Archive for March, 2012

Bargain Bridge, Needs Some Work

Posted in FLICKR, history, politics, satire with tags , , , , , , on March 31, 2012 by cliffmichaels



Own this magnificent and historic bridge and rename it after yourself or a loved one. Charge a toll in any amount you like and make the bridge a real money maker for you! Needs some work, but a bargain at a mere $499,999,999!! Financing available.

NYC Privatization Agency – 555-2332


Photo by Jeffrey Bary, subject to this creative commons license

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Almost a Fool

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on March 31, 2012 by cliffmichaels


Photo by Michael E. Johnston, remixed by me, subject to this creative commons license

Two sets by Michael: Coffin Case Girls & Hooters Pageant  


  Sex & Latex Fetiche (by Annie1339)

 Celina & Caitlin (by Teamkiffin)

Fetish/Edgy & Hogs and Hotties (by Laszio)   

FLICKR GROUP:  Kinkylaroid

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Under her Hat

Posted in erotic, fashion, FLICKR, photographers, PHOTOGRAPHY, pinup, Sexy, Uncategorized, women with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 26, 2012 by cliffmichaels


Photo by Stinkie Pinkie, remixed by me, subject to this creative commons license  


Sexy Ladies in Cowboy Hats – Girls in Hats – Girls in Ball Caps

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Dangerously Blonde

Posted in art, erotic, FLICKR, photographers, PHOTOGRAPHY, Sexy, women with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 24, 2012 by cliffmichaels


Photo by Booty Girl, remixed by me, subject to this creative commons license

Two sets by Booty Girl: Her First Set & Blonde Pics  


Let’s call her Gail since that was, in fact, her name. She was blonde. A honey blonde with high cheekbones, skin the color of cream, luscious full lips and green movie star eyes. She was blonde. Beautifully blonde. Hypnotically blonde. Gloriously blonde. Seductively blonde. And, as I would too soon discover,  heartbreakingly blonde.

I was twenty; so was she. We met at a political meeting in late spring of 1968. After she walked into the small, drab conference room in the UT student center she paused to survey the sparse crowd of antiwar students. I spotted her and fireworks immediately filled the air and the New York Philharmonic launched into the opening fanfare from Thus Spoke Zarathustra (think the beginning of 2001: a Space Odyssey).

I forgot how to breathe. My heart became a frantic jungle drum. My face burned like desert fire. I was rooted to where I stood yet felt light as a small child’s birthday ballon. Time stood absolutely still; everything and everyone else in the room vanished like trees in a moist early morning fog. Soft golden rays of celestial light embraced her and she glowed like Botticelli’s  Aphrodite.

Was it love at first sight? You betcha; and it took only about five seconds. 

She would be  only the second woman I had sex with. Kathy, my first, had been a tame little kitten; with her I felt safely in control.  Gail was a frightfully wild, beautiful green eyed lioness. My fear of her ferocious blondness was quickly overwhelmed by my unthinking, potent desire. All ten trillion cells in my young body instantly wanted her.

Our relationship lasted less then three months. What a roller coaster ride it was! She quickly rocketed  me up to the dizzy heights of love and lust. She bewitched my body – every single one of those ten trillion cells. When I was with her the sun shone and angels sang. I was her enthralled, witless puppet; she could easily pull all my strings and make me dance for her amusement. Just one of her wickedly blonde and green-eyed smiles and my cock would swell and leak like an old, corroded faucet (embarrassing if others were in the room; my pants got washed a lot). When I wasn’t with her my body ached and I would plummet into a chill, enervating despair. I would spend all my time counting the hours, minutes and seconds till I could once again bask in her blinding blondness.

The first time I saw her naked breasts I nearly passed out. It was on a early summer saturday; we were out on the lake on her family’s ski boat when, with no warning, the top of her polka-dotted bikini fell off and fell into the green water. Lit by the early afternoon sun, her modest breasts were milky pale with dark, enticing nipples. She slowly smiled at my shocked expression and made no immediate effort to retrieve her floating top.  To this day I imagine the water at that spot in the lake boils every now and then on the summer solstice.

Oddly, the sex was not so compelling and I realized later she never reached orgasm. My memories of our few couplings are faded; they don’t compete with those of her smile, her musical voice and that electric effect she had on my flesh, all of which remain as shockingly bright as midnight lightning even now forty-four years later.

It ended badly. Very badly. Crushingly badly. It was of course my fault; I became ridiculously jealous of any guy who came within one hundred yards of my blonde love. I became afraid I would lose her and grew sullenly suspicious of her when she was out of my sight.   Finally, in mid July, after one too many of my ugly jealous tirades, she left me for one of my close friends.

My agony when she left my life matched the ecstasy I felt the day she entered it.  For two days I wanted to die. I cared for nothing;  my world was black and grey, lit only by faint yellow sparks of childish hope she might return. The rest of that summer was, at least in memory, cold and sunless. I vowed I would never love again.

Of course I did not die. The summer warmed and the sun returned. Just before the autumnal equinox I met Terry, a short, sultry brunette from Chicago. She wasn’t a blonde, but I fell in love with her anyway. She, too, would  break my heart, but that’s another story.

