Evie Byrne

Merveilleuse

2009-09-29T16:00:00.000-07:00

Portrait of a young woman by Pierre-Narcisse, baron Guérin (1774 - 1833)

Guérin is not considered an erotic painter. He was a highly respected artist in his time, and most of his paintings were of grand historical subjects. So I was very surprised to see this painting by him at the now sadly retired Jahsonic blog--and also quite taken by it. It's gorgeous, isn't it?

There's a fine line between innocence and eroticism. In this painting, the eroticism rests in the position of her fingers. That's it. If her fingers were closed, it would be a whole different kind of painting. As it is, though, those beautifully painted hands highlight what they are supposed to conceal, and make her breasts fascinating and luscious and tempting.

Who is she? I don't know. But I can guess some things about her.

We're used to seeing women with elaborate hair in old paintings, so if you didn't know better, you might think she's a poor kitchen girl or something like that. But you'd be wrong. She's a trendsetter, a rebel. Knowing that Guérin's is French, and that he painted during the revolutionary period, I'm willing to bet all my donuts that this girl is a Merveilleuse.

During the French revolutionary period, rebellious young people began to wear outrageous clothing that mocked both the excesses of the old regime, and the restrictions of the new ones. The men called themselves Encroyables (The Incredibles) and looked like dandies on acid. The women were the Merveilleuses (the Marvelous Ones). They cropped their hair so they'd look like they were on their way to the guillotine, and wore transparent, Grecian style dresses.

It seems to me a Marveilleuse would love to be painted toplesss, glorying in her brutally cropped hair. Far from being simple, the girl painted above was a rebellious, priviledged wild child who ran in a pack of immodest cropped-haired girls and dangerously frivolous dandy-boys.

So yes, for ever and for always people have wondered "Just what in the hell are those kids wearing???"

Here's a little article on The Incroyables and the Merveilleuses if you want to learn more. And here's another one with pictures.

Please, make yourself comfortable

2009-09-20T16:21:00.000-07:00

I thought it might be fun to have one space where folks can stop by and talk to me about my writing.

So if you have any questions or comments about my stories--the characters, availability, etc., please don't hesitate to ask whatever your heart desires. I'm also happy to talk about art history & erotica, if you have questions that don't fit under an individual post. And heck, I'll answer questions from the lovelorn and the vampire-stalked, too. Just don't ask me what color my panties are, and we'll be cool.

This space will always be accessible from the sidebar--just look for the chaise lounge.

Win a copy of Damned by Blood

2009-09-22T00:01:00.000-07:00

It's release day! I'm celebrating the publication of Damned by Blood, the third and final e-book of the Faustin Brothers trilogy, by giving away a free copy.

First, about the book:

Plan A: Marry Her. Plan B: Kill Her.

Mikhail Faustin is the prince of New York. His authority is absolute, his power unquestioned—and his heart is empty. The pain he carries inside leaves him with nothing to offer a mate. When he discovers that Alya Adad is not only his destined bride but also the source of his misery, his fate is sealed. He must either kill or claim the woman he despises most--or die trying.

Alya is the most powerful of her kind born in generations and a prince in her own right. Alya Adad kneels to no one, certainly not to her first lover, Mikhail. She plans to kill him before he captures her, but when she realizes she holds the key to his heart, and all his secret desires, things become a little more complicated.

Alya Adad and Mikhail Faustin are darkest, most reckless characters I’ve ever written. On their twisted, blood-soaked path to love, they break every rule in the book, write a few rules of their own, and break those, too. They surprised me at every turn. I hope you'll enjoy reading this unconventional love story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Read an excerpt right here on my blog, a couple of entries down. Learn more about the whole series over at my website.

Breaking news: The first review is already in! Jane at Dear Author gave it an A-!

How to win a book:

All you have to do is join my email list so I can tell you about future releases. I swear I have no plans to spam you. I'll only send you new book announcements two or three times a year.

Just send me an email with "mailing list" or something similar in the title so I recognize it. You don't have to write anything in the body. I'll draw a name from that pool for a free copy on this Thursday morning (9/24). My email is evbyrne at gmail dot com.

If you are already on my mailing list, or think you might be, send me an email anyway. I'll double check your address against my list and enter you in the drawing.

Please be aware that all of the Faustin books are only available as e-books. Damned by Blood is what they call "category length" -- 148 pages long. However, my publisher will release the 3 books as a print anthology in about ten months.

A little surreptitous frottage

2009-09-21T12:54:00.000-07:00

Illustration by Louis Berthommé-Saint-André (1905-1977) Image source: AMEA

"Still, she didn’t violate the man too much, just indulged in a little surreptitious frottage ."

