View allAll Photos Tagged Orgasm
Μια χαρά σέρνεται από το πρωί μέσα στο σπίτι στα πατώματα στις καρέκλες στους καναπέδες, κι οπουδήποτε μπορείς να φανταστείς ο Stoffel ανακάλυψε της κατσαρίδες.
Τρείς τέσσερες είναι όλες κι όλες μικρούλες μικρούλες, που το πρωί δεν φαίνονται καθώς φοβούνται το Φώς του ηλίου που σιγά σιγά όμως δυναμώνει τέρας θα γίνει.
Σιγά σιγά κι εγώ ανακάλυψα το τέρας στη γυναίκα που αγαπώ αν υποθέσουμε πως δεν με αγαπάει, πως συστηματικά με απατάει θαρρώ πιστεύω όμως με αέρα κοπανιστό.
Για λίγο την κοπάνισα κι εγώ το πρωί σκασιαρχείο κανονικό μπορείς να πεις σαν μαθητής που ποτέ δεν έγινα, αφού ποτέ δεν καβάλησα το καλάμι του χαρταετού τους.
Κι εκεί περίπου είναι που επέστρεψα στο σπίτι και μόλις άνοιξα την πόρτα, τον είδα ανάσκελα στο πάτωμα να χαριεντίζεται με της μικρές μικρές μου κατσαρίδες.
Έτσι και μου πειράξει έστω μια σύντομα θα πεθάνει σύντομα το μαύρο άλογο θα τον βρει μια και καλή, κι αν έχει και πεθερά μέχρι τότε επίσης θα πεθάνει κι αυτή.
Μα δεν πρόκειται να παντρευτεί εκτός και τον αφήσω ζωντανό να φύγει από την κατοχή από το σπίτι πες το όπως θες, ώστε τότε και μόνο να κάνει μια καινούργια αρχή.
Τέλος πάντων τώρα πρέπει να τον δείτε με της κατσαρίδες να γυρνούν πάνω στο κορμί του, τελικά έγιναν οι καλύτεροι φίλοι όπως φαίνεται με έφτασε το κάθαρμα.
Ας είναι κι ας γίνει καλύτερος από εμένα κι ας φτάσει στον ουρανό παραπάνω αν μπορεί, και τότε θα τον φιλέψω πράγματα που κανένας άνθρωπος δεν μπορεί να βρει.
Πάντος αν θυμάστε εκείνες της κομπόστες δεν λέει να της βγάλει από το μυαλό του, θυμίζοντας μου τον απαγορευμένο καρπό που δοκίμασε ο Αδάμ κατ' εντολή της Εύας.
Φυσικά φταίω κάμποσο κι εγώ καθώς της έχω αφήσει στο τραπέζι, κι αν δείτε πως γυαλίζουν τα βάζα καθώς το Φως τα διαπερνάει τότε η σειρά σου αμάρτησες κι εσύ.
Υ.Γ...Card Reader..."Αμαρτάνοντας Με Κομπόστες"
Kayden Kross is missing something in her life. Her disconnected boyfriend Erik Everhard has never satisfied her needs. It's only when her promiscuous girlfriends pass on the secret of their pleasure, does Kayden find what she is looking for an exclusive agency of men. Manuel Ferrara, James Deen, and Steve Holmes specialize in the art of sex and bringing women to explosive endings. Katsuni, Penny Brooks and Kagney Linn Karter are the women who use the studs to quench their whorish desires.
- Only the poor minds are able to censor orgasms ..........
- Tan sólo las mentes pobres, son capaces de censurar los orgasmos........
Out under the portico and in the big first room of the British pavilion stand two identical yellow sculptures. Arch-backed and bums raised, as though in some difficult Pilates position, arms behind head and huge of erection, they look as if they are about to orgasm. If Jeff Koons’s balloon dog mated with a Franz West sausage, these two works by Sarah Lucas might be their priapic offspring. Each of their bodies provides a spider-like support for a humungous questing penis, reaching skyward. In the pavilion, the tip of the penis catches the light, gleaming white against the yellow walls.
Except it is not quite a penis, not exactly a sausage and not entirely a male body. Even the pendulous sagging balls have something breast-like about them. Named after Maradona, neither of these sculptures has a hand – only a blob at the end of their tubular resin limbs. The sculptures are an up-yours welcome to Lucas’s official British contribution to the 56th Venice Biennale. Her exhibition, I Scream Daddio, uses all the artist’s familiar tropes, yet Lucas still manages to surprise. The surprise for some is that she gets away with it, time and again. Lucas has a great knack for reinvention: she can make the familiar fresh.
Beyond these two yellow sculptures, in a series of custard-yellow rumpus rooms, figures wait for or recover from sex. Or maybe they’re just naked and hanging about. Cross-legged on the edge of a chair, one looks as if she’s dying for a pee. Another spreads her legs on an office desk, and one more lies on her stomach on a drop-leaf Formica kitchen table, waiting for the postman’s knock. One leans over a toilet bowl, while another straddles a concrete loo as if it were a horse. And they’re all having a fag, each of them with a cigarette poking out of their bum or their fanny and/or their navel. Anyone got a light? Each pose, and every body, is different. They could be us. In fact, some of these bodies are casts of people I know, each of them name-checked in the accompanying exhibition pamphlet. Here’s Margot and Sadie and Pauline, Lucas and her friends, her muses.