And now, forty plus years safely removed from the torrid summer of 1968, and despite my memory of the hideous pain of her leaving, I am surprisingly grateful to Gail for allowing me those few, precious weeks of bliss. She was – and still is – my one and only magnificent blonde obsession.

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Sex Without Love…

Posted in erotic, FLICKR, photographers, PHOTOGRAPHY, Sexy, women with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 18, 2012 by cliffmichaels


Photo by Juan Cantu, remixed by me, subject to this creative commons license

SHENAY, a set by Cantu


How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other’s bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away…

Sex Without Love Sharon Olds

Most of the sex I’ve had has been without love. Of the two dozen or so women who’ve shared my bed I have loved two or three; and of those the sex came well before the loving.

Call me what you will, but I certainly found sex  without love much better than no sex at all. Before my first marriage I’d take any sex I could get – even if it came at a price. After my divorce sex came much easier; with most of the women I dated sex was presumed, a casual act without guilt (though part of me missed the spice of the forbidden…)

Those women were, of course, sadder and wiser. But then, so was I. When I was young I ascribed some meaning to coupling. It was important. As I moved through the early eighties my naive sense of awe dissolved. Sex was sex: sweaty, sometimes awkward, sometimes not, sometimes joyful and sometimes not so much.

Then I met L. She was a bit on the plump side, with large breasts and shocking short dark hair. Her large, dark eyes somehow conveyed both innocent and a knowing sensuality. I wasn’t at all sure I even liked her at first. She had a mocking way about her; she appeared to find everything  meaningless. When she asked me out I was surprised. I didn’t think she had any interest in me at all. I had no clue what would happen but I worried it might be a disaster.

She was supposed to come to my sad little, one bedroom house at seven. She didn’t show up till almost nine. By that time, of course, I was livid (this was long before cell phones became ubiquitous). She was obviously just toying with me; to her I was merely another, unimportant plaything.

I’d show her…

We where standing in my tiny screened porch. She was facing away from me, gazing at the darkness beyond the wire mesh. I wanted to run her off. I decided I’d pull her around and kiss her. She’d resist and her refusal would justify that cruel words I intended to slap her with until she left. I am not great at many things, but my tongue can be razor sharp.

She didn’t resist. She kissed me back.  With passion. My anger, my righteous sense of grievance, were immediately replaced by raw desire. My god, I wanted this woman and I wanted her now!

The sex that night, and thereafter, was sublime. In her arms – deep in her – all the sex I’d had before suddenly seemed as drab as faded black and white photos. This sex – this mindless passion -with her – was in gloriously hot, sharp color.

Those lips! Those eyes!  Sex with her was like dancing. We moved together in a delicious, synchronized rhythm. Her smell! Thirty years later it lingers in memory, a key to so much erotic recollection. I adored her crooked smile, more of a smirk, really, when ever I amused her.  And those breasts, those magnificent, round, pink, caressable,  kissable, suckable,  smothering breasts!

We broke up in the summer of 1982. It was awkward; we worked together. I’d finally realized she would not commit to me, marry me, have my children. I’d moved on. At least I thought so. Another L. An older woman whose love making was like a newborn colt taking her first tentative steps:  awkward yet endearing. In her bed, unencumbered by mindless passion, I was masterful. It was fine, it was nice – but it was very much black and white.

Then, in September,  the original L. and I visited the Knoxville World’s Fair after an afternoon spent in depositions. The fair was in its final week and the crowds were sparse. We sat in a too hot tent and had too many expensive beers. My passion for her, a dangerous if beautiful beast until now held at bay, overwhelmed my patchwork defenses. We returned quickly to our office and fucked like animals on the old plaid library couch, with an ardor that amazed me, that I had never known before. It was and remains the best sex I’ve ever had.

My resurgent love refueled our odd, stunted relationship for another six months or so. She still couldn’t – wouldn’t – commit. I met my present wife, a willful yankee redhead and amazingly fell quickly and madly in love with her on a weeklong trip to the Outer Banks in late summer of 1984.

In one of those ridiculous moments life can bring, L. now said she’d marry me. It was too late. I was ensorcled by this new ginger girl. We married less than a year later.

We’ve been together now for almost twenty-seven years; I remain bewitched, bothered and bewildered.

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Erin go Braugh

Posted in FLICKR, history, photographers, PHOTOGRAPHY with tags , , , , , , , , , , on March 17, 2012 by cliffmichaels


Photo by Monosnaps, subject to this creative commons license

Ballinasloe Horse fair


IrelandIreland Country Wide Shots – Olde Shops of Ireland Sea Shores of IrelandLakes of Ireland – Waterways of Ireland – Ireland my Ireland – Ireland’s National MonumentsRuins of Ireland 


Photo by Dklimpke,  remixed by me, both images subject to this creative commons license

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Too Much Photoshop

Posted in erotic, FLICKR with tags , , , , , on March 17, 2012 by cliffmichaels


Photo by Jon Ovington , remixed by me, both images subject to this creative commons license

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