View allAll Photos Tagged Striptease
Santiago de la Monclova Mexico 1982 Naughty Cabaret Show
Mexican striptease performer Frontera Monclova 1982
امروز عصر درختان استریپتیز می‌کردند، یکی یکی لباس‌های زرد و نارنجی را می‌کندند و زمین می‌ریختند.
کلاغ‌های بی‌حیا از خود بی‌خود شده بودند؛ غارغارکنان دور درخت می‌چرخیدند.
خورشیدخانوم از خجالت سرخ شده بود و پشت ابرها قایم شده‌بود.
ابرها رگ غیرتشان برق زد و آسمانِ از همه‌جا بی‌خبر درختان را سنگسار کرد.
درختان سرشکسته شدند. عصبانی شدم. رو به آسمان کردم که بگویم....
که دیدم ابری، خورشید را عاشقانه در آغوش گرفته است و ...
ا
* Thank You Sharareh ...
'With Monaco as a backdrop, Betty Pedersen demonstrates an old continental custom. Changing costumes in public requires, first, organisation, and then concentration.'
I picked up three wonderful little mens magazines from the 1950s/60s. Quite sexist and politically incorrect in places but wonderfully vintage and 'of the era'.
Hah, this is a small Crab Spider (Thomisidae) exposing its legs from behind a flower cluster of California Buckwheat (Eriogonum fasciculatum, Polygonaceae) by the mailbox. It seems to be making a flirty come-hither gesture with its top leg. You can see just a bit of the spider's palps, which gives a hint about its orientation. The general hairiness of the spider suggests that it is genus Mecaphesa - again. Arachtober 13. (San Marcos Pass, 12 October 2017)
Stripteaser is one of those iconic and legendary race cars which seized the imagination and the affection of drag race fans.
It started life as a Jaguar-powered Minivan with the original steel body and was developed over the years into a sort of mini funny car with a one piece fibreglass flip-up body.
It still retained its 3.8 litre Jaguar power plant which was the mainstay of junior and middle competition altereds in the 1970s.
The addition of a dash of the hard stuff enabled Stripteaser to dip into the high eight second zone. Its unpredictable handling and wild wheels-up launches endeared it to the fans both here in the UK and in Scandinavia.
The team of Bob Messent and Roger Bishop sold Stripteaser to Bob Jarrett who raced it for some time with great success. But when Bob's interest turned towards full-size funny cars he sold Stripteaser to Pascal Sarazin who raced it in France and at Hockenheim.
Thanks to:
(Somewhere in Soho)
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lullaby
As palavras congelam na minha boca. Encaro minhas pernas e não consigo falar. Não sei o que quero dizer. A minha definição de desespero é precisamente essa: não conseguir ter uma conversa comigo mesma. Na minha mente, existe alguém ali do lado - um amigo, um familiar, um amor, qualquer pessoa. É difícil encarar a realidade: estou completamente sozinha (nem a minha voz resolveu dar as caras), num quarto pequeno, numa noite abafada, dentro de uma cidade sem misericórdia.
Meu coração bate acelerado. A cabeça dói, a pressão baixa, a mente tenta sossegar. Mas não consegue.
Meu corpo, cansado, tenta gritar. Quantas vezes a velocidade dos meus pensamentos feriu meu corpo cansado? Não sei contar. Meus braços, minhas pernas, parecem longe de mim. Sinto algo que não sei definir. Ansiedade, depressão, humor-embotado-afeto... como era mesmo aquele termo da psiquiatria? Será que isso ainda importa?
Eu tento sufocar o desespero que sinto em perceber que permaneci neste limbo mais vezes do que deveria: a cama por fazer, o corpo cansado, a mente inquieta, um desejo de dormir, outro desejo de permanecer acordada enquanto resolvo essa situação. Que situação?
O céu muda de cor tão frequentemente. Um azul metálico, as nuvens roxas, uma agonia tão grande. Quero gritar, mas gritar o quê? Que decisão é essa, que ninguém irá fazer por mim?
Meus braços feridos dizem uma coisa, mas a minha ambição mira em outra direção. Dinheiro suficiente para comprar um carro, um mês sendo espetada por agulhas. Nunca fiz coisas estúpidas por dinheiro. Nunca liguei pra dinheiro.
O que aconteceu comigo que me tornou uma pessoa assim? O que foi que me tornou essa coisa tão disforme, incapaz de se apaixonar, mas capaz de enfiar não sei quantas agulhas a mando da indústria farmacêutica por uma grana extra? O que foi que me transformou numa cobaia corajosa o suficiente para hiperestimular meus ovários, mas covarde demais para amar alguém?
