Surprising myself

A couple of weeks ago, on a whim, half dressed, I decided to take a photo of myself. This may have had something to do with the fact that after months of not quite getting there, I’d finally got my weight down by a stone and a half (21 lb) to my ideal one, and was feeling pleased with myself.

Also on a whim, I decided to go in the bathroom, where there would be more light. The background in there wouldn’t be particularly pretty, but that didn’t matter too much: it was just a bit of fun which I’d maybe email to a friend if it came out well. Probably cropped to hide the unpretty background.

It was quite sunny in there, so I stood myself in the sunlight and experimented with standing at different angles to get the best nicest lighting I could. I ended up taking the photo against a background I normally avoid since it shows a nice view of the toilet . . . But didn’t quite realise this while taking the photo. Neither did I realise, until I saw the result, that the background had much less light that I did.

What resulted appeared—on the camera phone— to have a nice black background. Viewed on the computere though, it turned out to include a shadowy but very clear image of the toilet seat . . .

. . . So I increased the contrast a bit to make the toilet go away, and here is the result:

Surprisingly good lighting

I then tried taking some naked ones, but had trouble reproducing the lighting and the way I was standing. Also, because I didn’t always remember to hold my stomach in, the results were less complimentary. Here’s one though:

 

A note about comments

Comments are what blog writers love. (Well, positive ones are, at least.) But people seem to worry about whether it’s OK to leave a comment; and others worry about privacy issues. So I thought I should say something about it.

In the case of this blog, the comment form includes boxes for an email address and a web link. These are however both optional, so you can be as anonymous if you want (with the exception that your IP address gets recorded).

Here’s what happens if you leave a comment:

For all comments

• your IP address gets recorded and I can view it, but that’s pretty much all I can do. I don’t have any practical way of turning it into useful information such as what country you’re from. On the other hand, if lots of spam comments all arrive from the same IP address, I might block it in order to stop them. Or if I’m really curious as to whether two anonymous comments are from the same person, I might look to see whether the IP addresses match.

If you fill in an email address

• I get to know your email address, but it isn’t published anywhere
• the system will recognise you next time you leave a comment, meaning that if I approved the first one, the next one will go through automatically.

If you fill in a URL

• when the comment is published, your name will link to the URL you gave. So people can click it to find out more about you, visit your blog or whatever.

If you’re a WordPress user, and logged in

• details I get to see will depend on what settings you’ve made under (I think) My Profile and Personal Settings. If you have more than one account, check you’re logged in with the right one.

 

Hands again

Another photo I’m quite pleased with. I hope you’ll enjoy the sight of my hand, and that you’ll think of all the places it might go, on my body or yours. All the ways it might touch and stroke and caress.

When I touch myself like this it feels relaxed and sensuous, and I imagine how it would feel if it were someone else’s hand slipping inside my shirt to enjoy the touch. Skin against skin . . . A slender female hand, and a bare arm which needs to be kissed right the way up to the shoulder . . . And I’m touching you too, my hand inside your clothes, savouring your soft skin as the relaxed sensuousness gradually becomes growing arousal which itself becomes burning need as our now naked bodies entwine to satisfy that need.

. . . Or it may go quite differently: maybe the sensousness becomes a pleasantly sexy haze which we simply enjoy for its own sake for a while. Or it leads to a deep relaxation followed by a contented sleep.

At the moment, I’m enjoying the idea that it would lead to  the two-entwined-bodies-satisfying-their-burning-need option.

Of course, the thoughts the photo gives you may be entirely different from mine . . . Please feel free to share them.

Touch me like this. Then touch me some more . . .

 

What I’m imagining right now

Warning: this post is rather more explicit than previous ones. (Probably the warning is unnecessary really, but I just thought I’d say in case you’re expecting something else.)

This post is a bit of an experiment: I’m writing about reality (my situation while I write, or not long before writing) as well as the fantasy of you, the reader, joining in with me. Just a sharing of an intimate moment.

I’ve made a special effort to be in bed “early”. Which for me means that it’s just after midnight . . . I’m sleepy, but don’t feel ready to sleep. This happens a lot. And I’m naked, because that’s how I usually am when I sleep. I’m propped up in bed, typing this on my netbook.

I’m quite warm. I didn’t judge the heater setting quite right, so it’s a little warmer in my bedroom than I usually aim for. Another good reason to be naked.

The warmth means my scrotum is very relaxed. My balls hanging low and free. Very comfortable. A moment ago I had to get out of bed to turn the heater down another notch; they swung pleasantly as I moved. I enjoy that feeling. It can feel sexy, or just comforting. At the moment it’s a bit of both. In fact I often wear the pouch in this photo (it’s made of knitted silk, which is amazingly comfortable) precisely because it allows that free feeling while cradling them just a little bit. It’s the closest thing to being naked under my clothes.

