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The Visions staff sincerely apologies for our last post. As an explanation (and not an excuse) the regular staff partied rather late on Friday night after attending the grand opening gala at the fabulous new Titty Museum and Cultural Center here in Greenback. In any event, with no one in the office Saturday morning, our intern (intern –what a marvelous excuse not to pay someone) took advantage of his opportunity and posted an overlong and overwritten piece of sophomoric crap about the unavoidable collision between men’s female fantasies and the messy truth of real women’s lives.
We’re really, really sorry…..
First, most of us have been there done that (our intern still has pimples and only shaves in months without an R). Most of us crashed into real life years ago when our wives or girlfriends dropped their girlish pretense and started talking seriously about their need for couches, station wagons, sensible shoes and babies. We know the sad truth; we just choose to ignore it.
Second, the regular Visions reader is about thirteen (physically or mentally) and just wants smutty pictures. He never reads any text on an internet site longer than two lines and with words of no more than five letters.
Why didn’t we just delete this puerile post? Because we don’t know how… Bobby handled that and he’s on vacation in Zanzibar till November. Sadly, he forgot to take his Chinese knockoff iPhone.
So, in humble penance, we offer you another in the long and ignoble string of big boob pix posts. Here you go:
Talk about your Yellow Peril! I just pray Billy Warhol checked with his doctor before taking this babe’s photo. I could care less what’s in her head – I just want to leer at her chest! Here’s a sexy boobies set by Billy: Beautiful Boobies; and here’s another: Best of the Breast. We love Billy; we’ve posted lots of his pix before.
Remember Blue Balls? Stare at this heavenly breasted gal too long and you might find yourself suffering from that teenage testicular torment. Makia doesn’t have any sets, and most of his (her?) photos are all rights reserved. What a pain – how selfish can you get? I mean, what does he expect me to do? Take my own pictures? Really!
Here are links to a dozen of his best big boobies photos:
OK, OK! One more and then I’m out of here. The church social starts at three. I’m bringing my renowned potato salad and a big pitcher of sweet tea.
Here’s a red hot beauty! Snapped by our reliable veteran SWO81 (funny, he doesn’t look a day older than 60), one of the many Flickr photographers Visions steals from on a regular basis, this image is just one of thousands of old Swo’s sexy snapshots. His set of photos of cuddly and concupiscent Cassandra might you curl up and cry in delight!
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Her name is Liz and, as you can see, she’s beautiful, classically beautiful, a bit like movie stars Ingrid Bergman or Grace Kelly. When I met her I thought she was quite pretty. Then my camera loved her: her skin, her large, intelligent brown eyes, her long sweep of raven black hair, her sweetly full lips, her delicate, tanned shoulders, and her lean and lovely legs. When I first saw the virgin images on the monitor after our shoot I was overwhelmed. The pretty teenaged girl I had photographed had become a classic beauty on my computer screen.
As you can tell from the set, I spent a lot of time lovingly processing the images. As is my wont, I used photoshop quite a bit. She didn’t like her freckles so in most of the shots I removed them, smoothed her skin, slightly enlarged her eyes (in a few images), gave her eyeliner in a few shots. In the above photo I made her dress blue, gave her blue lipstick and made her brown eyes blue.
Working with her photographs, enlarging her face to fill the screen, zooming into those eyes, those elegant shoulders (and, um, her nicely tanned legs), I fell just a little bit in love with her, smitten with her enthralling beauty, particularly as I enhanced and modified it. Dazzled by the combination of her natural loveliness and my artful augmentation of it, Liz became an object of my desire.
They say beauty is merely skin deep. I suppose so; but most of us don’t have the ability to find someone’s spleen or large intestines alluring. “Hey, guys, catch the bodacious rack of kidneys in that babe!”
Of course, the shallow and mindless view of beauty, and of sexiness, is most pronounced in the male of our species. I am no exception. When I first spy a startlingly attractive woman I react instantly with a mindless jolt of visceral desire. For the brief time I am in her presence I’m entranced by her physical beauty, her sexiness, or both. Once she’s out of my sight she’s quickly forgotten. I suffer from no prolonged unrequited longing. (but see this post)
But when I spend hour upon hour upon hour gazing intently at a digital representation of my model’s face and body, and after more hours spent playing photoshop Higgins to my finely pixelated Eliza, her shimmering surface beauty seeps deep beneath my skin and I soon find myself embarrassed by a surging adolescent crush on my fair lady.