This is a line from my most recent book, Damned by Blood. It refers to my vampire heroine rubbing herself against her victim's knee while she takes his blood. In that peculiar way that coincidences seemed planned, the same day I wrote that line someone I knew mentioned out of the blue that she'd just learned the word frottage. After doing a very small, very informal survey, I discovered that a lot of people aren't familiar with this term. It happens to be one of my favorite words, so in the spirit of public education, the Erotická Revue brings you:

FROTTAGE

Frottage has two meanings: 1) a Surrealist art technique and 2) a form of non-penetrative sex

Meaning 1:

In an art context, frottage refers to making art by putting paper or canvas on top of a textured surface and rubbing it with pigment to capture an impression of the pattern below. Yes, just like brass rubbing. But it's more arty. The goal of frottage is to capture random, abstract patterns that either stand on their own as art, or can be embellished to make art. The Surrealist Max Ernst is usually credited with developing frottage in the 1920's.

Meaning 2:

Dry humping. That's such an unfortunate term for a very pleasurable practice. For that reason I I prefer frottage. However, I do use "dry humping" in my 2nd vampire book, viz. "Miércoles! I am dry humping Gregor Faustin in the back of a cab." In that case I used it because the character would use that term, not the fancier frottage.

Frottage is a wonderfully adaptable form of perversion. You can indulge in on the dance floor, the back seat of a car, or in a packed concert arena. It can be a form of foreplay, or the main act itself.

The term frotteur is used for someone who rubs up against people non-consensually. This is the DSM IV definition. But frotteur is just French "one who rubs" so I think we should take back the term from the shrinks. Are we not all frotteurs?

Frottage is a staple of lesbian sex, specifically the act of scissoring (more formally known as Tribadism), as illustrated by the lovely young ladies above. The word Tribadism comes from tribas, the Latin term for a woman who wanted to be the active sexual partner (ie top).

One thing I did not know about frottage when I began to write this post is the new-ish slang term, frot. According to Wikipedia, the word was developed out of frottage in the 1990's to describe a specifically male on male form of non-penetrative sex, offered up as a safer alternative to anal sex. The word frot, apparently, only refers to this particular form of man on man behavior.

It seems a wee bit strange to me that they get the corner on this word and specific definition, when what they are doing sounds to me like classic frottage--full on frottage ending in orgasm. Frottage is such a widespread practice, among people of all ages and sexual orientations, that I have trouble seeing why this act must be set apart as frot. But I do understand that this is a specific subculture and there seems to be some politics bound up in the definition, so I'll leave them to it. In time, I expect the the word frot will migrate, and end up being more universally used as a slang for frottage, no matter who's participating.

There are bears, and then there are bears

2009-09-13T22:02:00.001-07:00

Illustration by Charles Raymond for a privately printed edition of
Venus in Furs by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, 1928

Excerpt Monday

2009-09-14T00:01:00.000-07:00

Once a month, a bunch of authors get together and post excerpts from published books, contracted work or works in progress, and link to each other. You don’t have to be published to participate–just an writer with an excerpt you’d like to share. For more info on how to participate, head over to the Excerpt Monday site or click on the banner above.

***

The following is an excerpt of Damned by Blood, releasing September 22nd from Samhain Publishing. It's the third and final installment in my Faustin Brothers series. In this scene, which takes place about twenty pages into the book, the heroine, Alya Adad prepares to receive a very unexpected visitor to her office--Mikhail Faustin:

Why would Mikhail ever—ever—visit her?

It must have to do with Minnesota. But why a parlay now?

She wasn’t worried about him ambushing her. If his intention were murder, he wouldn’t come to her office under a flag of truce. If Mikhail struck, it would be a complete surprise, scrupulously planned, utterly devastating and yet perfectly legal under vamp law. That was how he’d taken out all his enemies thus far. So she had to assume he had some sort of legitimate business with her.

Security took their sweet time. Wisely. In the meanwhile, she relaxed into the idea of Mikhail being in LA, and even began to like it. It was so damned convenient, almost as though the universe had dropped him in her lap.

It was also a bit sticky, because she’d figured they’d fight over New York, and she’d kill him in battle. That was how she liked to work. It was direct—and fair.

But if he was going to come uninvited into her town and stroll right into her office, she’d be a fool if she didn’t grab this opportunity to take him out quickly and quietly. Then, in the confusion following his death, she’d take New York. It would save lives in the long run.

Mikhail Faustin. She hadn’t seen him since he was younger than Matthew and Maya. She glanced their way, admiring their supple, slender bodies and their flawless skin, her mouth quirking into a smile. She and Mikhail had been very young indeed.

It seemed like there should be a law against killing your first lover, though considering their history, Mikhail probably wouldn’t mind driving a spike through her head. She wondered exactly how much he hated her.

Dominick paced, checking his weapons as he did.

Alya kicked off her heels and put her feet up on the desk, all the while keeping one eye on the front office monitor. “I hope security remembers to use plenty of lube. Did you get some of that knyaz lube I asked you to stock for distinguished visitors?”

Dominick scowled at her. This would be his first face to face with a genuine Faustin, and it had him all riled up.

Maya spoke through a yawn. “Is the Iceman as gorgeous as they say?”

Alya shrugged. Iceman, Ice, Frost—these were all street names for Mikhail. He must have changed a lot over the years, because when he was young, he ran as hot as any man she’d ever met. Even his pale blue eyes burned like the heart of a flame.

