Archive for BOY


Posted in erotic, fashion, fetish, FLICKR, lingerie, photographers, PHOTOGRAPHY, pinup, sexual, Sexy, tennessee, women with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 23, 2013 by cliffmichaels




There are plumbers, nurses, engineers, gardeners, and cabbies; all of them, and thousands more, pursue honorable vocations. While their skill and efficiency may vary, at the end of the day each may say she earned an honest dollar for her honest labors.

Not so with headline writers. They, like lawyers, car salesmen and politicians, lie in the worst possible way: by telling a bent, twisted and   black and white version of the truth.sabrina2

Because newspapers and magazines desperately wanted you to buy their rag, the front page – or cover – screamed a bevy of large type come ons: The Shocking Truth About…. Will the World End Next Week… Goat Born with Three Heads… If you fell for the lure of one of the headlines you usually found out, when your read the article, the truth was much less shocking than the cover’s implied promise.

Today, as newspapers and magazines fade from the scene, digital media has taken up the art of writing alluring headlines. If old media angled for sales, Internet outlets crave hits. They don’t really care if you read the piece you click through to; your click is enough.

I admit, given my modest audience, I’ve been tempted to attempt to imitate my Internet betters. I normally try to find a song, book or film title or quote, or a play on words to head a post. These headers are usually honest in an plain spoken  kind of way; they do not promise more than their subsequent text delivers. But with each post I edge closer to hyping the content: The Most Depraved Women in the World! – Shocking Tales of Sexual Depravity! – Depraved Political Tricks! Monster Ants Attack!

But – if I do fall prey to the unprincipled practice of pure postal prevarication – I promise, at least, to do my best to feel ashamed.




There was a fairly bad English play once titled, “No Sex Please, We’re British.” While wildly popular in Britain in the seventies despite near universal critical scorn, the play managed a mere sixteen performances when it crossed the Atlantic.

I wouldn’t be surprised if someone writes a sequel entitled No Sex Please, We’re Tennesseans. The University of Tennessee’s student run Sex Week scheduled for early April has drawn the ire of several of our esteemed legislators. They were shocked – shocked – by the thought students might be interested in sex on campus and might actually want to enhance their sexual knowledge. The lawmakers demanded the University withdraw all funding for the one week program.

The university, citing the long cherished principle of academic freedom, stood firm…

You didn’t believe that, did you?

Of course the university mostly bailed and withdrew all university funding for the program but did allow a modest amount of student funds to remain available to fund the (greatly reduced) bacchanalian sex romp.


The outraged legislators are, of course, not mollified. They point out student fees are not voluntary and, therefore, money extracted from God fearing, pure minded Christian students will go to fund depravity.

The Vegas line is one in twenty-seven  Sex Week will actually happen in Knoxville next month. Personally, I wouldn’t take those odds. This is Tennessee, after all.



Politicians are a craven lot. Large majorities of the populace support universal background checks and restrictions on large gun magazines. The outlook for any gun control legislation passing, however, remains poor. The proposed assault rifle prohibition died prematurely without coming up for a vote at the hands of Harry Reid last week, done in by the defection of  red state Democratic senators.

The NRA has managed to rouse its horde of single issue votes once again. “Safe district” Republicans would never support gun control (and would probably vote to legalize private ownership of bazookas and tanks). Democrats remain deeply traumatized by the party’s 1994 Congressional wipeout that followed their vote to ban assault rifles. Democrats in the house and Senate pray they won’t have to vote at all. Voting against would enflame the party’s base but voting for would likely mean facing a NRA firing squad. Public support for gun control, while temporarily strong, will wain as time passes. On the other hand, the NRA never forgets.

Once the public glare of Sandy Hook fades away, Democratic politicians will slither away in the gathering darkness, giving thanks they can  make soothing noises but nothing more – at least until the next gun massacre hits the news.


photos by Alan Antiporda, subject to this creative commons license. Click images for details.

More of Sabanas


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My Old Friend’s New Friend is the Dear Friend of Her Other Friend’s Best Friend’s Friend…

Posted in erotic, fashion, fetish, FLICKR, photographers, PHOTOGRAPHY, sexual, Sexy, women with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 17, 2012 by cliffmichaels


Sets by erotic photographers and by the erotic photographers who love them…

Sizzling Set by Shallowend

A Set by Shallowend’s friend Asian Impressions

Another hot sexy set by Asian’s friend Ikon Visuals

Ikon likes these photos from Eduardo Carneilo

Eduardo’s partial to Sabrina Dacos’ photostream

Sabrina’s taken with Hec Ochoa’s nudes

*1102 is a favorite photog of Hec 

Hec likes Rich Cirminello

Who’s smitten with Manel Garcia

Who flips over Lluis Carro’s shots

A G rated set of  Dunikowski’s fashionistas  

Dunk faved Bryon Paul McCartney

Who likely loved this set by Had3siA

Who probably loved this set by Bart Ramaker

Bart’s ga ga for Sol Lang

Who adores AliEN 

A fan of Jess& R

Who both like Christian Nybach

And  he’s an admirer of Photosmith 

Who’s fond of mostly tame Unexpectedtales

And I just love them all!