Lucas treads a line between the bawdy, the saucy and the abject. The bawdiness is in the bodies who have no heads or arms but somehow manage a cigarette, and don’t care what we think of them. The sauce is the yellow that covers the walls. It is the yellow of eggs and sunshine and the walls of Sir John Soane’s drawing room in his house in Bloomsbury. The abject is the drama of the hapless plaster bodies, a choreography of arrested moments.
Dedicated to basic human pervery and pleasure, Lucas’s pavilion gives us room after room of sculptural images, of the kinds of things people get up to when they’re left to their own devices. These are the pleasures of the body in the listless hours when we’ve nothing more constructive to do with ourselves. The figures are also like commands and positions from a highly constructed dance: front, back, spread, close, lift, bend, turn. If this is what bodies do, it is what sculpture does, too.
What are we meant to think about as we wander from room to room, with their mid-century modern furniture, the brand new washing machine, the sanitary porcelain and the giant fridge freezer, on which a cast of the bottom half of chef Margot Henderson reclines, like one of Ingres’s odalesques?
“The sculptures are set in a sea of custard,” Lucas writes. “Crème Anglais in other words.” She wants to put us all in a good mood. The off-white plaster bodies remind her of meringues in a dessert, with Fergus Henderson providing a recipe for iles flottantes in the catalogue. Lucas’s catalogue, rather than providing explanation (though it does, by devious default) continues her work by other means. Part sculptor’s notebook, part autobiography, part diary of her life in London and Suffolk, it is filled with disarming delights.
Among her figures, wretched black bronze cats – which look as if they’re made from black bin liners and tar – pad about. They lounge on the furniture and on breeze-block plinths, minding their own business, getting their own pleasures where they can, oblivious to ours.
(The Guardian)
Denver & Rio Grande Western K-36 Locomotive #487 takes a morning Cumbres Turn up the 4% grade out of Chama, NM, headed for Cumbres Pass with s string of empty stockers and some other mixed freight. The stock cars are destined for Alamosa as the fall stock rush is fast coming. The train is pictured here at Milepost 336.8 at a location that has come to be known in the tourist era as "Orgasm Curve", probably more as a result of the activities of teenagers parking on the mesa above, than anything related to the railroad.
This image was captured during a September 2011 photo shoot on the Cumbres & Toltec Scenic Railroad, organized by Lerro Photography.
Tigers mating at night. This is the precise moment of orgasm. Taken at Tadoba Andhari Tiger Reserve during a night safari
AnnitaKoxx is at home all alone while her boyfriend is away for an extended period of time. Ih how she misses his long hard cock. All she can do is reach down her punk Capri jeans. Unzip the zipper and touch her pussy. She keeps going as it feels so good. Her hips start gyrating as she presses harder on her clit.! She opens up her jeans more she can help it. She starts to get an uncontrollable urge, everything starts tightening up, she screams and and gushes as her orgasm rolls and she lies whimpering alone on her soaking wet bed.
With a turn to conceptual art in the 1960s, artists adopted new formats: lists maps and graphs became common in what art historian Benjamin Buchloh has described as an “aesthetics of ad ministration.” Playfully subverting this trend, General Idea created this work of mail art, consisting of a questionnaire and a blank chart. Respondents were invited to track their orgasms over the course of a month, and the results were returned to General Idea for analysis and display.
Out under the portico and in the big first room of the British pavilion stand two identical yellow sculptures. Arch-backed and bums raised, as though in some difficult Pilates position, arms behind head and huge of erection, they look as if they are about to orgasm. If Jeff Koons’s balloon dog mated with a Franz West sausage, these two works by Sarah Lucas might be their priapic offspring. Each of their bodies provides a spider-like support for a humungous questing penis, reaching skyward. In the pavilion, the tip of the penis catches the light, gleaming white against the yellow walls.
Except it is not quite a penis, not exactly a sausage and not entirely a male body. Even the pendulous sagging balls have something breast-like about them. Named after Maradona, neither of these sculptures has a hand – only a blob at the end of their tubular resin limbs. The sculptures are an up-yours welcome to Lucas’s official British contribution to the 56th Venice Biennale. Her exhibition, I Scream Daddio, uses all the artist’s familiar tropes, yet Lucas still manages to surprise. The surprise for some is that she gets away with it, time and again. Lucas has a great knack for reinvention: she can make the familiar fresh.
Beyond these two yellow sculptures, in a series of custard-yellow rumpus rooms, figures wait for or recover from sex. Or maybe they’re just naked and hanging about. Cross-legged on the edge of a chair, one looks as if she’s dying for a pee. Another spreads her legs on an office desk, and one more lies on her stomach on a drop-leaf Formica kitchen table, waiting for the postman’s knock. One leans over a toilet bowl, while another straddles a concrete loo as if it were a horse. And they’re all having a fag, each of them with a cigarette poking out of their bum or their fanny and/or their navel. Anyone got a light? Each pose, and every body, is different. They could be us. In fact, some of these bodies are casts of people I know, each of them name-checked in the accompanying exhibition pamphlet. Here’s Margot and Sadie and Pauline, Lucas and her friends, her muses.
Lucas treads a line between the bawdy, the saucy and the abject. The bawdiness is in the bodies who have no heads or arms but somehow manage a cigarette, and don’t care what we think of them. The sauce is the yellow that covers the walls. It is the yellow of eggs and sunshine and the walls of Sir John Soane’s drawing room in his house in Bloomsbury. The abject is the drama of the hapless plaster bodies, a choreography of arrested moments.
