I'm a young woman who is interested in writing, blogging, feminism along with discovering new websites and films. For me its important that women have outlets to be themselves and this is a great platform for me to express my sexuality in an honest and creative way. I hope you like it. I'm a daydreamer, hopeless romantic who lives in her imagination- which is why I want to share it here. But hey- if I show you mine maybe you can show me yours?
Caroline Allen on boneheads in LA, and the difference between a subject and an object
I'm just writing to you to say that I love the the two videos that you have done recently. The bland depiction of sex in the media (and in a lot of films, music in general I'm beginning to think) is something that I would love to help to change. The real reason I was attracted to your site is because you showed me that some people really care: that some people don't see sex as crude and an instrument with which to exploit others for a shallow gain or as a self righteous tool to judge others by. Your films are intelligent and artistic, you've made yourself into a subject rather than an object. The porn that dominates the internet doesn't enlighten my imagination. It doesn't welcome the wonders and possibilities that I envision. In my mind I can have scenarios that involve complex characteristics, many emotions and psychedelic colours. I just wish that there were more sites like yours. Maybe in the future there will be.
Why is it that we've allowed some boneheads in L.A dictate how our sexualities should evolve when sex itself is such a complex thing that is inside of everyone? Why do crazy right-wing lunatics decide that kids shouldn't be taught how to use condoms and why does porn not reflect the vastness and creativity of human expression? In the future I would love to write and explore the possibilities that I have- the characters and settings that I can create. We don't even know the wonders that could exist in the world if only we allowed ourselves to imagine them. Until I discovered your films I genuinely believed that there was no possibility that the kind of expression that I imagined could exist, I thought I was strange for feeling the way that I did. It's like if you dare to think that porn that exists is shit then you're characterised as some prude who hates sex. It's incredibly frustrating, and I actually think that many people have given up hope that it could be any better. Ever since discovering your site I have realised that I have a voice and that I can change the world through my writing- and maybe one day directing films.
I just want to say that just as you have been inspired by Frank Moore and Lou Reed, you have inspired me. :) Thank you so much and keep making the great art that you've been creating.
Part One: Single Digits
Barbie. And Action Man. This is the beginning- all of my erotic exploration will
lead from here.
The dynamics of the relationship are never explained. It’s simply apparent that
they “like” each other. And that, in the childish world of absolutes, is enough.
Barbie doesn’t “give” and Action Man doesn’t “take”. They just..kind of merge
together, joyfully. Oh how wonderful it would be to stay six forever.
I think I know what sex is, in that giggly, nervous way that tells me that I really
don’t know but I know enough to want to find out more. Upstairs is quiet. It’s
Action Man and Barbie are thrown together- I make kissy kissy noises. They’re
naked. The further technicalities are not elaborated upon. All that I know is
that sex is full of excitement- I learnt that from a combination of innuendo,
Simpsons references and a Diet Coke advert: a black and white one where
“Lady Marmalade” plays and the single digit me knows that the lady “likes” the
man, and that she is going to have fun with him.
I’m obsessed with tying my Barbies up. This is something else I’ve seen on TV.
Daphne was tied to a chair in Scooby Doo wasn’t she? And Action Man always
carries Barbie in his arms when they kiss. This, also, feels familiar. I feel my first
warm rush of excitement- what will precede every frantic diary entry, every
dog-eared page, every stolen glance. And with that, Barbie and Action Man kiss
Part One Subsection A: Purgatory.
I’m in love with her. I hated her, but now I love her, and every unsure, fleeting
feeling I ever had about myself is questioned. I can’t tell anyone that I love
another girl. I’m not that sort of girl- I wear pink and lilac. I have long hair and I
hate sports. I can dress more like a man now, and I play hockey, even though I
hate it, so that I can stare at her.
century Ireland. My world is small and unknowing, bound by quaint
I like her small breasts, which is one of the endless revelations she has made
me consider about myself. This is an entirely new development. And she’s
not really girly looking: why don’t I fancy the people who are supposed to
be attractive? Why am I drawn to what is unique, or indescribable about
someone? Why can’t I just morph into what society wants me to be? This is
thirteen, horribly thirteen. Why can’t I figure out who I should be?
