Non-erotica
Feb. 19th, 2004 07:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootToday has been busy and tonight is the very dark of the moon, inevitably a good time for me. My love is in Birmingham, so I should take this chance to do all that witchy stuff, get in touch with She the Dark. Not that there's much need if my dreams are anything to go by. So, I honour the darkness and do I feel the wisdom of the crone in winter? Hmm.
The technofairy given to me by the duke is boogying away in response to all the sunlight it's eaten today. On the same windowsill, the Brighton crystal does it's best to look arcane and pulses steadily, blue, orange, red, green. Beside me sits a whisky glass and its contents taste fine, single malt, 10 years waiting for Smokingboot to come and taste. My own cooking is the only sour note in this symphony of the senses. (Note to self: 10 minutes in the microwave is more than enough for a TV dinner, and possibly the yorkshire pud would have fared better in a conventional oven.)
Still, disastrous culinary attempts aside, I feel...awake, shall we say? And my thoughts turn to other things *purrs* I am of course, too knackered to be anything other than theoretical. Still, even the theory's entertaining.
I once tried listening to Madonna's stuff during her sex binge phase, somewhere between Dick Tracey and Ray of Light. Most of it was about as erotic as eating a piece of processed ham through the wrapper. There's nothing erotic about panting into a mike, or playing with folds of skin and muscles. Nice if it looks/sounds good, but that's all. And I can't get off on feelings of daringly broken taboo either. I recall watching that strange Cruise/Kidman thing, 'Eyes Wide Shut,'and marvelling at how it managed such photogenic glassy sexuality without once turning me on.
I found the whole masked ceremony thing extraordinary in its sense of ritual and creepiness. I loved the curious distance put between the viewer and the physical mystery, especially as there was no real secret: just the satyric grinding of hips between hips well shot and doubtless well hung.
I saw a film many years ago (female director whose name, to my shame, I have forgotten) called 'The Piano,' starring Holly Hunter, Sam Neil and Harvey Keitel. This film is very slow, but its basic premis touches the, or at least a, core of personal eroticism for me, the question of the stranger and what they want. From the unknown one who watches you on the dance floor, to the being in the car waiting to take you somewhere you could never dream, the mystery and whether or not to surrender to it always gets me going.
By comparison, stuff like 'The Story of O' left me cold and flat. So she gets branded and is totally his? And by the act of ultimate surrender, she makes him hers. Whatever. I'd rather summarise it than watch it. And suddenly I remember 'Emmannuelle' with the infamous smoking quim moment. Oh dear.
I am my own worst enemy. There I was in a sensual purring mood, now I can't think about sex without cracking up. In one fell swoop I have fallen from predatory succubus to Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. Time to go load the dishwasher.
The technofairy given to me by the duke is boogying away in response to all the sunlight it's eaten today. On the same windowsill, the Brighton crystal does it's best to look arcane and pulses steadily, blue, orange, red, green. Beside me sits a whisky glass and its contents taste fine, single malt, 10 years waiting for Smokingboot to come and taste. My own cooking is the only sour note in this symphony of the senses. (Note to self: 10 minutes in the microwave is more than enough for a TV dinner, and possibly the yorkshire pud would have fared better in a conventional oven.)
Still, disastrous culinary attempts aside, I feel...awake, shall we say? And my thoughts turn to other things *purrs* I am of course, too knackered to be anything other than theoretical. Still, even the theory's entertaining.
I once tried listening to Madonna's stuff during her sex binge phase, somewhere between Dick Tracey and Ray of Light. Most of it was about as erotic as eating a piece of processed ham through the wrapper. There's nothing erotic about panting into a mike, or playing with folds of skin and muscles. Nice if it looks/sounds good, but that's all. And I can't get off on feelings of daringly broken taboo either. I recall watching that strange Cruise/Kidman thing, 'Eyes Wide Shut,'and marvelling at how it managed such photogenic glassy sexuality without once turning me on.
I found the whole masked ceremony thing extraordinary in its sense of ritual and creepiness. I loved the curious distance put between the viewer and the physical mystery, especially as there was no real secret: just the satyric grinding of hips between hips well shot and doubtless well hung.
I saw a film many years ago (female director whose name, to my shame, I have forgotten) called 'The Piano,' starring Holly Hunter, Sam Neil and Harvey Keitel. This film is very slow, but its basic premis touches the, or at least a, core of personal eroticism for me, the question of the stranger and what they want. From the unknown one who watches you on the dance floor, to the being in the car waiting to take you somewhere you could never dream, the mystery and whether or not to surrender to it always gets me going.
By comparison, stuff like 'The Story of O' left me cold and flat. So she gets branded and is totally his? And by the act of ultimate surrender, she makes him hers. Whatever. I'd rather summarise it than watch it. And suddenly I remember 'Emmannuelle' with the infamous smoking quim moment. Oh dear.
I am my own worst enemy. There I was in a sensual purring mood, now I can't think about sex without cracking up. In one fell swoop I have fallen from predatory succubus to Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. Time to go load the dishwasher.
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Re: Eyes Wide Shut
Date: 2004-02-20 08:40 am (UTC)I guess on my terms, it doesn't work cos we know what the stranger wants. Baseline, he/she wants what everybody wants. The masks and music are all a gloss on a well worn theme. Some perverse part of me whispers: 'Is that all?' I suppose the tease of EWS is that you could do this wildly depraved thing with a total masked stranger, do things you could never dream, be wilder than you ever dared and then forget them, only to one day meet them in a normal situation - just recognise their eyes or something - and take it from there.
I might be able to get off on that idea, provided said Stranger never flattened my desires by offering me a shag and a fag round the back of the co-op;-)