My first model, and still my favorite, was the Fabulous Redheaded Angela. Even before pointing my Nikon D50 at her I thought she was sexy. Once I spent hours and hours playing with her photos I found myself wanting her. A lot. Like a seething herd of poisonous snakes, dangerous fantasies slithered through my Hypothalamus. My saving antivenom was derived from chaste passage of time and my growing recognition of her devotion to her too many children and her religious faith, her frantic frustrations with the family’s chronic lack of money and her often precarious health. The more human she became, the more I understood her messy, ordinary life, the less I lusted for her. Her digital avatar was enough.
When now my crush on the current feminine apple of my camera’s unblinking eye reaches an uncomfortably warm level – when I’m tempted to do more than look – I force myself to get a hold of myself, sober up, get real, and remember my delightful images display nothing real. Alluring they may be, yes, beautiful, too, perhaps. But Real? No way! Emphatically not! I firmly tell myself once again the women charming me in my photoshopped images are no more real than a blessing of unicorns. Given the deliberate photoshopping I do to enhance my models’ beauty or sexiness, I must confess my images are not only unreal but they are often outright visual lies. White lies, perhaps; but I must not trust these depictions of flawless seductresses. They’re just pretty pictures and nothing more: light and shadows signifying nothing. I get downright stern with myself – “no more of this silly nonsense!” Sometimes I even stomp my foot.
But these strident lectures I deliver to myself in my best stentorian mental voice are frequently less convincing than I would like. It’s so very hard to disbelieve your eyes and so easy not to. I know The first photo of Liz above is false, a sweet flimflam; but in it she looks so beautiful to me, so innocent, so classy, so aristocratic, so sweetly serene. When I look at the image I forget what I know and I just want to drown myself in her big, blue lagoon eyes or softly embrace her delicate, tanned shoulders. I yearn to hold her. I can almost smell her perfume, see her eyes looking into mine, almost feel the cool softness of her black tresses against my cheek. I can nearly hear her soft, girlish whispers, imagine the softness of her caress, the passion in her kiss, the yearning of her flesh. My dream of having her, possessing this gloriously beautiful woman in my picture on my computer screen, grows alarmingly vivid.
But of course she isn’t real; the girl in my photos is merely a product of artfully placed light and shadow, proper angles and poses, and my photoshop skills. Those blissfully big, blue eyes? They aren’t real. I enlarged them. They were actually dark brown and were half surrounded by an unattractive swarm of yellowish red freckles smeared high across her left cheek and the left side of her otherwise patrician noise; the photoshop healing brush quickly wiped it away. Her eyebrows were jarringly thick and dark, almost mannish; I lightened and thinned them. I brightened shadows on her face and dimmed harsh light across her forehead. I warmed the color of her skin. I abolished a few zits and embryonic wrinkles. On the other hand, her shoulders are as lovely as they appear. In motion Liz seemed stick thin and more than a little coltish. Caught in the right pose and frozen in time and good light by my camera, however, she became both graceful and pleasingly ample.
Of course I know she isn’t just beautiful skin and elegant bones. She has major, and frightening, health problems. She’s grappling with serious issues in her young life. Of course I know that. She probably has lots of worries – lots of things she needs or urgently wants to do. She’s only eighteen, after all. Life can be so threatening at that age. I remember how awful I felt so much of the time at that age. I bet she still gets acne. Of course I know it isn’t her shimmering surface, however beguiling I find it – or make it – that matters to her; for her it’s the crazy whirlwind of what lies beneath.
And of course I know she doesn’t dream of me, an old man who took some pretty pictures of her one Wednesday afternoon in July. Of course I know that. Whatever her unimaginable dreams may be, they have nothing to do with me. I am barely a bit player in her life. After all, she has no falsely alluring photographs of me.
I know you cannot have a meaningful relationship with a digital photograph. I know you cannot have sex with photoshopped image. Of course I know that. Of course, too, I know the other side, the real side, of these women I photograph. Of course I know the truth: they are all, in fact, complicated, three dimensional, real people with complicated, three dimensional real and jumbled lives. I also know the women of my dreams rarely if ever inhabit the same wobbly world I call home. I am an adult and I know the score. It’s the lyrics I can’t abide.
But sometimes it isn’t easy to remember what I know (as I grow older it gets harder and harder to remember even those things I desire to recall). An unpalatable truth is easy to forget. Some of the time – maybe even most of the time – I forget some really important stuff.
When I do forget the peril of believing in photographic fantasy, when I am worn out by all that complicated truth, then once again all my unblemished beauties, who exist in my artful photographic fables and nowhere else, become simply all too lovable and alive.