São novamente dez horas. Entro na cozinha. Um amigo está lá. Desabafo. Ele diz que, no meu lugar, faria a mesma coisa. Meu coração sossega um pouco, mas a estrela afiada da minha consciência diz que tomo as decisões erradas por motivos mais errados ainda. A cada dia que passo nessa selva de pedra, distancio-me um pouco mais de mim mesma.
Lembro de Camila. Lembro dos três filhos, das crianças agarrando as minhas pernas, dos cafés no Rio Branco, os dez anos de casados, muito menos dinheiro do que eu penso em um dia ter. Aquilo é a minha definição de felicidade, mas eu estou correndo a passos largos na direção contrária.
A garganta é amarga. A dor é pungente. Não queria estar sozinha neste momento tão frágil, mas passei tanto tempo impedindo qualquer pessoa de se aproximar que parece quase inviável desejar isso agora. E mesmo assim, tenho vergonha. Nos meus desejos mais ingênuos, é sempre assim que acontece: apesar das minhas inúmeras tentativas de isolamento, alguém aparece nas sombras para tentar me ajudar. Minha mente corre. Olhos azuis vívidos na minha mente. Não existe um par de olhos azuis sequer neste quarto - todos eles estão a milhares de quilômetros de distância.
Tento chorar, mas não consigo. Sempre consegui sentir. Sempre consegui falar, chorar, gritar, escrever. Mas nada mais consigo ultimamente. A minha verve escoa aos borbotões por esse chão, esvaindo, esgotando. Vou voltar menos vermelha para casa.
As flores de plástico não morrem. Me tornei imortal, mas para fazê-lo, matei meu coração. Sufoquei meus sentimentos. Imortal porque a vida já não corre aqui. Imortal porque me isentei de tudo aquilo que me tornava viva - as palavras, o amor, a busca por algo maior, bem maior que eu. A busca por algo que não fosse dinheiro e um ou dois carimbos no passaporte. Nem isso resta incólume. Olho pela janela, os trens passando, e quero gritar: vocês me roubaram tudo, até mesmo aquilo que eu achava que nunca poderia ser perdido.
Ainda assim, espero. Um grão pequenino de esperança me diz, no fundo, que um dia não estarei tão sozinha. Um dia, a minha voz vai voltar. Por enquanto, resta o silêncio, o suor e as agulhas. Por enquanto, resta mais dinheiro do que jamais precisei, mais desespero do que jamais sonhei sentir. Um vazio vertiginoso, e nada mais. Tenho tudo, mas não tenho nada. Nem mesmo minhas lágrimas. Alguém distante manda uma mensagem, mas três frases de saudade nunca irão se transformar em um abraço. Tenho tudo, mas não tenho mais ninguém. Nem mesmo a mim mesma.
Levanto daquela cama que ultimamente tenho detestado e faço o que sempre faço: sigo em frente. Um banho, uma xícara de chá e um capítulo de Viktor Frankl depois e eu estou mergulhando num sono pesado e sem sonhos. Numa quase prece, agradeço por minha resiliência, a única coisa que ninguém conseguiu arrancar de mim. Quem sabe ela permaneça para sempre
Belgian postcard. Photo: Metro Goldwyn Mayer.
In the late 1940s and early 1950s, singer and actor Denise Darcel (1924-2011) starred in a string of Hollywood films. Americans knew her as the sultry ‘French Bombshell’. Later she worked as a game show host, a striptease artiste and a casino dealer in Las Vegas. Indeed, ooh-la-la!
Denise Darcel was born as Denise Billecard in Paris, in 1924. One of five daughters of a baker, she was educated at the University of Dijon. On VJ Day she was a passenger in an L-5 Stinson light observation aircraft to see the celebration from the air. According to Wikipedia, her friend at the time, US army pilot James Helinger Sr. was at the controls, while they flew under several bridges along the Seine and finally, under the Eiffel Tower, with the crowds below. After World War II, she was working as a shop assistant when she won a beauty contest that led to her being featured in the popular press as ‘The Most Beautiful Girl in France’. Determined to capitalise on this stroke of good fortune, she became a nightclub singer. She married a US Army captain who brought her to the United States. The marriage quickly dissolved, but Denise took the helmer Darcel and stayed in Hollywood. There she made her film debut in the war drama To the Victor (1948, Delmer Daves) , starring Dennis Morgan and Viveca Lindfors. Though her part as a bar singer was uncredited, she set male pulses racing with her rendition of Edith Piaf's signature song La vie en rose. Her breakthrough was in the Second World War film Battleground (1949, William Wellman). The film tells the story of an infantry company trying to cope with the Siege of Bastogne during the Battle of the Bulge in World War II. Darcel played a Belgian girl with whom some American GI’s are billeted overnight. In a memorable scene she presses a baguette to her tight-fitting sweater, holds up a kitchen knife, and then slowly saws off pieces towards her bosom. Battleground won two Academy Awards: for Best Cinematography, Black-and-White (Paul C. Vogel) and for Best Writing, Story and Screenplay (Robert Pirosh). It was also nominated for Best Picture, Best Director (William A. Wellman), Best Film Editing (John D. Dunning), and Best Actor in a Supporting Role (James Whitmore). It was MGM's largest grossing film in five years, taking in a total of over $5 million in the U.S. market alone. The film was also good for Darcel’s career. Hal Erickson at AllMovie: “She proved herself more than a beautiful face and a Gallic accent with her dramatic performance in the otherwise all-male Battleground (1949). She was then promoted as a ‘discovery’ when she co-starred with Olsen and Johnson in the 1950 Broadway revue Pardon My French.”