Dedicated to basic human pervery and pleasure, Lucas’s pavilion gives us room after room of sculptural images, of the kinds of things people get up to when they’re left to their own devices. These are the pleasures of the body in the listless hours when we’ve nothing more constructive to do with ourselves. The figures are also like commands and positions from a highly constructed dance: front, back, spread, close, lift, bend, turn. If this is what bodies do, it is what sculpture does, too.
What are we meant to think about as we wander from room to room, with their mid-century modern furniture, the brand new washing machine, the sanitary porcelain and the giant fridge freezer, on which a cast of the bottom half of chef Margot Henderson reclines, like one of Ingres’s odalesques?
“The sculptures are set in a sea of custard,” Lucas writes. “Crème Anglais in other words.” She wants to put us all in a good mood. The off-white plaster bodies remind her of meringues in a dessert, with Fergus Henderson providing a recipe for iles flottantes in the catalogue. Lucas’s catalogue, rather than providing explanation (though it does, by devious default) continues her work by other means. Part sculptor’s notebook, part autobiography, part diary of her life in London and Suffolk, it is filled with disarming delights.
Among her figures, wretched black bronze cats – which look as if they’re made from black bin liners and tar – pad about. They lounge on the furniture and on breeze-block plinths, minding their own business, getting their own pleasures where they can, oblivious to ours.
(The Guardian)
Full preview:
hearthis.at/e.onrush/set/newton-b-tantric-orgasm/
Tracks:
Tantric Orgasm 06:47
Please, Give Me Your Shine 07:10
Acid Seed 06:27
LC-50001
© 2015 E Onrush
EAN 4250252558828
Release date 2015-10-06
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#techno
Kayden Kross is missing something in her life. Her disconnected boyfriend Erik Everhard has never satisfied her needs. It's only when her promiscuous girlfriends pass on the secret of their pleasure, does Kayden find what she is looking for an exclusive agency of men. Manuel Ferrara, James Deen, and Steve Holmes specialize in the art of sex and bringing women to explosive endings. Katsuni, Penny Brooks and Kagney Linn Karter are the women who use the studs to quench their whorish desires.
With a turn to conceptual art in the 1960s, artists adopted new formats: lists maps and graphs became common in what art historian Benjamin Buchloh has described as an “aesthetics of ad ministration.” Playfully subverting this trend, General Idea created this work of mail art, consisting of a questionnaire and a blank chart. Respondents were invited to track their orgasms over the course of a month, and the results were returned to General Idea for analysis and display.
Former DRGW K-36 Locomotive #488 takes the present-day Cumbres & Toltec Scenic Railroad's Train 216 through the stretch of track that has come to be known as "Orgasm Curve" at MP 337.0. There are a number of tales in circulation as to how this curve got its current name, the most believable of which says that the name was coined AFTER the D&RGW stopped running freight up this line....in other words, the name came about during the Cumbres & Toltec era. At any rate, the name apparently had more to do with the activities of teenage couples, who frequented the parking area at the top of the mesa just above this spot, than it did the heightened state of excitement of railfan photographers who come here each morning to grab those nicely lit shots of mountain railroading at its finest!
©2011, FUSINA Dominik
Publishing date : 25/09/2011
Location : Gleizé (France)
Don't use or publish that photo without my permission.
Thank you for your favs (F) and comments ;)
Orgasme | Coca-Cola
Ne me demandez pas ce qui a motivé le choix de cette prise de vue. Je n'ai pas d'action chez la firme américaine. Encore moins super fan de leur boisson. Je préfère largement l'eau aux sodas. Toutefois, on peut considérer que j'ai pris un "malin" plaisir à la voir se vider ainsi...
dominikfoto's photos on Flickriver
NIKON D3s
Lens : 50mm/f1.4 NIKON
Settings : --
Lights : Natural light
No tripod.
Out under the portico and in the big first room of the British pavilion stand two identical yellow sculptures. Arch-backed and bums raised, as though in some difficult Pilates position, arms behind head and huge of erection, they look as if they are about to orgasm. If Jeff Koons’s balloon dog mated with a Franz West sausage, these two works by Sarah Lucas might be their priapic offspring. Each of their bodies provides a spider-like support for a humungous questing penis, reaching skyward. In the pavilion, the tip of the penis catches the light, gleaming white against the yellow walls.
Except it is not quite a penis, not exactly a sausage and not entirely a male body. Even the pendulous sagging balls have something breast-like about them. Named after Maradona, neither of these sculptures has a hand – only a blob at the end of their tubular resin limbs. The sculptures are an up-yours welcome to Lucas’s official British contribution to the 56th Venice Biennale. Her exhibition, I Scream Daddio, uses all the artist’s familiar tropes, yet Lucas still manages to surprise. The surprise for some is that she gets away with it, time and again. Lucas has a great knack for reinvention: she can make the familiar fresh.
Beyond these two yellow sculptures, in a series of custard-yellow rumpus rooms, figures wait for or recover from sex. Or maybe they’re just naked and hanging about. Cross-legged on the edge of a chair, one looks as if she’s dying for a pee. Another spreads her legs on an office desk, and one more lies on her stomach on a drop-leaf Formica kitchen table, waiting for the postman’s knock. One leans over a toilet bowl, while another straddles a concrete loo as if it were a horse. And they’re all having a fag, each of them with a cigarette poking out of their bum or their fanny and/or their navel. Anyone got a light? Each pose, and every body, is different. They could be us. In fact, some of these bodies are casts of people I know, each of them name-checked in the accompanying exhibition pamphlet. Here’s Margot and Sadie and Pauline, Lucas and her friends, her muses.
