Here I share my erotic fantasy art, photos, music, and video. Just scroll or search on keywords or postings.
Whatever it is you seek, just put on a hooded cloak and go to the top of a mountain. Unless you are seeking a sandwich. Or a slice of pizza. Or a new outfit. Or some new friends. But other than that, just go to some mountaintop; it will bring you closer to God, because, as we all know, God sits up high in the sky. And the thin air and grand vistas will make you feel a little high (why do you think they call it “getting high”?). Anyway, this piece is dedicated to all of us seekers in earnest. Excelsior! Model: Rachel Lilly
Honestly, I cannot say what the inspiration for this was, or what it is, or what it’s supposed to mean, or even why it should exist. Almost none of my work starts out as a concept, an idea taking form in the realm of words or intended meaning or purpose. This, like so much of my work, just springs forth my subconscious, much like a dream. One of my goals with Mother Id is to practice tapping into the wellspring of creative energy that lies beneath our conscious rational mind. Art does not have to make sense. It just is–like the universe. The only meanings are those we create. When I create some art, it’s usually only after its creation that I contemplate it and find meaning–meaning for myself that is; it might have different meaning for someone else, or no meaning at all. Maybe it serves as a visual metaphor for something and illuminates that something for us in a way that we did not otherwise see. Or maybe it evokes a feeling that we might not otherwise feel. To me, encountering art like this is like getting plopped down in some alien world. And though we may have questions and seek explanations, there are no manuals or teachers to provide answers. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this freaky, what-the-fuck-is-it, image, and I am sorry I cannot provide more insight about what it is and what it means. If I think of something I will let you know.
The first time I heard the word “Id” was in one of my all-time favorite movies, “Forbidden Planet,” where the ancient, long-extinct, inhabitants of the faraway planet (the “Krell”), had developed a massive machine that could physically manifest one’s psychic energy into all kinds of wonderful things. But, when it tapped into that dark, subconscious part of our mind called the Id, the Krell machine manifested super-powerful, uncontrollable, scary monsters. Quite a cool and intriguing concept for my 13-year-old mind!
In addition to introducing me to the concept of the “Id” (and inspiring a lifelong love of science fiction), the movie also fired up another part of my brain–the libido (though I did not learn the word until much later). The barefoot, half-naked, Anne Francis, skinny-dipping in her idyllic garden, sent my young hormones raging. I thought I would have a little fun here and give a one-frame cameo to the lovely Lareina Tay. After all, if Dr. Morbius, alone on the planet for all those years with just his daughter, could manifest a living, breathing, pet tiger for her, is there any doubt that he would manifest some pets of his own?
French Parlor Noir. Model: Kay Ace
In a French parlor boudoir, where whispers waltz, Kay reclines on a chaise lounge, a dreamer’s vault. Silken shadows play on walls adorned with tales, As her mind pirouettes through ephemeral trails.
Lace curtains breathe in the evening’s mystique, Softly rustling secrets, the room’s mystique. Candles flicker, casting a warm amber glow, Igniting fantasies that only she can know.
A vintage mirror reflects her wistful gaze, Eyes painted with the hues of twilight’s haze. In the tapestry of time, she weaves her desire, A silent symphony, stoked by passion’s fire.
The scent of lavender lingers in the air, A fragrant sonnet, a romantic affair. Kay’s thoughts drift like petals on a breeze, Dancing with whimsy, lost in reverie.
Her fingers trace patterns on the plush fabric, A tactile sonnet, a touch of the graphic. In this sanctuary of longing and grace, She paints her dreams in an intimate space.
French whispers caress her wandering mind, Verses of love in a language refined. The chaise cradles her in an embrace so tender, As she surrenders to fantasies, wild and slender.
Oh, the tales she conjures in this private cocoon, In the parlor boudoir, where dreams softly swoon. Kay, the poet of her own clandestine lore, In the symphony of silence, she yearns for more.