Comfort of silk

But I’m digressing. No pouch at the moment. Just my naked, comfortable body in bed. (There will now be a little writer’s licence in terms of tenses, since some of the following happened before I got into bed.)

The relaxed feeling is good. The feeling of my balls hanging low is good. It’s hard to resist the temptation to let my hand move down and feel them. Not that I think of it as a temptation; more a part of enjoying my sleepy, relaxed state. I stroke the skin of my scrotum with my fingers. My nakedness means the air is free to circulate and there’s no feeling of sweatiness; the skin is surprisingly smooth to my touch. It’s about a week since I last shaved them, so the hair has grown past the stubble stage to something more like a layer of down. The hairs tingle as my fingers move over them. It feels good.

My hand moves lower, supporting them with my fingers for a moment then letting them roll free. Curling my fingers under them again, and letting the same happen . . . and then cupping them in my hand. Letting the fingers of my other hand stroke the soft hairs.

At some point in this, my mind wanders and it’s no longer my fingers which are touching me like this. You are next to me, also naked. I imagine your hand cradling my balls, gently massaging them, rolling them around, feeling their weight, stroking and exploring. (Yes I do mean you, the reader.) A soft female hand, warm and comforting. The feeling hints at how it might feel later if your warm lips were to close around them, drawing them into your mouth and making me melt into the sensuousness and the blood rush to my hardening shaft . . . How you would tease me until I could hold back no more . . . Or maybe first you would let your tongue trail over and around them, teasing me with its tip. And my hand would be buried in your hair, stroking and massaging the back of your neck as the soft wet warmth of your mouth engulfed me . . .

And so as I type, I imagine you here in bed with me, your body warm against mine as you roll my balls in the palm of your hand and trace your fingers through the thin layer of hairs. Maybe your eyes are on the screen, watching what I type as you tease me. Or maybe you’re watching my face, or focused on what’s happening between your fingers . . . But either way it’s clear from the way my cock is hardening and my concentration diminishing that I’ll have to stop typing any moment. Until then, I do my best to continue my description. Losing myself in the erotic haze . . . Closing my eyes and letting the sensations take over as your other hand closes around my shaft . . . We both know that my arousal is unstoppable now, and that I have no real choice in the matter: my arousal is in your hands, and even though things are just beginning, it’s clear that you will lead me on inexorably on to a hard, straining erection and then to an explosive orgasm.

I’m sleepy now. It took longer to write this than I expected. So rather than more words, here is a photo. I took it a few weeks ago, just after shaving.

Just after shaving. Ready for your fingers, or your lips and tongue . . .

 

Puzzled by an erotic photo

Today (on Tumblr) I came across what was clearly intended as an erotic photo. I’m not sure whether it’s an old photo, or a recent one emulating an old one . . . Anyway it features a woman in her underwear, standing next to a harp. Her head is resting on the against the top part of the harp, and her hand on what should be the pillar (I think that’s the correct terminology). One shoulder strap is half way down her upper arm. Her bare thighs and upper chest and neck are highlighted by the pose. The harp has nice curves. So does she.

But several things bother me about the photo—probably not helped by the fact that I’m heavily involved in music:

• Something is wrong with the column or pillar. To be precise, what’s wrong is that most of it is missing. What we’re seeing is basically part of a dismembered harp.
• It appears not to have any strings, except for a few of the long ones at the bass end. They are hanging loose, adding to the sense that what we’re looking at is not a musical instrument, but the remains of one.
• She looks as though she’s never had anything to do with a harp in her life.

Basically I look at the photo and think “Oh my God—what has happened to that instrument?!” For me, this is not an erotic thought.

But the most puzzling thing for me is the choice of pose. I think the photographer intended the way she’s standing, and touching the ex-harp, to be sensuously suggestive and erotic. Because if she were merely playing the harp, she wouldn’t touch it like that. And she’d almost certainly be wearing more clothes. Clearly we’re meant to think that she’s imagining touching something else . . .

The only thing is: the normal playing position for a harp is far sexier than the pose in the photo. So if you’re used to seeing someone play a harp, the photo feels as though she’s carefully trying to avoid the sexiness by just standing there and keeping her distance from it.

Was this intentional—was the photo taken at a time when the photographer felt that the combination of underwear and a normal playing position would be too risqué? Were the photographer and model simply clueless about musical instruments? Or just unconcerned about the possibility of anyone with a music background seeing the photo? Whatever the reason, the result is a photo which at first sight seems as though I ought to find it erotic, but which actually . . . feels like somone standing awkwardly with a piece of wreckage.

So, what do we learn? An unexpected message, maybe:

• there are actually situations in which reality is sexier than fantasy
• real music is sexier than fantasy music.

. . . well, perhaps.