View allAll Photos Tagged intercourse
Subject: A man struck by the many arrows of love from the Erotes.
Medium: Digital Artwork
Inspiration: Everything romantic.
“All worries are less with wine.”
― Amit Kalantri
www.youtube.com/watch?v=oyDJI7ebpzU
You should be here
maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Burning%20Desire%20Island/...
Conceived in the passionate autunno caldo of 1938, i was born to spit up the shellac of Latin on my fetal tongue.
Maman, my great Maman, thrust me from her flesh cradle with an emphasis of her thick Haitian thighs - into the cool, patient fisherman-calloused hands on mon papa. As he swatted my tiny empennage, he tenderly hushed my blither with the sweet fermented rine of a melon, and by the setting of my first Caribbean sun, Maman was cooing delicious vodoun fables in time with the lazy metronome of her steel drum rocker. "What a
terrible baby you are, shaking inside your mama's belly like a Carnival boy; my insides are an atelier, not a dance hall...'
I passed years like stalks of field cane (striaght and sweet and green) wrapping my child-body in a naked pastiche of creole jazz, muddy-ankle football, and the innocent sexuality of rhythm. Lazy days of cacao and calico were spent on the fetid foreshore of our village unraveling papa's gnarled fly-nets; while the humid python-winding nights were swallowed by the pulsing rapture of cheap cane rum and the tongue-on-skin throng of voudon arousal. When the sun calmed the winds, mon papa would let me steer the skiff to the fishing beds; as he ate his supper bread and sipped grape wine, I would stand on the tenuous bow of the boat and wave to the far inching trawlers and fattened cargo-ships. I have the memories of a scattered, but happy, diarist; poplin-rough Sunday school clothes and the gangly flush of pubescence, maman's unnerving truth serum stare and the droning lisp of our beetle-faced cure'...and when my lean body first began to yearn for the wettened loggia of a woman's legs,
I was awkwardly depulced by the silly youngest daughter of a wild tonton-man, who though she was a few years beneath me wanted only to mustang-ride on top of me.
Haiti is a violent wealth of color cloistered in a vault of shadows; a green and grise' catafalque bedecked with bright ribbons and gimcrack liturgies, big generals, and little girls, a lethal coup poudre potion mixed in a cardinal-purple zuchetto - once, in the citron mist of waking, Maman mumbled, 'Come here children...come inside, my house is warm, I will feed you...'
A man will attempt to run from the mange of furies that burrow into his pores, but the Haiti-man alone can drown his vermin in the dank, muscular suffocation of his black magic voudon. It is a carnal intercourse of spine and cortex, making love in a large wrought-iron washtub, hand-bathed in a rotgut sweat of fermented slave tears and corrupt eucharist wine - by the naked hands of writing and coming, which have submitted their strong backs to the raw dictatorship of fear and adoration. Mon papa, tapping his inert, Papa-Doc old boat engine with a scarred bonig knife, said, voudon is like a magic carburetor, mixing an explosive solution of Haitian blood and spirit breath - a glazed smile for his own wit; and then, in a guarded sotto-voce, he whispered as beaten men do, 'Maman...has a great lord sleeping inside her breasts, and when he awakes...he treats her to a powerful feast; she can tell the future and smell your lies, bottle your ti bon ange soul in a gas can if she feels like it, or even make a man's backbone shake like a dying jellyfish...be afraid of Maman, but love her well.' Year later, Maman in her chicory-scented pinafore, rolled with laughter when I retold what our late papa had said. "That man...I miss his simple grin and his slow hands...Tonight we will dance for him; you, who fed on the outside of my breasts, and my 'great lord' who is suckling inside them. Papa will smile, no?'