Lucas treads a line between the bawdy, the saucy and the abject. The bawdiness is in the bodies who have no heads or arms but somehow manage a cigarette, and don’t care what we think of them. The sauce is the yellow that covers the walls. It is the yellow of eggs and sunshine and the walls of Sir John Soane’s drawing room in his house in Bloomsbury. The abject is the drama of the hapless plaster bodies, a choreography of arrested moments.
Dedicated to basic human pervery and pleasure, Lucas’s pavilion gives us room after room of sculptural images, of the kinds of things people get up to when they’re left to their own devices. These are the pleasures of the body in the listless hours when we’ve nothing more constructive to do with ourselves. The figures are also like commands and positions from a highly constructed dance: front, back, spread, close, lift, bend, turn. If this is what bodies do, it is what sculpture does, too.
What are we meant to think about as we wander from room to room, with their mid-century modern furniture, the brand new washing machine, the sanitary porcelain and the giant fridge freezer, on which a cast of the bottom half of chef Margot Henderson reclines, like one of Ingres’s odalesques?
“The sculptures are set in a sea of custard,” Lucas writes. “Crème Anglais in other words.” She wants to put us all in a good mood. The off-white plaster bodies remind her of meringues in a dessert, with Fergus Henderson providing a recipe for iles flottantes in the catalogue. Lucas’s catalogue, rather than providing explanation (though it does, by devious default) continues her work by other means. Part sculptor’s notebook, part autobiography, part diary of her life in London and Suffolk, it is filled with disarming delights.
Among her figures, wretched black bronze cats – which look as if they’re made from black bin liners and tar – pad about. They lounge on the furniture and on breeze-block plinths, minding their own business, getting their own pleasures where they can, oblivious to ours.
(The Guardian)
By 1918, the vibrator was available in the Sears, Roebuck catalog to make any housewife happy–a bargain at $6. By 1920, more than 50 different kinds had been invented, according to Rachel Maines, author of The Technology of Orgasm.
“It was a big era for the vibrator,” says Maines. “And they weren’t sexualized. It wasn’t a problem to get them. But the cat was out of the bag as soon as they were used in porn movies.” One of the first adult films to feature a vibrator was the 1920s movie “Widow’s Delight,” in which a woman rejects her suitor to go home to her vibrator. “The veil was off,” Hysteria director Tanya Wexler says. “Oh my God–who knew these were for sex? Shocker!”
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.....item 1).... Ms. Magazine ... Ms. Blog ... msmagazine.com/blog
Home / Life / How the Vibrator Came Out of the Closet
How the Vibrator Came Out of the Closet
June 1, 2012 by Jennifer Vineyard
msmagazine.com/blog/blog/2012/06/01/how-the-vibrator-came...
Freud condemned the clitoral orgasm as “immature”–but at least he recognized that it was in fact an orgasm. Before that, medical science didn’t even think orgasms were sexual in nature, calling them “paroxysms,” and doctors actually prescribed them for their female patients. The practice of bringing them about by massage–first by hand, then by machine–was in vogue in the Victorian era and put into mass effect with the advent of the vibrator, which allowed doctors to “service” patients diagnosed with “hysteria” even faster.
The new Maggie Gyllenhaal-Hugh Dancy period sex comedy Hysteria looks at the invention of the first vibrator in the 1880s, which led rapidly to the devices being mass-marketed for home use. But even though more women than ever could achieve climax with the help of a vibrator, for decades feminists still had to fight to assert that it was normal and healthy to do so. Once the practice was recognized as being sexual, it was frowned upon because of the prejudice that women were supposed to climax from vaginal penetration alone. It’s a notion that persists in our popular culture–just think of every movie scene in which a man slams a woman against a wall and they achieve orgasm simultaneously.
That this is not a common scenario is indicated by Shere Hite’s ground-breaking Hite Report (1976), which found that many women pleased themselves without a penis. If women did choose a partner-in-crime to achieve orgasm, the vibrator was still a favorite option. But what those vibrators look like–and how they’re viewed–has evolved quite a bit over the past 100-plus years.
Vibrators weren’t available for home use until about 1899–if you wanted to use one before that, you had to see your doctor, and it usually cost about $2 at the time. And they weren’t advertised until 1904, when they started popping up in women’s periodicals, with such taglines as “Vibrate your body and make it well,” “Take the edge off things,” “Nature’s own cure-all” and “Magic power… will make you feel like a new person.” These ads made no mention of sex, orgasms, or even hysteria–the so-called “disease” for which vibrators were the purported cure. By 1918, the vibrator was available in the Sears, Roebuck catalog to make any housewife happy–a bargain at $6. By 1920, more than 50 different kinds had been invented, according to Rachel Maines, author of The Technology of Orgasm.