Mikhail walked into the front office that moment. The security camera caught him from a high angle, showing her a sleek animal in a severe black suit. Her chair hit the ground with a thump as she leaned close to the monitor.

Rapt, she chewed on the side of her thumb while she watched him speak to her secretary, marking all the ways he’d grown up. He was taller, broader through the shoulders, and the sweet lines of his face had turned austere and sharp as a blade. His straight, platinum hair brushed his collar. That hadn’t changed. She remembered his hair well, how it slid through her hands, heavy and fine.

As she’d heard, he did absolutely nothing to hide his vampirism anymore. Some vamps could pass naturally. Others made adjustments in order to pass. For instance, she wore contacts and sunglasses when she went out, and she did her best to move slowly, like a human. If you knew what to look for, it was easy to spot a vampire in any crowd, but no one would ever mistake Mikhail for human.

The power he held as his family’s leader shimmered around him like a second skin. He made a beautiful prince. Once upon a time she could not resist the draw of that power, but she wouldn’t pay the price for it anymore. Princes demanded absolute submission from those around them, especially their lovers. Now that she was a prince herself, she submitted to no one—not on the street, not in the council chamber and never, ever in the bedroom. She’d done her time on her knees. She had no intention of kneeling ever again.

Tapping Mikhail’s image on the screen with her fingernail, she murmured, “Very pretty. Too bad I’m going to have to kill you.”

He chose that moment to look up, directly into the camera. Straight into her eyes. Alya snatched her hand from the screen.

Her assistant buzzed. “Ms. Adad? Mr. Faustin and Mr. Silver are here.”

Mikhail continued to stare into the camera lens. She could not shake the feeling that he was tracking her with his uncanny eyes. Alya turned off the monitor, annoyed that he could rattle her with a trick like that. She checked her knives and leaned back in her chair. “Send them in.”

When Mikhail walked through the door the curtains stirred and the air temperature dropped. In a glance he took in every detail of the room, just as she would, memorizing the layout, cataloging the feeders, Dominick, and hanging Frank, and tucking that information away for future use.

Alya stood to greet him. She sampled his power, letting it brush over her skin before shaking it off with a shiver, like a cat that’s been stroked backward.

Their eyes locked and held without the camera as intermediary. She’d not been challenged so directly for a long time.

For the briefest moment, she glimpsed him as the angelic boy he’d been, kissing her with a smile. Was that really him? Had that girl been her? Some version of them, maybe. An incarnation on another plane. Butterflies filled her stomach, a visceral memory of how he’d once thrilled her. She hardened herself against the unsettling feeling. Sentimentality was a dangerous luxury.

“Knyaz,” she said, inclining her head without lowering her eyes. She used the title he’d be known by among his own people.

“Knyaginya,” he said, his gaze level, his hands folded in front of him, his expression that of a church saint. His use of the feminine honorific made her smile. It was quite an ugly mouthful. And properly, she should be knyaz too. She was no one’s princess.

“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

Mikhail gestured to his lawyer. Alya had forgotten the man even existed, but he’d been standing there at Mikhail’s left shoulder all along, grey and unobtrusive. He stepped forward with a letter sealed with black wax and dropped it on the table.

“Ms. Adad, I’ve come to testify that this sworn affidavit from Natalia Faustin is certified as genuine prophecy by the Council of Mothers.”

What in the hell did that mean? Now she’d have to call in her lawyers to find out. She didn’t touch the letter.

Mikhail pulled back his coat sleeve, revealing a strange bracelet—no, rather a slender black rope coiling up his arm. She hissed as she recognized the magic crawling over it. How had security let that by?

Shit. Hoping against hope, she pushed her panic button with her toe. Dominick raised a brow at her. She made a subtle “wait” signal with one finger.

“Alya Adad, I declare you mine by right of dream, bound to me by fate and blood—”

And then she understood. He hadn’t come to kill her, he’d come to marry her.

***

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Shunga #3: Octopus!

2008-02-02T17:01:00.000-08:00

My exact thought sequence on finding this image:

1) "Hey ho, what's this? A monster picture?"
2) "Ohhhhhh, I see."
3)"Um...you know...that doesn't look half bad."

This amazing image was conceived by Katsushika Hokusai (1760—1849), a Japanese artist of the Edo period and a master of the woodblock print. In it, an abalone diver has been caught and is being forcibly pleasured by not one, but two, octopi: the big daddy between her legs, and his offspring, which is kissing her and fondling her nipple.

Not knowing anything about this image, I googled "octopus shunga" and, by miracles of the modern age, was sent straight to a post in a blog called Gnothi Seauton, where there is a translation of the script that covers the background. It almost reads too good to be true, but the blogger claims that the translation was done by James Heaton and Toyoshima Mizuho, and published in the Kyoto Journal, No. 18, 1992. Sounds official, but don't go basing any school reports on my blog, kids!