At Pentacost, when the pursed black lips of the green island hummed dark Catholic hymns, I would pilgrimage off to the eastern most Dominican tip of the island and imagine that I could see past the scattered lily isles of the soul-bayou Caribbean over the ungenial Atlantique and onto the gelid farshore of Europe; meditating, scrutinizing over the gendarme-sneer of the French or even the gaspacho-gold face of the
Spanairds. The Europeans fascinate me. I can picture the finger-tip calculations of the the captivated servant trying to understand how to climb the stairs between himself and the master, yet they fascinate me more because their paths have been so intricately woven with ours. They branded us with their perversion of Christianity and salved the wounds with whiplashes; we are the gross-deformed bastard-cattle brood of Europa, who abandoned us we she learned that are too stong too die, yet simple enough to decay. I remember a rumor of a blade-quarted Paris-dandy who drank riotous amounts of cognac in the company of a grand Tonton Macoute and then quipped with a sodomist's tongue, 'Ce country is manque'...ha, an unfinished sewer, smell it ! That odor can only be from an ulcerous wound...'I must laugh here. I know that what we are must scare them; the alieness of our revery, the scathing depth of our intensity, the human-bright colors
of violence and treachery that we parade upon our chests like the general's ribbons. Maman said that all the European men should be cooked a bit longer 'their bellies are too tender, they cannot stomach the face-up-close crimes that we can commit - they were built for killing anonymously - big missiles, bureaucracies, and world wars; they dont have the pride of naked resolve to stare into the crevices of a man's eyes and wrest out his soul...Put them in my belly. I will cook them a little more, make 'em more real." Would terrify you? The too intimate suffocation of a bokor queen's flesh womb, gaging blind in a solution of her great lord's semen and the belly-warm blood of sa mare, ma mere? You would be forced to gape with boarding -school eyes upon a blistering fantastique that mocks your swollen insolence. Mind, you can frighten me too; I would be scared beyond myself if I were staked naked between the trenches of Sommes. Pardon me, I do not hate the European gens, but scrutinizing them is like the thick frustration of a child learning to somersault; one day, when my mind is beyond intrigue though, I will roll over my preoccupied thoughts of them as if a playful steel drum rolled down a steep hill.'Voudon is the religion of the cerebellum, an allegro-alfresco celebration of the primal mind that perches beneath the tangled fugue of the forebrain like a trap-door spider. As night chars the canvas of day, the Haiti people start to breathe more freely. We smile with the heady anticipation of an addict carressing a loaded needle in the moments that the sugar cane torches flickr alive and finger drums begin to rumble from rickety porches. I remember the creeping euphoria of feeling my skull becoming light and translucent, the intravenous drip of human alkaloids saturating my veins and vertebrae as the id of my passions secreted a narcotic sweat of expectation. You feel the itch of a nine-month pregnancy, the salavation of salvation...'
The angelus bells of the bokor draw us to their back-yard shacks, which they decorate in a whirl of colorful ideograms and homemade fetishes. Shirts undone and hemlines gathered up, bony chests and weathered chapeaux, we congregate like a brazen cabal, our tongues wagging in chirping mouths for the festivities to begin, to shed our sulking skin and dance nude in a soothing embrocation. Maman was a great bokor. She carried an infectious air of ebullience and pride, as if her eyes were saying can you believe that great things we will do tonight? She would enter the room with a corset of flunkies and a flowing train of petitioners; her hands touching the face of everyone present, laughing and smiling with them. She became a warm-blooded nucleus of a slowly, spiraling galaxy of children, she was Maman to everyone now. Here they called her La Chantelaine, mistress of the house.
The walls of the hovel, brown and tin and worn, would shake and quiver in the pulsing thrum of the swaying, wailing women and the driving beat of the drums. We danced in groups and couples and alone, smiling like pristine simpletons, letting the rhythm knead into us like a masseur's hands. Music is the riding rein of the soul; and the ever-rapid beat of our rhythms echo off the deepest ravines of our psyche, guiding the traveller inwards, through the dense strata of sharks of the upper brain, down into the cradle of the brain stem, where impulse and intuition are as inseperable as wave and light once were, pain and pleasure, sea and sun, woman and man. While voudon is the horse that carries us within, it has a deeper brilliance - the fierce embrace of total submission - as if a man who makes loves to his adored woman, his flaring tongue alive in the passion of realizing that he can go nowhere but inside his lover; he submits himself to the exploration of her depths, his body only a caisson, his soul a conspirator addcited to the narcosis of pilgrimaging inside the body of her spirituality. We, as a people, venture further in the bracing womb of archetypes, deeper into the mythic, yet nascent body of the great child unborn, than of any other people who can serioulsy claim to burrow into the flesh of understanding. Mon papa said we are dogs who can find their way home across a wild sea. This is true - we are suffering children who toil for penury, who sink in a slow misery - but it just may be us who will be blessed by the tears of Allah before the Mohamedans, our forgiving lips alone upon the weeping wound of Christ. I am not saying we are holier than you, only that we are much more human; our sins and sorrows are heavier weights upon our necks as we leap into the blue sea... You should pardon me when i gibber like this; in these later years I am learning to appreciate the breadth of my life, I no longer dwell upon its serated seams but adore the entire panorama; at times, my tongue is slower than my awe.