“It was a big era for the vibrator,” says Maines. “And they weren’t sexualized. It wasn’t a problem to get them. But the cat was out of the bag as soon as they were used in porn movies.” One of the first adult films to feature a vibrator was the 1920s movie “Widow’s Delight,” in which a woman rejects her suitor to go home to her vibrator. “The veil was off,” Hysteria director Tanya Wexler says. “Oh my God–who knew these were for sex? Shocker!” Once the vibrator was used in porn, it was harder to find a doctor to use one in treatment–although some continued to diagnose hysteria well up until the 1950s. Says Maines, “You can still find doctors who will do this treatment in Argentina, which makes me think it’s a great reason to go to Buenos Aires!”
During the sexual revolution of the ’60s and ’70s, feminists brought back the vibrator as a means for women to find release without relying on a partner, and by 1977, the first women-centric sex store, Good Vibrations, was open for business. But in non-pornos, the vibrator was kept more symbolic, fantastic–the orgasmic Excessive Machine in 1968′s Barbarella (“It couldn’t keep up with you! What kind of girl are you? Have you no shame?”) or the Orgasmatron in 1973′s Sleeper (“You want to get in the machine now?”). Debra Winger made do with a gyrating mechanical bull in 1980′s Urban Cowboy (“Look at that! Her nipples are hard!”).
But by the late 1980s, the vibrators were coming out of the closet, thanks to open discussion about women’s orgasms in in films such as When Harry Met Sally… and Sex, Lies, and Videotape, which touched on topics like faking it and the difficulty of achieving orgasm. In 1988, a silly comedy called Casual Sex? had the audacity to name-check a vibrator when Lea Thompson said, “I’m sick of my Mighty Intruder vibrator with the flexible shaft and textured head.” But in mainstreams films, it was still a topic of shame, as in 1989′s Parenthood when Steve Martin found Dianne Wiest’s vibrator when he was looking for a flashlight during a blackout. When one of the kids asks, “Mommy, what was that?” she’s told, “That was an electric ear cleaner.”
By the early-to-mid 1990s, it was far more common to acknowledge that a vibrator was in your possession–from the friend who confides to Sharon Stone in Sliver that she’s going to get a “plastic yeast infection” to Brian Krakow on My So-Called Life complaining that the one his parents have sounds “like a lawnmower” to Marina playfully making the most of a vibrating toy diver during her bath in Pedro Almodovar’s Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! The 1994 film The Road to Wellville featured Victorian ideas about how to achieve optimum health, including electrical stimulus to your genitals–even Matthew Broderick got a little action. More direct was the teenage girl who handcuffed her boyfriend and took out her vibrator to pleasure herself in front of him on HBO’s Dream On–”Cool,” he says–or Jennifer Aniston taking hers into the bathroom when her husband won’t have sex with her in She’s the One.
As the 1990s came to a close, fictional girls and women were more willing to experiment–Natasha Lyonne took a vibrator for a test drive in The Slums of Beverly Hills, after Marisa Tomei recommends one and calls it her “boyfriend.” But it was Sex and the City that made the vibrator a national conversation, thanks to the pivotal episode The Turtle and the Hare that popularized “the Rabbit,” plus a later episode where Samantha gives some frank advice about which devices to use (and which ones to avoid). “You don’t want that one, too many bells and whistles,” she tells one customer at Brookstone, which insists the store was only selling “neck massagers,” not vibrators. “That one actually works against you,” Samantha says. “If we wanted to work that hard, we’d get us a man, am I right?” And about another model, “No, absolutely not. That will burn your clit off.”
“It was a big deal,” said Good Vibrations sexologist Carol Queen. “People could talk about sex toys and have a really honest conversation. It made it possible to say, ‘Yes, I have one.’ And I don’t think the Rabbit Pearl would have been as popular if not for [SATC].”
Sales skyrocketed, and the vibrator was officially mainstream. Gil Grissom could find one in a dishwasher on CSI and Buster could use a cleaning robot in bed for comedy’s sake on Arrested Development. Indie films continued to be more explicit in the 2000s–Shinya Tsukamoto’s A Snake in June, when Rinko uses one for a voyeuristic stalker; Michael Winterbottom’s 9 Songs, when Lisa uses one after getting a table-dance–but creative substitutes allowed bigger-release films to be more stimulating. Elizabeth Banks in The 40-Year Virgin uses a showerhead to “warm up” for Steve Carell (and then Seth Rogen). Parker Posey uses her vibrating cell phone in both Fay Grim and The Oh in Ohio–which leads her into a sex shop as part of her exploration of sexual empowerment. Alice and Dana on season two of The L Word went sex toy shopping as well–and like the girls on Sex and the City, learn way more about their options than they had ever considered. Of course, by the next episode, they also learn that it’s hard to travel with such toys–and it can be embarrassing to have airport security hold up your vibrators, dildos, and nipple clamps for all the world to see. “You can’t take these on the plane, ladies,” they’re told. “You should know better than that.” (It’s a little more acceptable now).
Still, it’s always embarrassing as well as frustrating to be walked in on (as Laney’s whole family does in Not Another Teen Movie, coming to wish her a happy birthday just as her “My Lil’ Vibrator” is getting going), called at the crucial moment (as Courtney Cox’s mom does on Dirt to remind her that she’s late for a reservation: “You better be coming!”), or to drop the remote control while your hands are tied behind your back when you’re watching porn at the same time you’re using your vibrator (as Amber Benson does in Strictly Sexual). Okay, probably that last one doesn’t happen quite as much. “Okay, you caught me,” Amber’s character says. “I mean, men are not the only ones who like to wack off like zoo monkeys.”