Go visit that page if you want to read all of it--it is rather long. Here is an excerpt (pasted as is from site, typos and all):

OCTOPUS MAXIMUS: My wish comes true at last, this day of days; finally I have you in my grasp! Your “bobo” is ripe and full, how wonderful! Superior to all others! To suck and suck and suck some more. After we do it masterfully, I’ll guide yo to the Dragon Palace of the Sea God and envelope you. “Zuu sufu sufu chyu chyu chyu tsu zuu fufufuuu…”

MAIDEN: You hateful octopus! Your sucking at the mouth of my womb makes me gasp for breath! Aah! yes… it’s… There!!!

Below is what I'm guessing is Hokusai's most famous image, Behind the Great Wave at Kanagawa, c. 1823-1829. I'm thinking that wave might have been caused by our abalone diver's monster orgasm.

For more about shunga, see my first post on the subject.

Image sources: The Octopus is all over the web, but I found this image at a place well worth checking out if you want to see more shunga, or maybe, as I do, contemplate buying your own prints (the lesser known stuff is surprisingly the reasonable): AK Antiek, an antique dealer from the Netherlands. The Great Wave is from Wikipedia's image commons.

Excerpt Monday

2009-08-10T00:01:00.000-07:00

Charles Monnet( 1732-1808), engraved by d'Ambrun

Source Taschen's Erotica Universalis
(I've blogged about this image already.)

It's already time for another Excerpt Monday, that magical day every month where a bunch of writers share our excerpts. Please check out the link above to learn more, or scroll to the bottom of my excerpt to find a list of links for participating authors.

This month I'm returning to my work in process, Cry Surrender--an erotic medieval tale--picking up almost where I left off last month.

Set up:

Those of you who visited then remember the introduction to this story wherein a a convent girl becomes fascinated with a masked knight who comes to the nunnery to steal a virgin. She volunteers to go with him, and this excerpt picks up a little later. They're on the road away from the nunnery, sharing his horse. The knight is about to be surprised.

***

Only the thin linen of my chemise stood between my skin and his wandering hand. I told myself he only stroked me to comfort me. Or perhaps to know more of the goods he’d just obtained. Soon he’d “use my body for his ease” but as ignorant as I was, I was fairly confident he could not do that whilst riding a horse.

He opened the ribbons at my throat, stretching my chemise wide enough to tug it down my shoulders. I kept my hands fisted in the horse’s mane, more terrified of falling than being fondled. Cold breezes circulated under his cloak and chilled my bare skin.

I hunched forward, trying to avoid his hands, but they closed over my breasts anyway. The serpent skin of his mail chafed my flesh. I bit my lip as he cupped my breasts and tested their weight like fruit. But when his big thumbs began to circle my nipples, heating them with hellfire, I yelped.

“Silence,” he hissed, his hand tightening on my left breast in warning. I knew he must feel my heart thudding beneath his hand. I envisioned how the interlocking circles of his mail would leave round, red bites on my skin. Agnes always said that it took no more than a whisper to mark me. I realized I wanted to be marked by his armor. I wanted to bear the traces of its passage over my body.

He pressed my spine to his chest. No longer hunched, I could protect nothing from him, and I could no longer reach the horse’s mane. Balanced precariously between his thighs, I had no choice but to be still, and trust he’d keep me safe.

His warm, bare fingertips traced the lines of my breast and throat, touching me gently sometimes, and cruelly at others. He was teasing me, I realized, making me expect one thing, and then deliver another. I never expected he’d touch me like this. Anges never touched me with such wicked precision. I closed my eyes, my unease fading under wave after wave of sensation.

For the last twelve-month Agnes and I had been creeping to one another’s cot, or keeping each other warm during night vigil together in the chapel. We were of the age when the devil’s fires burned in us almost continually. Me more so than Agnes, who was naturally good.

Our confessor, Father Marcus explained to us that the desire we felt was sent by Satan to distract us from our holy work. It was he who showed us how to quench those fires in one another, so that we might find wholesome relief, and return to our duties.

Usually Agnes and I would quench the fires by simply tucking our hands beneath one another’s skirts, but I enjoyed those rare, luxurious occasions when I could bare my breasts to Agnes’s clever mouth and hands.

Sometimes Father Marcus allowed us to exorcise our demons during private confession with him. Those were the best times. Agnes and I would strip to the skin. Our confessor watched us comfort one another. Sometimes he offered advice. Other times he’d read scripture aloud, his sonorous voice a steady counterpoint to our panting and soft cries.

Our sessions, he explained, were an expression of lust, and of course lust was a sin. But like a sword, it could be turned to either good or ill. He taught us how to tame lust and make it an instrument for good. We used lust to please the Lord.

He showed us how skilled touching brought the clean Light of God into our bodies. Instead of being tormented by desire, and ending pettish and discontent and open to temptation, he taught us the path to love.

We learned how to invoke the loving light of God. His joy would fill us to the brim, and beyond. It filled us until we screamed His Name in joy. For a few precious, suspended moments, we became one with Him. We knew what it is to be held in his embrace, nameless, perfect and loved.

I did not expect the Angel to know of such things. How could he, when he’d turned his face from the Lord?

He ran his hand up my throat and over my face. I turned my face into his neck, sampled the stinging metal of his collar of mail with my tongue.

