her feet in any other position, the drawbridge is up, the castle is fortified, and you're going home alone.

Apparently the professor and his graduate assistants observed male and female body language on dates and scored which body positioning correlated to the participants getting their freak on later. The V-feet were the hands-down winners.

So the trick then on a date is to find yourself in a situation where you're sitting across from each other and you can see her feet. Cats cradle anyone?

uh oh

Um, excuse me. Yes, you. You with that tattoo.

It's spelled "tomorrow," not "tomarrow."

This is not the first time I've seen a misspelled tattoo. You'd think tattoo artists would have a little dictionary handy just to make absolutely certain everything is spelled correctly.

Because, after all, a tattoo is forever. Or perhaps I should say fourever.

heavage - to show or not to show

The Wall Street Journal, of all places, has an article in a recent issue about the reappearance of heavage, the practice of men revealing a portion of their chest either with a V-neck or strategic shirt unbuttoning.

The article is written as if this is a trend that just appeared in the last few weeks, but it's actually not all that new. Heavage seems very common in Australia, even more so than Las Vegas or Los Angeles, where I lived before moving here.

The article really doesn't explore when men should heavage and when not. I think the rule is pretty simple: if you've got it, flaunt it, but if you don't (and you know it, in your heart of hearts), please spare us.

Frankly, guys, it can actually be disgusting if you're not in shape or you have manboobs and you're flaunting yourself. Think of looking at a fat girl in a thong; inappropriate heavage is that yucky to a woman.

boudoir peekaboo hnt

I was trying for a vintage cheesecake effect here for this week's Half-Nekkid Thursday entry. I wanted the sort of over-saturated Kodacolor effect, but the tones turned out yucky, so I converted to grayscale then played with effects to get a sepia wash look. I think with a better camera I could get more of what I wanted.

sex etymology

How words and slang evolve can be a fascinating subject. When you think about it, most of us have a private syntax we use with close family and lovers. "A Harry" might be shorthand for someone who's a tedious bore, because you happen to know a Harry who is one.

Sex talk within a relationship grows its own etymology as the relationship flourishes. It's probably a measure of the seriousness of commitment when so many things become a verbal shorthand. I've noticed this in my own longer relationships. You might not have sex slang for a one-night stand, but the longer you sleep with someone, the more you develop your own private lexicon for naughty bits and their uses.

Do you have private words for X-rated things? We do in our house.

"Thumper" is my shorthand for Darling Husband's penis. This actually had something of a complex evolution. "Thumper" is Aussie slang for a kangaroo. James is not circumsized and has a rather commodious foreskin, so one generally only sees his cockhead when he's aroused; hence, it pops out its little head like a baby kangaroo emerging from it's mama's pouch.

"Edna" is the husband's slang for my pussy. It's just a silly name he came up with one day during foreplay and, for whatever reason, it took. He speaks about Edna as if she has her own personality, like "Edna seems happy to see me today" or "I hear Edna's been lonely" when he gropes me discretely in a public place.

"Painting the dining room" is secret shorthand for having sexual relations of any sort. This came about when I wanted to get out of something and, in front of my husband and other people we hardly knew, I said something like "oh that day's not good, because we're painting the dining room."

We have no dining room, so James understood it meant he should play along. He did, and somehow that phrase evolved into meaning sex when we were in mixed company, although neither of us can remember how. We have variations on it, like "papering the dining room" or "polishing the dining room floor."

baseball sex scandal

So one of baseball's new golden boys, Grady Sizemore of the Cleveland Indians, is alleging someone stole semi-nude photos from email that he sent to his girlfriend, Playboy Playmate Brittany Binger, and posted them on the Internet. Lawyers are threatening, and it's become a lovely media feces storm.

Not surprisingly, rumors are already swirling that either Sizemore or Binger -- or both -- actually released the photos. I think the photos themselves offer evidence this may be the case.

For example, Sizemore's cock is not visible in any of the photos (some samples below; the others are variations on the same poses). If you send sexy photos to your beloved, you don't play coy. You show the goods. You show all.

If you're leaking photos to the media and claiming they're stolen, you're more discrete. You make sure they're not X-rated so they'll be well circulated. Mom might see.

That begs the question, of course, why either or both would do this? Answer: publicity. It's not just White House crashers and balloon boy parents seeking any fame they can get these days.

That aside, Grady behaves more like a gay nineteen-year-old than a baseball legend in these picture by playing with his junk. He looks, frankly, like an idiot.