With the fear of crashing the crescendo of this story, I must tell you that I left behind my island of voudon dolls and emmigrated to the alleys of Paris. Maman died, poisoned. Papa was long dead, exhaustion. The Tonton Macoute wanted to cripple the informal oligarchy of the voudon queens; they would have snapped my back to break our lineage. I was forewarned with the brutality of Haitian subtlety; a black-painted disembowled kitten tossed on my doorstep like a newspaper (Maman was La Chantelaine, they teasingly called me Le Chat) and then after the swelter of a frightened week, they set fire to our house, to papa's old boat, to Maman's back-yard shack... I cried like an unsoothable baby until I reached the skirts of Port-Au-Prince, where I cleaned bilges on an Indochinese freighter for passage to France. I had no papers, no authorization. All I remember of the voyage were the long, rolling waves of fever that slept in my chest like a nervous rattlesnake. In Marseilles I stole down the anchorline of the ship and swam across the chilled harbor until I felt the sand bottom of beach under my feet, and then i melted into the city. After a month or so, I fell into the gravity of Paris.
There are many Haitians here, some wealthy, most nor. They showed me how to bribe the flic-policemen and to temper my slurring patois so its didnt hurt the sensitive ears of Paris. I found a cab to drive at night and a ten-body room to sleep in during the day. I stumbled into Saint-Germain one afternoon and drank coffee with a gabbing clique of student . They were amazed by the stories I told, probably found them charming, distracting. In return they gave me access to libraries and lectures and new thoughts. My mind seemed to grow from weeds into gardens. I began to write, paint a bit, make love to women in dusk-empty parks. I felt as if I were a cave dweller climbing foreign but delicious alps, shocked by the brightness of the sun and the limitless expanse of the sky.I learned to fish with a rod and reel. Some weekends I drop a line into the dirty Seine and ponder, my line bobbing for memories. When I think of my Haiti I cannot remember the people of the homes, they are like dry parchment paper, rather I see the cumulous balls of smoke lifting from papa's rosewood pipe or I smell the acrid resin of boiled candle wax and chicken entrails slipping from Maman's alchemist kitchen. More, I can still feel the reassuring constriction of voudon about my torso and tongue, as if i had been sewed into a new skin, one more alive, more luxuriant, more spohisticated than my own. Voudon made me fraternal brother of the gut; I lived like a wise homunculous, wild and alive, in the stomach of the human conspiracy. I know the grinding contortions of our hungers and the soothing coolness of our waters. My thoughts were simple peasants, knowing only the autocracy of impulse and the heady musk of desire. And on this far shore from my birth, I have discoverd that Time is like a scribbled blackboard running the breadth of your life, ever reteaching you lessons and exercises that you forgot or never understood. Now, living in the brilliantly glib pages of Paris, I have been given the luxury of contemplative distance to strip my ideology of voudon of its cosmologies and mythos, a sculptor leaning back for perspective, whitened chisel in hand. As if an elder son returning home to hold a father he can now better understand, I embrace voudon for its raw uniqueness, its power to shape our fears and tears back into a primordial clay, allowing us to reenact the passion drama of life and self-creation and death. While I am happy that no horsemen can ride my back now, I wince for children who can never escape from the gnawing brutality of fearing a lonely breathless night or who shirk form staring into the sun, never being able to spit up the bland, anonymous shellac of Latin upon their tongues.
...And this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our chearful faith that all which we behold
Is full of blessings...
~William Wordsworth, lines written a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on revisiting the banks of the Wye during a tour, 1798 July 13th
Frances Carr, Countess of Somerset (31 May 1590[1] – 1632) was an English noblewoman who was a central figure in a famous scandal and murder during the reign of King James I.
She was born Frances Howard, the daughter of Lord Thomas Howard (later 1st Earl of Suffolk), second son of the 4th Duke of Norfolk, and his wife, the former Catherine Knyvet. Her father was a wealthy and powerful nobleman during the late 16th and early 17th centuries. Her maternal grandparents were Sir Henry Knyvet, of Charlton, Wiltshire, and Elizabeth Stumpe.
Lady Frances Howard was married at the age of 13 to the 14-year-old Robert Devereux, 3rd Earl of Essex. The marriage was primarily a political union; they were separated after the wedding to prevent them from having intercourse, with the view that premature sex and pregnancy was to be avoided. Essex went on a European tour (from 1607 to 1609) and when he returned Frances made every effort to avoid him. He was at the time seriously ill with smallpox, but she had also fallen in love with Robert Carr, 1st Earl of Somerset. It is suspected that she might have purposely encouraged her husband's natural impotence by the use of "love-philters" with first Simon Forman and later Abraham Savery. Essex himself did not seem to mind the lack of his wife's company, spending most of his time drinking with other men.