I tried to keep my eyes closed and focus on the vision of Christ I carried in my heart. But the Angel’s ministrations did not soothe as Agnes’s had. When he took my nipple between his fingers and tugged outward, I gasped and jerked forward in the saddle. A rush of pleasant heat spread outward from my breasts, flowing deep and settling between my legs, where it waited to blossom.

He rolled and thrummed that same aching nipple until I moaned aloud, caught between pleasure in pain. This time he did not chastise me for it. Instead, he lifted my shift so that he might cup his steely hand over my mound. The lip of the saddle blocked his hand. I wiggled forward, tilting my hips to make way for him. His index finger, so much thicker and stronger than Agnes’s, slid deep into my folds. I knew I was wet. Back and forth it slid, moving easily. Caught in the first stages of rapture, I clutched his knees for I knew not what else to grasp. Thus braced, I bent my knees and opened my legs, inviting his fingers deep inside.

He withdrew his hand as if burnt. “You’re no virgin.”

His voice was quiet, yet implacably cold. I imagined myself in a ditch, my throat cut. “But…but I am, my lord.”

He called for a halt and dismounted, dragging me from the horse and pulling me along off the trail, into the trees. At the bottom of steep slope, he spun me around and slammed my back against a tree trunk.

“You lying bitch. Tell me why I shouldn’t slit your throat right here. Tell my why I should not burn the Abbey to the ground.”

“My lord, tell me how I’ve displeased you. I swear I’ve never known a man.”

“Are you a liar or a half-wit? You spread your legs and moan as prettily as any practiced whore.”

“I—I was welcoming the Light.”

“You were doing what?”

“You wanted to share the Light with me, did you not? Cleanse me? Why else would you touch me so?”

His hand closed around my throat. “Speak sense!”

“I do not mean to displease you. I did not lie!”

He made a frustrated sound, a low growl and jammed his free hand between my legs, scraping my inner thighs with his gauntlets. “Who else has touched you thus?”

“J-Agnes.”

“Agnes. Another nun? You’re toying with your sisters?” Abruptly, he let go of my throat.

“I’m not a nun, sir. And we’re only doing what we’re told.”

“Pox blasted holy orders. And they’d call me corrupt.” He took hold of my chin. “Who told you to dally with your sisters? Who?”

“Father Marcus.”

“You told me you’d never seen a man.”

“Father Marcus isn’t a man. He’s our confessor.”

The Angel snorted. “And this man-not-man, this eunuch, your holy confessor, taught you the ways of perversion. What else did he teach you?”

“Music, scripture—“

“Did he put his hands on you?” He shouted in my face. The contrast between his voice and his smiling mask terrified me. I cringed, sliding down the tree. “Did he fuck you?”

“Fuck?” I crossed my arms over my head, expecting a blow. “I don’t know that word.”

“Did he mount you? Did he put his cock between your legs?”

I guessed he meant pizzle when he said cock. Men did that when copulating with women. I knew that much. That was what I expected he meant to do with me. “No. Never.”

“Did he put any part of himself between your so-called virgin thighs.”

“Only the flail.”

He laughed like a madman. “Only the flail? Only a damned flail?”

“The soft end was for penance, but the hard end he used to teach us joy.”

“I was raised in the heart of vice, little nun, and yet you manage to shock me.” He turned away.

“I know my faults well enough, my lord. But Father Marcus did not corrupt us, he only showed us how to defeat the devil within.”

Once again he pressed close, crushing me against the tree.

“Tell me…tell me how little nuns defeat the devil.” He palmed my breast. “Tell me what he taught you.”

***

Excerpt Monday Organizers:

Mel/Alexia Reed, Urban Fantasy (R)
and
Bria Quinlan, Rom Com (PG)

Joining us this week:

AJ O'Donovan, Poetry (PG13)
Stephanie Draven, Paranormal Romance (PG 13)
Heather S.Ingemar, Dark Fantasy/Poetry (PG13)
Babette James, Fantasy Romance (PG 13)
Cynthia Justlin, Romantic Suspense (PG 13)
Kaige, Historical Romance (PG 13)
Julia Knight, Fantasy Romance (PG13)
Ansha Kotyk, Middle Grade Adventure (PG13)
AdelleLaudan, Contemporary Romance (PG 13)
Jeannie Lin, Historical Romance (PG 13)
RF Long, YA Paranormal (PG13)
Caitlynn Lowe, Epic Fantasy (PG13)
Shawntelle Madison, Paranormal Romance (PG 13)
Crista McHugh, Contemporary Erotic Romance (PG 13)
Bria Quinlan, Rom Com (PG)
Leigh Royals, Historical Romance (PG 13)
Megan S., Paranormal (PG13)
Dara Sorensen, Historical Paranormal (PG 13)
Bethanne Strasser, Historical Romance (PG13)

Melissa Aires, Futuristic Romance (R)
Melissa Blue, Contemporary Romance (R)
Jax Cassidy, Contemporary (R), Furturistic Sci-Fi (R)
Maya Doyle, Parnormal Romance (R)
Ginny Glass, Paranormal (R)
Amber Green, Romantic Suspense (R)
Cate Hart, Paranormal YA (R), Erotic Romance (R)
Ali Katz, Erotic Paranormal Romance (R)
Aislinn Kerry, Fantasy (R)
Inez Kelly, Fantasy Romance (R)
Cherrie Lynn, Contemporary Erotic Romance (R)
Rebecca Savage, Romantic Suspense (R)
Fae Sutherland, Contemporary Erotic Romance (R)

