I’ve been reading a Tumblr blog for the last weeks now. Been using nearly two weeks, it’s called Synthetic Pubes and it’s mostly pictures of people (girls) naked or in some clothes. I like to call it erotic, but I guess you can call it soft porn. It’s now 543 pages with ten posts a page, so I’ve seen over 5000 pictures. It’s a lot! When I think about it, it feels a bit like waste of time, and a bit silly. Luckely, there is a lot of nice pictures there. Some I’ve favorite as most of them comes from Flickr, other I’ve saved, and a few I’ve bookmarked. So if you like to look at some erotic, I can recommend Synthetic Pubes. He upload with several photos each day, so check out his feed to stay updated after you’ve read it.
Women would be amazed if they knew what men desire about them. Yes, of course, they want to see women naked and supine and melting, but male desire is far more readily stimulated by what the oblique glance discovers: the parted lips, the micron of eyelash which the mascara brush missed, the changing angle and shadow of cleavage, the bra-strap alternately displayed and covered up, the ripe-camembert plumpness at the edge of hips. There is, inside every adult man, a relentless Peeping Tom, a perennial 14-year-old boy, still amazed by the phenomenon of women on display, flagging their sexuality, their availability, with every square inch of visible flesh, clothing, make-up and curve.
We desire the personality that we discern in the walk, the clothes, the laugh… We look, and sigh, and wish to do certain things to her, first urgently, then luxuriantly, and keep doing it indefinitely; but we also hunger to have her do certain things to us, unimaginable though it may seem—we want her to want us. We don’t just want her surrender, like a slave captured in battle; we want her approbation, her adoration; we want to enchant her to desire us back. For, no matter how humble we feel before the dizzying fact of female beauty, men are just as narcissistic as women.”
— John Walsh (via nightmarebrunette, gauntlet)
Hey, does this handkerchief smell like chloroform to you?”
— Me, the next time I’m bored and/or miserable during a first date
When dudes wear nothing but socks, it’s a war crime. When girls do it, it’s so cute and wholesome that rainbows spring from their bush and your ears are magically filled with the sounds of laughing children and singing birds.
It would be useful if, at the peak of one’s existence, a loud, sustained cymbal could be heard by that person and that person only. Kind of, “Oh, this is it? This is as cool as I’ll ever be? Guess I can stop trying after tonight. Just glide into the grave as smoothly and gracefully as possible.”
It might spare us, collectively, from visual torture at the hands of certain people: aging trophy wives, pot-bellied former frat boys, leathery local newscasters, carrot-skinned guidos, etc. Some individuals would surely attempt to persevere after they’d heard it, but I think the cymbal would help them accept the futility of their actions and thus curb their antisocial efforts safely and quickly.
Of course, it would form a new order of faux-pas at parties: “Hey did anybody else just hear that crashing sound? It sounded just like a cymb…oh. Never mind. Damn.”