The 2000s also saw this idea embraced on TV. Charlotte is giving vibrators away by season three of Private Practice–the Aphrodite, to be precise, from Dr. Laura Berman’s line of sex toys. Peggy on Mad Men gets a little vibe action in a 2007 episode when Don Draper assigns her the “Electrosizer” to try out for an ad campaign. An early predecessor to vibrating panties, it’s a girdle that’s supposed to promote weight loss, but she discovers that its arousing capacity is “probably unrelated,” so she pitches the ad line: “You’ll love the way it makes you feel.” The men are confused, so Don explains, “It provides the pleasure of a man, without the man.” Even Kristen Wiig got some vibe time this month before leaving Saturday Night Live, during a Mother’s Day skit in which she is interrupted while reading 50 Shades of Grey. Of course, the hubby and kids walk in to surprise her with breakfast in bed. “Get out!” she tells them. “Look, a microphone!” one of the kids exclaim during a family photo.
Recent film has seen lots of vibrator discussion as well. Elizabeth Banks–back for another round of masturbation talk with Seth Rogen in Zack and Miri Make a Porno–explains: “I never met a man who makes me come like a vibrator does.” Berman’s vibrating panties made a big splash with Katherine Heigl in The Ugly Truth when a kid gets a hold of the remote control and gives her an orgasm during the middle of a business dinner. “Oh! Oh, wow. Yeah! Yeah. Mmm. This ceviche, it’s so good. Quite possibly the best I’ve ever tasted. I’m going to go ask the chef about the recipe.” (“What’s in ceviche?” one of the dinner guests asks, in a callback to Rob Reiner’s mom asking to order the same pastrami sandwich as Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally…) Julianne Moore and Annette Bening use a vibrator in The Kids Are All Right. However, most films tend toward more talk than action, because too real or long of a female orgasm puts the movie at risk of getting a NC-17 rating (as This Film Is Not Yet Rated explains). So women on film are usually relegated to sex that’s all about penetration and not about the other practices that actually work for women.
Now, however, vibrators are taking center stage. Sarah Ruhl’s play, In the Next Room, or the Vibrator Play, put them on Broadway, and now Hysteria places the vibrator on the big screen, tracing its invention to a freethinking woman (played by Gyllenhaal) who links female orgasms with women’s rights. “My goal isn’t to shock people, but to make you laugh,” director Tanya Wexler said. “It’s a thinking woman’s romantic comedy, and it’s just what the doctor ordered. There’s no need to hide it anymore. There’s no shame.“
(From TOP LEFT to BOTTOM LEFT): Photo of antique poster advertising the doctor’s cure for women’s hysteria; photo of an early century vibrator advertisement; Photo of window display in Good Vibration’s Antique Vibrator Museum; Photo of sexologist Carol Queen from Flickr user Charles Haynes under Creative Commons 3.0; Photo of OhMiBod club vibrating panties which can be purchased at
Filed under Life, Sex + Relationships · Tagged with Barbarella, Good Vibrations, Hite Report, Hysteria, Masturbation, Orgasm, Rachel Maines, Sleeper, Tanya Wexler, The Technology of Orgasm, Urban Cowboy, Vibrators, Widow's Delight
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Kayden Kross is missing something in her life. Her disconnected boyfriend Erik Everhard has never satisfied her needs. It's only when her promiscuous girlfriends pass on the secret of their pleasure, does Kayden find what she is looking for an exclusive agency of men. Manuel Ferrara, James Deen, and Steve Holmes specialize in the art of sex and bringing women to explosive endings. Katsuni, Penny Brooks and Kagney Linn Karter are the women who use the studs to quench their whorish desires.
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No. Not with lovely Dania although with consent I may be prepared to.
No.
Tessa has just got the new PS CS5. Woohoo!
Enough computing power to take you to the moon
A lovely picture of flickr.com/photos/200054231@N07/
To Infinity and Beyond: This Is the Afterlife ~
Turning inside out, the young shaman falls though a long swirling tunnel formed of his inverted self, his unbodied mouth and eyes agape in a primal rush toward extinction.
He accelerates t
hrough a tightly wound vortex that shifts and bends to accommodate his course, always centred in the swirling tube which never touches his falling, disembodied perspective. The tunnel is made of light, and of his own bloodstream, and of all the memories and unremembered details of materiality and personality that made up his life – yet not merely ‘his’ life.
Every human, fish, bird, animal, insect, cell and blood corpuscle that has ever lived is there with him, all at once – the dying shaman can feel their bright fear and ecstasy pouring through him as they all rush toward an unseen destination around the curving, translucent bends of the primal vortex. Even though every being dies alone – no matter if a multitude of witnesses is present – the moment of death itself is one great screaming orgasm experienced simultaneously by every one, every single thing that has ever lived – all our eyes and mouths and ganglia agape at the same simultaneous culmination of our material existence.
The tunnel is an eternally vivid living record of past events and future dreams, all memories and visions embroidered into the seamless fabric of its swirl – and Ram’yana’s private past and the panoply of his personal memories are displayed most prominently to him, brightly livid episodes which emerge from the tubular walls as he passes. His strongest experiences – the most impressive ones, that imprinted themselves most brightly into the palimpsest of his being – leap out at him in high relief as he turns and twists and falls and flies, a singular eye of consciousness accelerating toward the endless end of the convoluted time tunnel that’s leading him home.