Stephanie Adkins, Paranormal Erotic Romance (NC 17)
Ella Drake, Erotic Contemporary (NC17)
Dawn Montgomery, Erotic Paranormal Romance (NC17) , Erotic Romance (NC 17)
Kim Knox, Erotic Paranormal Romance (NC17)
Emily Ryan-Davis, Historical Western Romance (NC17)
Kirsten Saell, Erotic Fantasy Romance (NC 17)
Jeanne St. James, Contemporary Romance (NC 17)

Show him what a woman is

2009-07-14T19:36:00.000-07:00

Sixth-century Cham sculpture excavated at the site of My Thuat in Vietnam

Photograph: Leonard de Selva/Corbis

Adam and Eve were expelled from the garden over sex. But in the oldest story known to man, sex is the baptism into civilization, and the instrument of civilization is a woman's carnal skill.

See, I'm reading Gilgamesh, the Mitchell translation. It's amazing. At the start, a trapper comes to Gilgamesh, the king, reporting that he's seen a huge, wild man (Enkidu) at the watering hole, one that not only lives in communion with the beasts, but who is also springing his traps and setting animals free. He's terrified of the creature.

This is where it gets really interesting. Instead of sending out a hunting party to kill the creature, as would happen in 99% of stories, Gilgamesh sends one woman after it. Not to kill it, but to transform it. She's a sacred prostitute named Shamhat:

The trapper found Shamhat, Ishtar's priestess,
and they went off into the wilderness.
For three days they walked...
...Early in the morning
on the third day, Enkidu came and knelt down
to drink clear water with the antelope and deer.
They looked in amazement. The man was huge
and beautiful. Deep in Shamat's loins
desire stirred. Her breath quickened
as she stared at this primordial being.
"Look," the trapper said, "there he is.
Now use your love arts. Strip off your robe
and lie here naked, with your legs apart.
Stir up his lust when he approaches,
touch him, excite him, take his breath
with your kisses, show him what a woman is
The animals who knew him in the wilderness
will be bewildered, and will leave him forever."

She stripped off her robe and lay there naked,
with her legs apart, touching herself.
Enkidu saw her and warily approached.
He sniffed the air. He gazed at her body.
He drew close. Shamhat touched him on the thigh,
touched his penis, and put him inside her.
She used her love-arts, she took his breath
with her kisses, held nothing back, and showed him
what a woman is. For seven days
he stayed erect and made love wit her,
until he had had enough. At last
he stood up and walked toward the waterhole
to rejoin his animals. But the gazelles
saw him and scattered, the antelope and deer
bounded away. He tried to catch up,
but his body was exhausted, his life-force was spent,
his knees trembled, he could no longer run
like an animal, as he had before.
He turned back to Shamhat, and as he walked
he knew that his mind had somehow grown larger,
he knew things now that an animal can't know.

Enkidu goes on to become Gilgamesh's best friend, but his extraction from nature is beautiful, erotic and poignant.

Laid in that white rush

2009-07-28T08:27:00.001-07:00

Leda and the Swan, 16th c. copy of a lost original by Michaelangelo.

Image courtesy of Wikimedia

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still

Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed

By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,

He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push

The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?

And how can body, laid in that white rush,

But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there

The broken wall, the burning roof and tower

And Agamemnon dead.

Being so caught up,

So mastered by the brute blood of the air,

Did she put on his knowledge with his power

Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

Leda and the Swan by William Butler Yeats, 1928

Excerpt Monday

2009-07-13T00:01:00.000-07:00

Andromeda Chained to a Rock by Paul Gustave Dore, c. 1869
image courtesy of Wikimedia

Once a month I get together with some other authors and post an excerpt. The organizing body for this grand experiment is Excerpt Monday. Check them out for more info., and check out the links at the bottom if you'd like to excerpt surf.

This month's excerpt is from my WIP, an erotic medieval/fantasy romance. This is how it opens. Please let me know if you like the mood and voice--and most importantly, if you'd keep reading. It's sort of an experiment.

***

Cry Surrender by Evie Byrne

Chapter One

They came at night. The whole of the nunnery emptied out in a panic, the sisters flitting about like ghosts in their bedclothes, their wails echoing through the cloisters. The men’s torches tossed red, fanged shadows across the walls, transforming a place of peace into the halls of hell. Yet they had not touched the holy women--not yet. The Angel’s mercenaries only resembled barbarians. They shouted and shoved, but they did not molest.

I knelt among the sisters and prayed that it would remain so, until I heard the clatter of hooves on cobblestones. Breaking off my prayer, I glanced up and saw a demon in black armor, mounted on a black horse, wearing the crest of the Black Angel.

“Most accursed,” hissed the sister by my side. “He is anathema.”