Denise Darcel played characters called Fifi, Gigi and Lola in her films. Ronald Bergan in his The Guardian obituary writes that she “profited from Hollywood's ‘ooh-la-la’ conception of young, shapely French womanhood, generally inviting the adjective ‘sultry’. She made quite an impression with her ‘leg art poses’ as a sarong-wearing nurse in Tarzan and the Slave Girl (1950, Lee Sholem) opposite Lex Barker. She co-starred with Robert Taylor in the Western Westward the Women (1952, William A. Wellman) as a prostitute looking for a new life in 1851 California, and with Glenn Ford in the romantic comedy Young Man with Ideas (1952, Mitchell Leisen). In 1952, she became an American citizen. Next she proved she looked spectacular in a swimsuit in the Technicolor musical Dangerous When Wet (1953, Charles Walters), with ‘American Mermaid’ Esther Williams. Darcel’s most important film is Vera Cruz (1954, Robert Aldrich) set in the Mexican War of Independence. She played Emperor Maximilian’s treacherous mistress who, along with a shipment of gold which she plans to divert, is escorted from Mexico City to Maximilian’s forces in Vera Cruz by two American soldiers of fortune – Burt Lancaster and Gary Cooper. According to Wikipedia, “the film's amoral characters and cynical attitude toward violence (including a scene where Lancaster's character threatens to murder child hostages) were considered shocking at the time and influenced future Westerns such as The Magnificent Seven, Sam Peckinpah's The Wild Bunch, and the films of Sergio Leone, which often featured supporting cast members from Vera Cruz in similar roles.”
After Vera Cruz (1954), Denise Darcel only made one more film, Seven Women from Hell (1961, Robert D. Webb), an undistinguished melodrama about a group of women prisoners in a Japanese prison camp in the Philippines. What was the reason that Hollywood stopped calling? The Telegraph: “It was rumoured that she had sealed her own fate by refusing the casting couch advances of Howard Hughes and Columbia Pictures boss Harry Cohn.” Ronald Bergan gives a less sensational explanation: “Darcel left movies for six years after Vera Cruz, living off the maintenance from her second husband, the millionaire and Washington property dealer Peter Crosby, whom she divorced in 1951. In 1958, she recorded an album of songs, Banned in Boston, which included her versions of I'm in the Mood for Love, Love for Sale and My Man, during which she occasionally reverted to French lyrics.“ She worked occasionally for television, like hosting the TV quiz show Gamble on Love (1954). At the age of 41, Darcel even became an ecdysiast (stripper), appearing in West Coast theatres in San Francisco, Las Vegas, Oakland, and Los Angeles. She retired from stripping after a few years and returned to the cabaret circuit, making a few more appearances on television. In later years she worked as a casino dealer in Las Vegas. In 1991, she was cast as Solange La Fitte in the Los Angeles 20th anniversary revival of the musical Follies, produced by the Long Beach Civic Light Opera. She would later repeat the role of Solange in 1995 for revivals in Houston and Seattle. In 2009, she was honoured with the Cinecon Career Achievement Award, presented in Hollywood at a banquet held at the Hollywood Renaissance Hotel. Prior to the ceremony, a new 35mm colour print of her film Flame of Calcutta (1953) was screened at the Egyptian Theatre. After the screening, at the banquet, she cheerfully announced to the audience, "I'm back". iTunes made her album, Banned in Boston, available for purchase. At the age of 87, Denise Darcel died in Los Angeles in 2011, after emergency surgery to repair a ruptured aneurysm. She married four and divorced three times. Her fourth husband, George Simpson, died in 2003. Darcel had two sons, Chris and Craig.
Sources: Ronald Bergan (The Guardian), Hal Erickson (AllMovie), The Telegraph, Wikipedia and IMDb.