Babe Ruth was a legendary cocksman long before he reached Grady's age of twenty-seven. Could you see the Babe trying to impress a woman by squeezing his package in a bathroom mirror photo? The Babe seduced women right under the noses of their husbands and lovers. He was a man, not a boy.

Of course, I couldn't post on this subject without mentioning that Grady's name sounds like a porn actor. As these pictures demonstrate, however, Grady may be named Sizemore, but he doesn't have more size.

an inclination for BDSM?

I took this test. Now I want you to take it, too. I don't want any backtalk. Are you giving me a hard time? I certainly hope not. You'll know I'll have to punish you if you do. You know I don't like it when you misbehave and don't listen to me. Now do it.

This is how I scored:

Exhibitionist/Voyeur -- 100%
Bondage -- 100%
Switch -- 100%
Degradation Lover -- 96%
Submissive -- 86%
Experimental -- 86%
Sadist -- 82%
Masochist -- 75%
Dominant -- 64%
Vanilla -- 7%

These things, of course, are never scientific. I think I was scored accurately in most areas but not in a few. I would say, for example, I'm more masochist than sadist.

bugs

A great deal of artistry went into this, but consider the subject and the placement. Tell me the truth, guys: would you ever want to make love to a woman in daylight with giant insects staring at you in the face? And what if you want to take her out for a night on the town and, when you pick her up, she's wearing a strapless dress? What do you say the first time you undress her, peel away her clothes, and this is what you find?

Ken Marcus

Ken Marcus is a renowned photographer known for his Playboy, Penthouse, and BDSM images. Not many people probably realize, however, he studied under Ansel Adams for a number of years. He's also done extensive mainstream commercial work for decades as well as celebrity portraiture.

latin tattoo

Does a tattoo become classy because it includes a Latin inscription? Perhaps its owner thinks "I'm a rebel and an intellectual, because you probably don't know what this means. Nya nya nya."

But oderint dum metuant just doesn't have that "classy" Latin feel to it that rolls off the tongue, like say animus facit nobilem or in aere aedificare.

I can see some stoned dude squinting at it in a biker bar. "What the fuck does that say bro -- "odors dumb mutant"? What the fuck that's supposed to mean?"

It actually means "let them hate so long as they fear," a quote from Caligula. I can't read Latin so I looked it up, but I know who Caligula was. I can't say that iss someone I'd wanted on my body the rest of my life. What, you couldn't find something snappy from Pol Pot?

Thanksgiving hnt

Although Thanksgiving is just another day here Down Under, I am nonetheless thankful for so many things. One of them is the wonderfully warm weather; it's strange to have a late spring/early summer day on Thanksgiving. Many flowers are in bloom, including this lovely rose featured in today's Half-Nekkid Thursday entry.

Have a wonderful, safe, healthy, and happy holiday!

virginity milestones

I'm currently reading a literary novel where they author describes the circumstances of a young woman in high school losing her virginity:

"That was the first time. It was not gross, like she imagined when she thought of her classmates and their activities. It was...something else. Like a part of her brain she hadn't known existed. Like discovering she could speak a foreign language that she had never heard before. She didn't know why she had done it -- she had been curious, she guessed, and whatever part of her was awakening, whatever part of her was impulsive and insane, caught hold suddenly."

In many ways this describes my own experience and that of other women I know, particularly the brain and language comparison. What interested me is the fact that the book's author is a man, an American named Dan Chaon. This passage appears in his first novel, You Remind Me of Me, a lovely and haunting work.

I asked Darling Husband if losing his virginity was anything like this. He said it wasn't. For him it was the thrill of having scored, of now having bragging rights, of crossing the threshold into manhood. I asked if this was true for other men he knew. He said he thought so.

On a side note, Husband lost his virginity to a friend's mother in a Mrs. Robinson-like scenario. She was the seducer, and he was the willing seventeen-year-old prey. I've seen pictures of him when he was seventeen. I can't say that I blame her.

That notwithstanding, the unscientific result of my little study is that young women may dread losing their virginity, but once it happens, it can be transforming for them. Alternatively, for young men it's more like a milestone, ranking up there with getting their first car.

the life of former pornstars

From the latest issue of The New Yorker:

NID: Yes? May I help you? Why are you knocking on my front door?

CHUCK: Ma’am, I work as a roof repairman. I just turned nineteen and I’m in terrific shape. It’s really hot out here and I am very thirsty. I’m also quite hungry. My appetites are insatiable.

ENID: A roof repairman, huh? Do you have any references?

