Archive for the 'same sex' Category

Excessive Centaur Play

April 4, 2008



Redheads in the vaulted jacuzzi

April 4, 2008


Look to the image on the Right. While dinner commences at the top, red headed muscular men bathe in the basement.

Christ and Judas

April 4, 2008


April 4, 2008


As illustrated by previous posts, I am interested in an erotic/pornographic imaginary that has yet to be familiar to me and others.

Here, a woman writhes in black liquid – and because she is beautiful and the scattered flan and artful posture imdicate a sexual possibility- let’s pretend its orgasmic fluid – the color of squid ink.


March 19, 2008

Miltary showers

This claptrap makeshift shower filled with military men bathing hails from the library of congress. The context presumes the disaffected view of a government documentarian. However, sexual drive makes do with scant resources and it is difficult to believe that this photo has not been repurposed. There is this lazy presumption that Porn Industries provide porn. But porn is produced, at points that are outside of economy and institution, simply by the desire. The viewer’s desire forces the “outsider” (outside of the porn industry) photo towards release. I am interested in the moments when unseemingly pornographic images are repurposed – a kind of ocular off-roading on the masturbator’s point. Outsider Porn…

The bandaged shoulder

March 18, 2008




Duane Michels visually translates Greek poet Constantine. P. Cavafy‘s work. He is obviously referencing “The Bandaged Shoulder” (See below) and “He Came To Read.” I prefer “Che fece …. il gran rifiuto” and “I went” but these are not as easily transportable to erotic photography. (Side Note: Cavafy wrote “Waiting for the Barbarians”- which is also the title of a latter day novel by Coetze.)

The bandaged shoulder

He said that he had hurt himself on a wall or that he had fallen.
But there was probably another reason
for the wounded and bandaged shoulder.

With a somewhat abrupt movement,
to bring down from a shelf some
photographs that he wanted to see closely,
the bandage was untied and a little blood ran.

I bandaged the shoulder again, and while bandaging it
I was somewhat slow; because it did not hurt,
and I liked to look at the blood. That
blood was a part of my love.

When he had left, I found in front of the chair,
a bloody rag, from the bandages,
a rag that looked in belonged in garbage;
which I brought up to my lips,
and which I held there for a long time —
the blood of love on my lips.

Constantine P. Cavafy (1919)