When she finally took the step of annulment, unable to legally represent herself, her father and uncle, Henry Howard, Earl of Northampton, represented her and drew up the libel. The situation quickly attracted public attention, and was widely observed by those with "prurient minds". She claimed that she had made every attempt to be sexually compliant for her husband, and that, through no fault of her own, she was still a virgin. She was examined by ten matrons and two midwives who found her hymen intact. It was widely rumoured at the time that Sir Thomas Monson's daughter was a substitute, which is possible because she had requested to be veiled during the examination "for modesty's sake".
The matter was a subject of mockery and ribald commentary throughout the court, including:
This Dame was inspected but Fraud interjected
A maid of more perfection
Whom the midwives did handle whilest the knight held the candle
O there was a clear inspection.[2]
In turn, Essex claimed that he was capable with other women, but was unable to consummate his marriage. According to a friend, one morning (while chatting with a group of male companions) he had stood up and lifted his nightshirt to show them his erection -- proving, if nothing else, he was physically capable of arousal. When asked why only she caused his failing, he claimed that "she reviled him, and miscalled him, terming him a cow, and coward, and beast."
The idea of satanic involvement was seriously considered by the judges and at one point it was proposed that Essex should go to Poland to see if he could be "unwitched". The annulment languished and possibly would not have been granted if it were not for the king's intervention (Somerset was the favourite of King James). James I of England granted the annulment on 25 September 1613. Frances married Somerset on 26 December 1613.
Sir Thomas Overbury, a close friend and advisor of Somerset, had tried to advise him not to marry Frances Howard, but he was a desirable ally for the powerful Howard family. The family managed to get Overbury imprisoned during the annulment proceedings where he died -- curiously enough, the annulment went through eleven days after his death. It has been widely considered that Lady Somerset had him poisoned through an agent. The Somersets were convicted of murder, but spared execution.
Lord and Lady Somerset had one daughter, Lady Anne Carr, who married the 1st Duke of Bedford.
when they seemed to come suddenly upon happiness as if they had surprised a butterfly in the winter woods… :-)
Edith Wharton
HBM! HMM!
butterfly, identification welcome, j c raulston arboretum, ncsu, raleigh, north carolina
There was also an Adam River, but it wasn't as pretty. Naturally! Both intercourse downstream.
Western Canada, Section 6: Vancouver Island
Las cópulas suelen ser largas y si no se sienten molestos te dejan acercarte. Cuando las poblaciones son numerosas se ven más parejas que individuos sueltos.
Fotograma completo y adaptado a formato 16:9
En El Coto. Villena (Alicante) España
The intercourse is usually long and if they don't feel upset they let you get close. When populations are large, more couples are seen than individual individuals.
Full frame and adapted to 16: 9 format
In El Coto. Villena (Alicante) Spain
Lancaster County
I was fortunate to travel to the East Coast with 8th graders for 18 years. We started in Boston and ended in Washington DC. I'm working on a book of images from our trips.
Day 4 of our 8 day trip.We were on the road from Philadelphia to Gettysburg.
“It was cold autumn weather, but in spite of the cold they wandered up and down the roads of the Park for nearly three hours. They agreed to break off their intercourse; every bond, he said, is a bond to sorrow.” ― James Joyce, Dubliners
As said before, men undress for sex, women dress up. And a tight corset is perfect for exaggerating the sensations of intercourse....
The fledged starling
sits atop
old oak, lightning
struck split trunk.
Fungi protrude
working on decomposing
ancient wood.
This whole process
observed in hierarchies
and vertical tiers
is scripture.
I mean
this shit is
biblical. It sums
up the universe
in 80 feet of
eternity and time
having intercourse.
Macro of a Day Lily, photographed outside of the Best Western Intercourse Village Inn in Intercourse, Pennsylvania, outside of Lancaster.
Στᾶθι κἄντα φίλοσ,....
καὶ τὰν ἔπ᾽ ὄσσοισ ἀμπέτασον χάριν. [transcription]
Face me, my dear one...and unveil the grace in thine eyes.( Sappho)
Eros (Greek: Ἔρως), or Aros in Greek mythology, was the primordial god of lust, beauty, love, and intercourse; he was also worshipped as a fertility deity. His Roman counterpart was Cupid, "desire", also known as Amor, "love". (wikipedia)
Equilibrio pendular. Cuando un ligero viento hace difícil la cópula y la foto. Esta pareja estuvo mucho rato intentando consumar la cópula en diferentes ramas sin conseguir la estabilidad necesaria para ello.
Pendular balance. When a light wind makes intercourse and photo difficult. This couple was trying for a long time to consummate the intercourse in different branches without achieving the necessary stability for it.