As the world we experience slips past us at the periphery of our sensoria, an ongoing tunnel vision moves with us at the extremity of our perceptions, whether dying, dead or alive. Journeying out of the physical plane, outside the material matrix of the world, Ram’yana is beyond time and the ken of time-bound beings; as he leaves four dimensional Timespace and approaches the speed of light everything twists into a tunnel which lengthens fore and aft.
He sees his grandfather and grandmother, Mickey Mouse and Pluto, all the dogs and cats and mice and goldfish that shared his boyhood years, the smells of his houses and the flavours of his lovers. He hears the laughter of his kindergarten friends, their bright faces visible all around him singing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’, while pretty little Abigail jumps over a spinning rope twirled by Gina and Hannah, her long blonde pink-ribboned pigtails rotating around the sides of her head.
He holds his mother’s huge hand, grasping her finger through the wooden bars of his bassinet while she sings to him in the sultry evening air. He witnesses the expression of semi-resigned shock on his father’s face during the Cuban missile crisis and again when Kennedy was shot, sees the squashed remains of mosquitoes on the wall above his crib, watches the strange lights moving in the sky while all the neighbours point and speculate, sinks again with a collapsing sandbank on Bondi Beach, swept away with hundreds of panicking faces being pulled out to the deep sea along with him, while hundreds of man-eating sharks are driven off by the beating, splashing oars of desperate lifesavers.
He sees his mother’s eyes for the first time all over again and screams at the hard slap on his bottom as he hangs before Doctor Traub’s thick-lensed glasses in the bright, antiseptic birth theatre. His paternal grandmother smiles at him as she leans over and obscures his view of the magnificent giant yellow flowers of the magnolia tree while she wheels him in his pram; he can still smell the cloying fragrance of the flowers. His mother’s mother screams as he holds a dingo puppy up for her inspection and she tumbles over backward in her bedroom, breaking her hip while his eight year old eyes wash the scene away with tears that burn through the illusory years.
The Cat in the Hat and the Mighty Thor; the smell and Hungarian accent of alcoholic Uncle Tony, putting him off beer for years with his first taste of bitter ale at the age of six, and the bright laughing face of his babysitter Wendy by the blazing wood fire; the spray of blood when he cut his wrist falling onto a broken bottle at the age of three and the dizzying view from the emergency surgeon’s high private balcony; the first time he kissed a girl and the first time he dreamed of kissing a girl, all bound up together; flying through the sky in a propeller-driven passenger plane, watching circular rainbows following him in the clouds below.
White sulphur-crested cockatoos and sparrows circle his yard while kookaburras laugh in the gum trees; the first terrifying time his father holds him up high in the air to place him in the fork of a tree; his first night after he ran away from home, reclining on a beanbag in a Kings Cross commune reading Philip Jose Farmer’s pertinent To Your Scattered Bodies Go – everything is there, each scene and sensation embedded within and revealing a multitude of others. Everything. His dying mind seeks out everything he’s ever experienced, seeking a way back into the womb of living as he falls through something else entirely, riding a rollercoaster beyond the imagination of the most topologically tormented tycoon.
As Ram’yana falls he flashes before the eyes of his whole life – as others fall with him, many others, all others, sharing the time tunnel with his self-judging awareness. In the eternity of the Fall everything hidden or repressed is exposed in the Divine Light of clear sight and each being is their own Judge, emerging from the blindfold of their material existence to weigh their own soul on the ineradicable scales of justice and mercy. Conscience is the soul and the soul is immortally, inescapably honest with itself when released from the fetters of self-deceit and delusion.
Beyond time, at the singular moment of the great primal rush that is the birth and death canal leading from one world to the next, everyone experiences the same thingat the same time. We all come and go together in a mind-blowing orgasm; dreaming or screaming, laughing or crying, all emotion quails and pales before the rush of unstoppable motion that dwarfs any and every trivial concern.
No thought of gods or devils, life or death in the primal scream toward the Light at the end of the tunnel – the only thing that matters is holding onto your headless hat and the wordless regrets felt toward all the people, animals and conscious entities you ever knew deeply, or ever loved – and still love, deeply, tenderly, with a perspective of forgiveness, understanding and compassion never vouchsafed to your flesh-bound, in-coiled, emotion-embroiled mortal personality.
Ram is every human who ever lived and died, every fish ever caught in a current to swirl down into lightless depths beyond its control, every bird caught in a whirlwind that flings it to flinders, every animal diving for cover into cloaking vegetation from an inescapable predator, every individual blood corpuscle flinging itself on the way to the crushing pressure at the heart of its warm, pulsating cosmos. As he pours through the end of the world the tunnel twists and whirls, always hiding the point of it all, the point of no return, the heart of the matter, the source of every thing and being – and his mind expands to simultaneously see his spiraling course as a single thread in a vast interwoven image.
The tunnel is one thread among myriad drab and colourful strands in a great uncharitable tapestry, an inextricable part of its intricate pattern. The dying shaman follows the course of his life along its undulating strand and sees that his thread rises and falls above and beneath uncountable other interlocking threads, a spectrum of hues and textures in the enormously unfathomable tapestry. As his thread rises above another he is ‘conscious’, while the thread it occludes is ‘dreaming’; where his strand is covered by another thread, his mortal body sleeps and dreams while the other strand lives their waking life. Everyone and everything is there, all at once, simultaneously, lain out and displayed before him with no need for the flow of time to elucidate the infinite multiplicity of being.