CHUCK: No, but I am very lonely.

ENID: No references!

CHUCK: No, Ma’am.

ENID: Can you fix gutters?

CHUCK: I can fix anything.

ENID: Hmm, that’s a good skill. What are your rates?

CHUCK: Ma’am, if you’d just let me into the house, I think you’d be plenty pleased....

ENID: I wouldn’t be so sure of that. I’ve had bad experiences with handymen in the past. Sloppy work.

CHUCK: Nothing sloppy about me. Here, let me take off my shirt. And my pants.

ENID: You’re just wasting my time. Send me an estimate and I’ll think about it. Maybe in the fall.

CHUCK: But . . .

SAL (from the family room): Close the goddam door already! The blasted air-conditioning!

Read more here.

cross-gender dreams

I had a very strange dream last night. I dreamed I was somehow magically transformed into a man. I knew inherently some sort of magic had occurred and was curious to try out my rather commodious penis. I kept looking with it and touching it but felt no sensation.

I was rather quickly pursued by two women who became somewhat violent with each other deciding who would get me, but they soon settled down to getting their freak on with me at the same time. My penis responded appropriately, but I was very disappointed to discover I couldn't feel anything. It was sort of like a POV porn movie as I watched myself being serviced by these two women. I did not have an orgasm.

I awoke and was relieved to discover I was a woman once again, with fully functioning parts and without a penis. I like it this better this way.

lovely but...

The image here is lovely and imaginative, the artistry outstanding.

But...

It's forever. And ever and ever. That will be on your leg until they feed you into the cremation furnace or pack you in the wooden box to shuffle off your mortal coil. When you have old lady legs spiraled with varicose veins and saggy flesh, they'll still be there.

saying no to twilight

Darling Husband and I rent DVDs at our local library, which has a better selection and availability than the stores near us. We usually visit the library together and, as we're browsing for new video choices, one of us will pull something out, show it to the other, then we'll often react at the same time. We know each other's tastes well enough now that he can usually pick something I'll like and vice-versa.

He pulled out Twilight the other day, looked at me, and pulled a face like he'd just smelled something unpleasant. My reaction was identical. No words were exchanged. Back it went in the rack.

I never read the Stephenie Meyer books so I'm not a fan, but what I know about the movie does not appeal to me now, nor would it have appealed to me when I was fifteen. It seems to be a given that vampires in books and movies don't have sex. Anne Rice's famous blood suckers abstained, and from what I understand, the Meyer characters have the same lack of interest in rumpy-pumpy, as they say here Down Under.

I'm sure that's reassuring for parents of fifteen-year-olds, but it just makes the material seem so deliberately skewed to me that I would find the characters unrealistic from the get-go. The whole look of the films, from what I've seen in trailers for the first and second one, make them look like Abercrombie & Fitch zombies more than vampires. When I was a teenager, I lusted after men, not boys, so it's hard for me to identify with the swooning teenage girl who's excited about the male species but ambivalent about sex.

I saw a spot on telly here where some talking head was gushing about the "hunks" of New Moon, the second film in the installment. The picture shown on the screen was much like the one below, a production still I found online, and my first reaction was "they're not hunks -- they're just boys."

Hopefully somebody one day will make a good movie about vampires who have interesting, complex sex lives.

fashion world disconnect

It was bad enough when the fashion biz began to favor emotionless women for models who looked like mannequins. Now they look like mannequins crossbred with mutant aliens, not to mention she's probably 6'3" and weighs 93 pounds.

Add in the totally unflattering clothes that look like rejects from a low-budget 1970s scifi flick, and welcome to the world of today's haute couture. It seems the goal now is to make the woman as unattractive and mentally vacant as inhumanly possible.

killer boots hnt

I did a modeling gig about six months ago at a trade show where I sat on a motorcycle for four days and smiled. These boots were part of the outfit I was given to wear, which I was allowed to keep at the end of the assignment.

I'm sure these were expensive boots, but they're uncomfortable as hell. Plus, they take about a half hour to lace up correctly. I don't like footwear with ridiculously high, unsafe soles, plus add the fact that these would not pop off your feet if you fell, and they're a recipe for a broken ankle or far worse.

I would have given them to a charity shop after the gig was over were it not for the fact that Darling Husband has something of a boot fetish. It gets his motor revved when I wear these and nothing else to bed.

I titled this Half-Nekkid Thursday post "killer boots," not because I think they look killer, but because I think they are killers. One misstep on concrete and it could all be over save for the funeral.