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You know you’re unacceptably old when most of the cultural icons who were in their heyday when you came of age are now gone, buried and forgotten. Here a a trio of crooners who were big when I was in my teens…
My father was a huge Frank Sinatra fan. The singer was wildly famous when my father was in his twenties. By the time I was in my early twenties Sinatra’s career had dropped off and then rebounded. The terrible, dark secret of my teens and early twenties: I cared little for rock. I loved old Blue Eye. What styling, what a tough, sexy, silky voice…
Unlike Sinatra, Bing Crosby seemed passe to me in the 1960’s. I’d seen a few of his films with Bob Hope, but I confess I didn’t really appreciate his singing until later. While I didn’t know it in the 60’s, Crosby was a fan of many black performers and would often drop into black clubs to listen – and learn – from the great black singers of the era. This song is forever burned into my brain:
Dean Martin was a constant television presence when I was growing up. Long teamed with Jerry Lewis in one of America’s favorite comedy teams, Martin had a successful solo career as a singer, actor and television variety show host (and member of the Rat Pack). His first You Tube listing is…
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I don’t normally comment on the really big news of the week. Everyone else in the blogosphere does and I’m not egotistical enough to think I have anything original to write. Usually I stick to titty pics and pathetic attempts at humor.
But today I’ll descend into a mindless left wing rant. If you’re just here for the smut, scroll down to the bottom of the page…
Why is our country so obsessed with guns? More importantly, how does the NRA manage to block virtually any state or federal gun regulation? It is astonishing to me that the NRA can easily stop modest gun regulation supported by a majority of the country. Ever since the Tuesday night massacre of pro gun control democrats in 1994 no one has proposed any serious gun regulation in Congress (and the Obama administration hasn’t either).
Here in Tennessee the pro-gun lobby is pushing for laws permitting the carrying of concealed weapons in church, at work, and at colleges (even if the school, or church, or workplace doesn’t want them allowed). We already have a law legalizing concealed weapons in bars (what could possibly go wrong)!
I could, of course, cite the scads of statistics about gun violence in this nation. I could cite stats on the way lower gun assaults in Europe and Japan. You, you right wing ignoramus, would retort with cases of gun totin’ grandmas saving the family and a screed on the sanctity of the second amendment.
Twelve dead, fifty-eight wounded. At a goddamn movie. Killed with legal guns legally purchased. Victims mowed down like sheep at slaughter. In a goddamn movie theater! In a state with relatively lax laws on carrying concealed weapons…
But woe to anyone crying out for gun regulation in the wake of the tragedy! Mayor Bloomberg of New York has outraged many conservatives by “using this tragedy to his advance his radical anti-gun agenda!” My God! What a monster…
Anyone hoping that, at last, this gun massacre will spur the passage of common sense gun control is delusional. It hasn’t happened before despite uncountable violent gun deaths and it won’t happen now. And it most likely won’t happen the next time or the next time after that.
This is, after all, America where we praise the lord and pass the ammunition.
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Those of a certain age will remember the Charles Atlas ad that ran in comic books showing a poor, skinny dweeb having sand kicked in his face by a bigger, stronger boy at the beach (and, worst of all, in front of a pretty girl). I’m not sure if the wuss wore glasses (a Google search says no…). I’m positive he was me. After all, I lived just off the beach in Del Mar, California, and spent a lot of time on the hot, thick sand. At thirteen I weighed about one hundred ten pounds and had pipestem arms and legs. I don’t remember having sand kicked in my face by some cruel, over muscled brute. I may have blocked it out. I did worry about it, though. A lot…
In the comic book ad the hapless weakling vows to get revenge and spends god knows how long working out like a fiend on juice. Soon he’s a pussy no more, has muscles on his muscles, and bench presses hundreds and hundreds of tons. Triumphantly, he returns to the beach and destroys his erstwhile tormentor.
That’s the part I never got around to. The only things I lifted much were books. At least they were hardbacks. The only muscle of mine that got daily exercise was in my shorts.
For reasons still obscure fifty years later, I went out for the freshman football team in high school. It was a small school and every one made the roster. I played end. My stats for the season were not impressive: no catches, one tackle, maybe three blocks in six or so games.
I was going to try for the varsity the next year. The head coach, a kindly man who also taught social studies, took me aside and told me I was just too valuable to the marching band, I was first chair clarinet, to play football instead.
I nursed a fantasy of going out for the football team at Swarthmore College, a small, elite liberal arts college near Philadelphia. It was a division III school known for its academics. I imagined the football players were all really bookworms like me. They weren’t. They were good enough to have a winning record my freshman year. Several years after I left the team set some kind of record for consecutive losses. In 2000 the college abolished the team despite the howls of older alumni.
A suppressed memory just bubbled up: at some point as a kid I did work out with weights. I actually recall the rough texture of the reddish round weights that fitted onto a tubular bar. It is not a fond memory. When the hell was it and how long did it last…?
The irony is that now, at sixty-four, I lift weight all the time – about two hundred sevent-five jiggly pounds. And I don’t even use my hands!
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