Part Two: Double Digits.
We kiss. Strangely everything that I’ve been taught about this appears to be
wrong. We are two: there is him and there is me. And I appear to want this
more than he does. Or else that’s just how it seems to me. We pull- well more
precisely I pull- us closer and closer together until my mouth knows every part
of his mouth, my brain knows as much as it will ever know of anyone’s brain. In
my youthful, wishful heart we are one.
And I want him. Something inside me that is beyond being “good” and beyond
having “self-respect”, wants to shed every stitch of clothing on my body
around him. We are alone, in an overheated cinema with missing tiles on the
ceiling. I feel an unfamiliar wetness between my legs. Everything is new and
exhilarating like the lyrics that will one day epitomize my life: “All the colours
look brighter now. Everything seems to feel so unreal.” I crave his touch in
every part of my body that we dare to explore, this new uncharted territory.
Sex is the playground for my new discoveries. All the thoughts in my head feel
dizzying and disjointed, playful and poetic. I try to freeze this moment forever-
us kissing hungrily- knowing that it will end all too soon.
Soon after, he leaves me. I hate him in that passionate, irrational way that only
a teenager can. I will never love again.
Part Three: The Greatest Adventure of My Life. Adulthood.
I’m now 18. And after my childhood spent longing after the kind of dreamy,
frantic trysts that I read about in my mother’s forbidden Jilly Cooper novels,
I’ve found someone. This, too, was a surprise. He was the person I least
expected- some ways very similar to the softly spoken, kind hearted gay
teenage boys I’d lusted after before, yet different. Self deprecating and
chivalrous, true, but it was the way that I could bounce against him that I liked.
I didn’t have to hide my forthcoming, I didn’t have to make my voice more
high pitched. I spoke more eloquently, more intelligently, both to impress and
“When two individuals come together and leave their gender outside the
bedroom door, then they make love.”That was a quote from Dworkin, and, as
in life, it turns out to be true for me. Sex, I have discovered is both a quest for
unity, a sense of being one, and also a quest for self-truth, the closest thing we
have to infinity.
So the two of us lie in his bedroom: his orange, childhood bedroom, with its
soft smells that I love, because I associate it with the two of us lying together,
and I think a sentimental part of me wants to take a Polaroid of it and cherish
it forever. I am sentimental in his arms- we are naked and fit together, despite
our odd sizes: his arms warm and wrapped around mine, soft and sweet
And when we hear each other’s heartbeats I am hurtled back to that exciting
unknown place: of androgynous boys and Asian girls with long, shiny black
waterfalls down their back, of sweet, hot muff- diving in illicit country houses,
of Winston and Julia in that field, of Lady Chatterley and her lover..that divine,
poetic, indescribable thing. And when that tension builds between us, we can
come together and attempt in all our wonderful, beautiful futility to express
it. We tear down buttons and rip open zips, fling shirts and skirts to the four
winds so that we can press our warm skin against each other and know how it
feels to be alive.
We race each other to kiss the fastest, devouring as much of the other’s neck
and lips as we can, feeling the passion blur everything else away. Then breasts-
sensitive and knowing, purring under his touch. Then hot, wet kisses all over
each other: chests, legs. Slowly creeping to the place between our legs. The
place that craves them the most. Our bodies ready themselves in that amazing,
timeless predictable way- facilitating sucking and licking. Cunts and cocks being
soothed and delighted as we breathe heavily and feel a surge of excitement at
providing and receiving such pleasure. Then he is inside me, and I know that
heaviness, that he is a part of me. He doesn’t give, and I don’t take. Everything
else peels away, and we are one, breathless and sweaty, in our own private
embrace. This is it, I know, this is sex, this is what I’ve decided sex is, how I
choose to express it, how I share it. It is something irrepressibly mine. Nobody
can take it away from me. This, for me, is love and this is life.