Hearing that, I should have returned to my prayers with twice the fervor, but I could not take my eyes off him, even if were to be damned for it. Lucas de Gris, Angelus Domitor--the Pope’s Conquering Angel, scourge of the Cathar heretics, fallen from grace, but not from power.

The rumors around him had reached even my cloistered ears. They said he was deformed, a monster as ill-favored as he was ruthless. They said he’d been born in Saracen lands and bore the marks of the ungodly. Some even said that he was a Saracen himself, but none knew for certain, for it was also said no living man had ever seen his face.

Had Lucifer himself strolled into the cloisters, I could not be more amazed. My praying hands fell limp in my lap and I stared at him like a simpleton.

A giant he seemed. His armor gleamed in the torchlight, silver chasing flashed across it like lightening against a black sky. Where he was not covered with plate, he was covered was mail. Where there was not mail, there was leather.

I wondered what it would be like to be clothed in gleaming steel and mounted high on a horse fit for a god. Legend was he’d never been wounded in battle, though some said now that he’d lost the Pope’s blessing, his final wounding would come soon enough.

“Tessa! Thank our Blessed Mother you’re here.” My only friend, Agnes, threw herself into my arms and began to weep.

“Shh, my love.” I rocked Agnes and stroked her hair, but kept my eyes on the Angel. Even the golden relics in the church sanctuary could not compare to its polished, perfect smoothness of his armor, its pristine invulnerability. I longed to run my hands over the smooth, molded planes of his cuirass. Would it be hot or cold to the touch?

“He will kill us all,” Agnes sobbed.

“No, never think it.”

Agnes raised her head. Her pretty grey eyes were red and swollen. “You’re not afraid.”

This did not come as a question, but as a statement--and an accusation. Agnes’s face hardened. She knew me too well. “What are you thinking about?”

Freedom.

The Angel had come for a woman. What else would he want? St. Alban’s had no significant treasure, no relics except for a knuckle bone reputing to have belonged to St. Gerome but may have just as well have belonged to his mother, his butcher or his pet pig. Our Psalter wasn’t even jeweled. No, the Angel had come for me. This was how the devil granted wishes.

Glancing around to make sure no one could hear, Agnes whispered, “You can’t be in your wits. Not with these men. Not with him.”

I could not explain the calm certainty that filled me. It felt like the hand of God, though I knew to think so was blasphemy.

“They’ll do unspeakable things to you.” Agnes' voice cracked with misery. She dug her fingers into the soft flesh of my arms. “They’ll cut your throat and leave your body in a ditch.”

A man standing next to the Angel rapped his pike on the cobblestones and shouted for silence. The weeping and praying ceased and all eyes turned to him. In a rough, country accent the man said, “My lord wishes you to know he wishes none of you harm. Who is the Abbess?”

Our Abbess stepped forward, her back rigid. I had never seen her without her habit. She almost looked human.

The man made a slight bow. “Lady, we will leave peacefully this night, and place this in your hand--” He brought forth a purse which he hefted in his palm. “All we ask in return is one convent-raised virgin to be my lord’s companion.”

The Abbess addressed the Angel directly. “You mistake St. Alban’s for a bawdy house, Sir Lucas. I suggest you take yourself to one directly.”

The Angel did not answer, or respond in any way, though his horse danced restlessly under him. The answer came from his man, and it came fast and stinging as a whip. “If you do not cooperate, my lady, you might mistake St. Alban’s for a charnel house.”

An even deeper hush, if possible, fell over the courtyard. No one dared look right or left. I know they all prayed, Not me, oh please not me, dear Lord. But my wicked heart began to beat double time. All I needed was courage--the same fool courage I’d need to plunge off a cliff.

I did not allow myself to think another moment. I leapt to my feet. “Take me.”

Agnes caught me around the legs, dragged me to the ground and pinned my body with her own. But she couldn't hide me any longer.

From beneath her elbow, I watched the Angel knee his horse toward us. He kept a tight hand on his mount--a horse too massive for close quarters, too spirited to pass willingly through throngs of wailing, pleading women. It tossed its great head and worried the bit, snorted clouds of steam and struck sparks off the stones with its steel shod hooves.

I shivered Under Agnes’s warm weight. I shivered because I knew this moment was true and real, as no moment in my life had been true. I’d met my destiny.

In one quick movement, I rolled out from under Agnes. A hoof the size of a trencher landed just in front of my nose. I looked up.

And up.

Up the legs of the horse, its long shanks wrapped with corded muscle, its fine, quivering skin streaked with sweat. Up to the Black Angel’s foot, encased in a pointed boot, a long silver spur at his ankle. Up his silver worked greaves, each delicate filigree and floret etched painfully clear to my eye. Up his armored flanks, past his powerful arms bent at the reins. Up his breast, formed like a god’s and encased in a molded steel cuirass, and finally to his face.

Lord Be Merciful.

A finely wrought mask served as his visor. It was the face of a summer youth rendered in steel, a visage as beautiful as it was cruel.

I sought his eyes behind that mask, but saw only darkness.