Turn the tapestry around. The thought comes unbidden and the cloth reverses itself around him in a loopy topological twist; the implicately shared complementary nature of consciousness becomes apparent to his blown mind as he sees himself dreaming the lives of others, and others dreaming through his waking eyes and flesh. The intermingling pathways wind around the curving delineaments of their divine co-creation, which turns into itself like a Moebius strip until the beginning of one thread seamlessly winds into the end of another. The falcon is the hunter is the arrow is the feather is the truth. All is alive and whole; nothing is partial or frayed.
The tapestry is vast, but he’s able to follow his individuated thread through the colourful patterns and sees that the enormous conglomeration of dreams and lives is incomplete – not completed by the path of the single thread that is his experience of existence, rising from the tapestry to enter him as him. At the same timeless moment, Ram’yana approaches the plexus of light that is the destiny of all nations, women and men – the future and past of all that are born to fall along with him, minds blown in the blinding light of the immortal portal.
An immaculate blazing white-hot sun glows at the end of the tunnel. He can see it ever more clearly through the transparing walls of the vortex, thinning and fading in the face of the overwhelmingly brilliant source and core of existence. Ram sees the arcs of a trans-finite net spreading outward from the source, sees an infinitude of other vortices approaching its plexus from more angles than he can wrap his bodiless head around. They pass through each other in ways that defy and tease his mortal three-dimensionally entrained mind – but the arrangement makes subtle sense to a higher form of his being, trembling on the edge of an unchartable metamorphosis into something so much greater as to be intrinsically unimaginable. Simultaneously, on another level, the individual personality of the shaman approaches its ultimate rebirth and transformation in his flight toward the blinding light of the central sun.
The source of all is the hot, bright core and central axis of the centreless multiverse, the eternal end of every tunnel; the maw of a transdimensional creature about to swallow him up, the Infinite Light of God and his own silent heart gently glowing in timeless repose. He flies around a final bend in the dissolving tunnel, surging toward the arcane net that veils the core – which flares into him as the tunnel widens, opening into the final straight.
Ram’yana flashes toward the weave that’s flung to the ends of the cosmos, spreading himself to embrace the Light – and as he reaches it, he encounters the safety net. A web-like sieve is strung across the open maw of All, and as Ram’yana passes though it a great, resounding BOUMMB fills the boundless universe – the sound of one heartbeat, as loud as the boom that eternally creates the unborn, ever-living universe; the sound of Shiva’s eye opening and of one hand clapping.
Before your time, he hears and feels, not ready, not yet – unfinished – and he feels himself shrinking toward an infinitesimally small spot in the multitude of multiverses – back into the weave, where plan net X marks the spot where all things meet in his current-bound primate life.
Boumb… Boom…. Boom!
That’s why I’m here, writing this to you ‘now’ – the same ‘now’ that you are reading it in, really. I and eye remember it all vividly, not as something to slowly forget or avoid in the unfocused mind’s eye, but as an ongoing experience that is with me now, always, dynamically imprinted. It is with me as it is with you, when you close your eyes and open your memory to see truly through the waters of forgetfulness, to the infinite waters of eternal life.
Life and death, sensory wakefulness and supersensory dreaming are the same thing, appearing as the warp and weft of the reversible tapestry of existence. And everyone, each of us, is the whole tapestry, inextricably interwoven – everyone is everyone, and that’s about as close as this constraining corsetry of early third millennium Inglesh needs to get at this point in infinite time – xcept, perhaps, for the most important thing of all -
Every one you truly touch and are touched by, in every way, leaves the deepest and most prominent engravings in your heart, mind and soul. What we do unto others is what we do to ourselves – and other living beings are more than mere memory mirrors or handy usable tools. That’s what draws us back for more, and more again – the need to do better by our selves – over and over, until we do it right. Then we get another choice – or another chance to ride the carousel Wheel of Fortune again, if we so choose.
The multiple layers of ascendant consciousness are a self-filtering system of co-evolution – a system of slowly developing focus and perspective that leads our awareness to other dimensions, already inextricably interwoven with the relatively ‘familiar’ bounds of our largely unknown but ever-present reality. There’s no dim-witted hierarchy of order-givers or sword-wielding guardians barring the doors of higher perception – the gateway to Heaven on Earth. There’s just you – and me, and all of us, together. We all have our time to shine, and that time is always now.
Yet Death is not Dying. In the Bardo spaces between thy flowering carnations of existence, all the bright religious hopes and turgid superstitious terrors await the untrained monkey mind in its ongoing fall toward dissolution or reintegration. The Bardo Realms are entire worlds or pocket universes as apparently solid as the full-blown reality ye imagine around thee, right where thou art sitting, right now. How do ye know thou art alive, not dreaming this experience, right here and now? Do ye think that’s air you’re breathing?
A true story
By Ram Ayana @ hermetic.blog.com/2012/03/13/to-infinity-and-beyond-this-...
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The sex instinct will be eradicated. Procreation will be an annual formality like the renewal of a ration card. We shall abolish the orgasm. Our neurologists are at work upon it now...
As ever I'm amazed by the random juxtapositions thrown up when written works, books, journals, magazines are gathered together. I never move or 'pose' the subjects but on this occasion I couldn't resist edging the face slightly further out - these are issues of a German medical ethics journal from the mid-sixties..the quote is, of course Orwell's 1984...