FLICKR GROUP: Sexy Girl Next Door

Photos by(top down) Shallowend, Dunikowski, both remixed by me, subject to this creative commons license

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I’m Not Bad, I’m Just Drawn That Way

Posted in art, erotic, fetish, pinup, Sexy, women with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 17, 2012 by cliffmichaels






 Classic Erotic Cartoons – Cartoon GirlsGay Cartoons – Drawn Sexiness – Adult Cartoons – Naughty Toons

Photos by Henrik Olsson, remixed by me, all images subject to this creative commons license

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Where’s My Peach?

Posted in FLICKR, history, memoir, photographers, PHOTOGRAPHY, tennessee with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 5, 2012 by cliffmichaels



Writers and poets have written of aging for thousands of years. Some decry life’s twilight; others embrace the dying of the light. Some of their words ares profound, others banal or saccharine . None of their prose and poetry helped them avoid age’s bitter, irreversible culmination.  They all died in the end. Some are remembered; others remain unknown.

 Now its time for my lament.

When I was fourteen or so, in September (or was it April?), I was wandering around a nearly deserted municipal swimming pool on an overcast morning. With no girls in skimpy swimsuits to admire, I mused on my life. I felt wonderfully old. I was now Fourteen! I was a teenager! I carefully shaved every other week or so. I thought about my future. In a year and a half I could get a learner’s permit and learn to drive; In four years I’d graduate high school then be in college and, I hoped, no longer be an skinny, acne plagued virgin. When people asked how old I was I’d proudly announce fourteen and they would feign surprise. “You’re almost a man,” they would tell me with a condescending smile, “what do you want to be when you grow up?”

My speculation that sweet morning took me further into my uncertain future. It seemed utterly impossible that in the year 2000, so amazingly distant in time, I would be fifty-two years old. Fifty-two? It was unimaginable, like imagining I’d move to Jupiter or Mars. My father and mother, who were of course old, were just forty-two and thirty-eight. None of my high school teachers were that old. I knew really old people of course; my grandparents were in their early seventies; somehow they didn’t count. It was as if to my teenage mind they belonged to a separate, barely noticed, race of gray headed creatures.

In 1966, at eighteen, I graduate high school, then spent the summer working frantically to lose my virginity with last minute success. In 1969 I turned 21. Legal whisky! College graduation and admission to law school. A year away from my (first) wedding. Am I an adult now? Is that a good thing?

1974: Out of law school, married four years. I was in awe of those older attorneys who seem so – lawyerly. 1978: thirty, old enough to be a judge but still young enough to feel childish and chase, and catch, women.

In 1988 I turn forty, a sobering number. Can I really be that old? I dread some sniggering friend giving me a bunch of black balloons.I am thankful I still have a full head of brown hair with no trace of gray.

1998: I attain the impossible, chilly age of fifty. I try to tell myself its a mistake, but I can’t make the math come out right. I can no longer deny I am middle aged. At my high school reunion everyone talks of disease and grandchildren.

And then, in a blink, comes 2000 and I look back at that awkward fourteen year old boy from the other end of time’s tunnel.

Now another decade plus has slipped quietly by and I find myself answering the question, “how old are you?” with words that taste of ashes: “I’m 63.” My interrogator feigns surprise, smiles then tells me I look so much younger. I want to slug her… She thinks I’m old! I’m on the verge of telling a young client, “I’m old enough to be your father,” when I realize with bitter shock I am in fact old enough to be his grandfather. No one calls me young man anymore. I wonder if people know my teeth are made of plastic.

I am not old!  I am not old!!

My face has somehow, and I’m not quite sure just when it happened, sagged here and there and  wrinkles have crept across its once smooth and hairless flesh. My body has, when I wasn’t paying attention, grown surprisingly fat and flabby and parts of it refuse to work quite as well as they did before.

The number of my pill bottles crowd the bottom shelf in my medicine cabinet. My young doctor talks of cholesterol, liver enzymes, and my elevated blood pressure; he always listens carefully to my heart and feels my calfs for swelling. Hair sprouts from my ears and nose. I still have most of my hair but gray has spread alarmingly far above my temples. There are splotches on my wrists. I try to ignore the stiffness in my legs and the aches in my hands and shoulders. The slightest pain in my chest sends me into panic.

 But I am not old.