Enallagma cyathigerum
100mm Macro Canon, 1/200, F/8, ISO 400, Softbox flash at -2 stops
We spent the weekend at this elegant and historic Bed and Breakfast in southern Pennsylvania not long ago. It was cozy and very friendly bed & breakfast!
Let’s go to Pennsylvania and photograph some Amish people. That was easier said than done. The last things these people are waiting for are tourists with big lenses hanging out of their car and photographing them day after day.
I drove around hours, seeing not what i wanted and i almost gave up hope when i saw her, barefoot on her Amish scooter. A little bit of a shy smile. Hi, she said. Finally i had my girl….thank you!
Enjoy...
---------------------------------------------------------------
Technical Details;
Camera; Canon EOS 1Ds mkIII
Lens; Canon EF 70-200mm f2.8L IS II USM
Exposure; 1/320 sec
Aperture; f8.0
ISO; 200 RAW
---------------------------------------------------------------
Image is under Copyright by Henk Meijer.
Contact me by email if you want to buy or use my photographs.
Six months ago she was a party girl, now she's looking for maternity wedding dresses and going to antenatal classes with her hubby-to-be
For some reason they have told the suitor I desperately need some intercourse. And they want all the juicy details after.
(...) but the plain fact is that "to jazz" has long had the meaning in American folk-speech of 'to engage sexual intercourse'. Mathew further indicates a possible line of research in connecting the word "jazz" with "jasm" which he cites as early as 1860 from the Massachussets author Josiah Holland. This in turn may be connected with the American dialect word "gism" which Read defines as "Strenght, talent, genius, ability. In various parts of the South, gism has the meaning 'gravy', or 'cream sauce'. In the North, it is commonly used to mean 'semen'. (...)
Although we have no satisfactory etymology for the word "jazz" in relation to its sexual meaning, nor information concerning the earliest use of the word in this connection, there is a certain degree of logic in the assumption that the music use of the term was derived from its sexual use. Here again is a field for further research.
Robert G. O'Meally, "The Jazz cadence of American culture", Columbia University Press, 1999
Pareja en cópula. Valle de Aran (Cataluña-España)
Sudores costó fotografiarlas en estos trances pero se consiguió. De todo ello saben bien los amigos con quienes pateamos la zona sin descanso por todos lados. Es una de las imágenes que pude lograr con ellas en cópula y muy contento pues aparte de que su localización es muy concreta y reducida en la península ibérica, concretamente en los pirineos, cuando logras avistarlas no lo ponen nada fácil.
Couple in intercourse. Valle de Aran (Catalonia-Spain)
Sweats cost to photograph them in these trances but it was obtained. The friends with whom we kick the area without rest everywhere know all this well. It is one of the images that I could achieve with them in copulation and very happy because apart from that its location is very specific and reduced in the Iberian Peninsula, specifically in the Pyrenees, when you manage to see them they do not make it easy.
"How important is a constant intercourse with nature... to the preservation of moral and intellectual health!"
"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach."
Thoreau
The northern edge of Tukwila borders the city of Seattle Starting with its first mayor, Tukwila has a long history of vibrant personalities. Among the city's first council members was Del Adelphia, a famous magician. In the 1990s and 2000s, "visiting Tukwila" was used as a euphemism for marital intercourse by Seattle Times columnist Erik Lacitis.
TradWife rule number 27; you must always be aware that your husband has needs that you must satisfy. The TradWife’s role is to be everything feminine the man requires. Sometimes this entails turning him on before intercourse.
Audrey Hepburn
オードリーヘプバーン
オードリーヘップバーン
「５０００の２５％といえば１５００にはなるな。」
『１２５０だよ。』＠ Bar G.Roca Rome Italy
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今、たった今はじめて出会ったばかりの２人の会話（笑）
「あなたお名前は？」
『ピーター ジョシュアだ』
「私はレジーナ ランパート」
『ご主人はいるの？』
「ええ」
『それはおめでとう』
「でももう別れるの」
『僕のせいじゃないだろうね？』
「異国で出会った旅人は再び出会うに違いない、
と言ったのはシャークスピア？」
『違うよ、そんなのは君が作った駄作だ。』
「バレちゃった・・・」
この人の映画の中の好きなセリフと会話
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AUDREY
MORE THAN AN ICON 2020
これで写真展とは・・・
Con estas hay que andar muy rápido, están poco más de un segundo posadas durante la cópula, pero ese día hubo suerte.
Saludos y gracias por vuestro tiempo.
With these you have to walk very fast, they are just over a second inns during intercourse, but that day there was luck.
Greetings and thanks for your time.