My father, when he was about forty, told me he had never felt old, never reached an age when he felt like an adult and put away childish thoughts. He told me at first he had been surprised by this, that he expected to reach some age when, magically, he would become an adult. He  said it would probably be the same for me. I wasn’t so sure; I wanted badly to become an adult both inside and out. But he was right.

Inside, where it really counts, I am still that underweight, half grown, pimply kid. Can I pass the math test tomorrow? Will she go to the dance with me – I wish she was better looking – will she let me touch her tits? Should I go out for football again? Will my parents discover I’m drinking beer? I wish I was more popular – I feel so invisible sometimes…. Will this year never end?  I am still insecure, still aroused by beautiful women, still able to play the fool, still so anxious to impress, and still haunted by chronic self-doubt. Behind my crinkled face my mind remains unchanged from when I was young:  still eager to play, still able to view the world with wonder.

Or at least it seems that way.

I am sixty-three; in twenty years I will be in my eighties. If I live that long (should I be cremated or buried? How many people will attend my funeral? Who will speak of me?) Will that distant me still feel the same? Who can say?

 But I am not old. I am not old. At least not yet…


MY FLICKR GROUP: Faces of Maturity 

Photo (not of me) by Étienne Ljóni Poisson, subject to this creative commons license

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Posted in erotic, FLICKR, lingerie, photographers, PHOTOGRAPHY, sexual, Sexy, Uncategorized, women with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 14, 2011 by cliffmichaels


Another Sunday. Another lukewarm cup of coffee. Another week about to start. Another pointless blog post…

I don’t understand quantum mechanics. I don’t understand calculus either, or soccer, or the poetry of e. e. cummings.  And, most of all, I do not understand women.

Maybe if I’d had sisters growing up I might better comprehend the fair sex. But I didn’t. I was the oldest of three boys. When I reached puberty women – well, girls, actually – seemed like Odysseus’ Sirens with pigtails and braces. Until I was in my first serious relationship (with Good Old Kathie), at 18, I honestly was not sure if women farted, or belched or took a dump. I only knew that I desperately wanted to gaze at them, touch them, kiss them, fondle them and their magical breasts, and make mad passionate love with them. It took me what seemed like half of forever to make it all they through that list. It was worth it; my god was it worth it!

This may seem unbelievable, but I have no memory of the first time I had sex with a woman. I know when it was: late in the summer of 1966 not long before I left for college. I know who it was with: Good Old Kathie. And I know where it was: in my good friend John’s apartment just two or three blocks fro the main campus of the University of Tennessee in Knoxville.

I must have been drunk; that’s the only explanation I have for utterly forgetting my passage into manhood.  It wasn’t Kathie. I remember the sex that followed. During the week she was a good Baptist girl, determined to refrain from carnality and reclaim her virtue. Come Friday or Saturday night, however, she would snuggle up against me and whisper, “can we  borrow John’s apartment tonight?” 

It is hard to believe Kathie is now 64 years old. I last saw her in the late sixties. She would have been twenty something then. She was thin, with short, dark brown hair and modest breasts. She had  acne scars on her face which she tried to cover with makeup. While she was no beauty, her lively, intelligent brown eyes  gave her a certain allure (enhanced, of course, by the tidal waves of my adolescent testosterone).

But she took my virginity, and a piece of my heart. For that reason alone she will always own a special and unique place in my life and memory – even if I can’t recall precisely how it was she made me a man that sweaty Summer night in Knoxville.

 Photo credits: top: Pixel Pro Photography; bottom: Emily Raw; both subject to this creative commons license

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Erotic Flickr Groups

Posted in erotic, fashion, fetish, FLICKR, lingerie, PHOTOGRAPHY, pinup, sexual, Sexy with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 24, 2010 by cliffmichaels

Some more erotic Flickr groups I’ve turned up for your edification. No thanks necessary – somebody had to do and I’m just glad it was me…

Only Flickr members with safe search OFF will see most of the photos in these groups. Join Flickr free.

Young, Naked and Being Naughty (outdoors)


I just love sheer/wet/see-through outfits

BEST ASS Collection

By Annies25 creative commons

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Nine Flickr Sexy Groups!

Posted in erotic, fashion, fetish, FLICKR, lingerie, photographers, PHOTOGRAPHY, pinup, sexual, Sexy, women with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 18, 2010 by cliffmichaels

Once again, in our endless tour of the vast and untamed cornucopia of Flickr erotica, we feature a few of the sexier groups on Flickr. Pull up a chair, take your blood pressure meds, and enjoy…

Only Flickr member with safe search OFF will see most of the photos in these groups. Join Flickr free.
Sex Girl
Soccer Moms Gone Wild
Topfree, That’s how life should be
Crossdressing Lovers
erotic dares
Fetish and Goth Models
Show Your Tits

Structurally Bound

By David Blackwell creative commons

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