***

Other Excerpt Monday participants, for your clickage:

Our brave organizers:

Mel Berthier, Urban Fantasy (PG 13)
and
Bria Quinlan, Rom Com (PG)

Joining us this week:

Kinsey W. Holley, Paranormal (PG)
Caitlynn Lowe, Epic Fantasy (PG)
Dara Soren, Paranormal (PG)

Babette James, Fantasy Romance (PG13)
Christina DeLorenzo, YA (PG 13)
Nika Dixon, Romantic Suspense (PG 13)
Bryn Donovan, Paranormal Romance (PG13)
Kaige, Historic Romance (PG-13)
Julia Knight, Fantasy Romance (PG 13)
Adelle Laudan, Contemporary Romance (PG 13)
Jeannie Lin, Historical Romance (PG13)
RF Long, Paranormal (PG13)
Rebecca Savage, romantic suspense (PG 13)
Crista McHugh, Paranormal Romance (PG 13)
Leigh Royals, Historical Romance (PG 13)

Jax Cassidy, Contemporary Romance (R)
Maya Doyle, Paranormal Romance (R)
Cate Hart, Paranormal (R)
Ali Katz, Historical Erotic Romance (R)
Inez Kelley, Romantic Comedy (R)
Aislinn Kerry, Paranormal Romance (R)
Elise Logan, Fantasy Romance (R)
Cherrie Lynn, Paranormal Romance (R)
Alina Morgan, Urban Fantasy (R)
Vivienne Westlake, Erotic Historical (R)

Stephanie Adkins, Erotic Romance (NC 17)
Evie Byrne, Medieval Paranormal Romance (NC 17)
Kim Knox, Erotic SF Romance (NC17)
Lauren Murphy, Erotic Romance (NC 17)
Kirsten Saell, Erotic Romance (NC 17)

Coming to her again and again

2009-07-12T08:49:00.000-07:00

Fresco from the Casa del Centenario, Pompeii

Poem No. 2
Gaius Valerius Catullus (c. 84-54 B.C.)

Sparrow, my Lesbia's pet that she holds
between her breasts and lets flutter
in her hands and on her head, laughing
as he chirps coming to her again
and again. She teases him with her
fingertips, earning stinging pecks to
her delight. I wish I could dampen my
desire for her by playing with you, little
sparrow. I would dream of her naked smell
through your pecks to quench my miseries.

Translation by Ewan Whyte

Cock and Queue

2008-01-30T17:24:00.000-08:00

Anonymous mid-18th century illustration of Boccaccio's Decameron

In young Evie's mind some unholy chemistry occurred at a crucial developmental stage which fused an admiration of the 18th century enlightenment, as well as a small crush on Thomas Jefferson, with a teenage obsessions with neo-Romantic styles of androgynous 1980's rock stars.

The result is that to this day a man wearing a silk coat and lace cuffs makes my knees go weak. I come back to this particular image again and again, despite its flaws (which are two: 1) her expression, which seems to say, "did I remember to unplug iron?" and 2) his cock, which strikes me as little odd ) because I'm obsessed by the flirty way his beribboned queue is flying as he fucks her.

He's a land pirate!

I also love that he's tall and strong, strong enough to throw her up on the sideboard or whatever the hell that is, hold her legs in the air, and have at it-- and yet at the same time his stance is so elegant, his stockinged calves so shapely. He smells of cologne. He takes snuff. He knows Voltaire. He's a definitely wicked, and he's not the man she's supposed to be fucking.

And here again, we see the erotic genius of the no-underwear thing. That woman is wearing ten yards of fabric, yet nothing which might get their way.

Take me higher

2008-11-05T23:05:00.000-08:00

Detail of a Greek kilyx, c. 490 b.c., signed by an artist named Douris

From the collection of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

This very pretty image depicts two young men engaging in frontal sex, i.e. making love between the thighs. The World History of Male Love, where I first found this image, tells us thigh love was a more common form of physical expression than anal penetration among men in this period because "it did not "feminize" the boy and was seen as more restrained and not abusive."

Like most museums, the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston makes no mention this of juicy stuff. However they do say that the cup likely depicts the god of the west wind, Zephyr, making love to the legendarily beautiful Hyacinth--the guy the flower is named after. Or it might depict Eros, who was also wingéd, making love to an unknown but lucky fellow.

If you're not familiar with Greek art, I'll just mention that a lot of their surviving art is on pottery. This painting is on a kilyx, which is a wide, shallow cup with two handles meant for drinking wine. The bowl on this one is about 8" across. The flat bottom of a kilyx makes for a handy place to put a picture. The image would slowly appear to you as you drank your wine. Typically kilyx paintings were of playful or sensual subjects, since no one wanted to get to the bottom of their wine cup and find a ghastly beheading or whatnot waiting for them.

Below is a full picture of the this kilyx from the top. You'll see the image is meant to be appreciated from any angle, but the folks at the museum suggest that the correct orientation of this scene might be of them hovering with Zephyr on top, holding Hyacinth up. In other words, imagine this rotated 90 degrees clockwise.

Shunga #2: a hot summer night

2008-01-20T17:47:00.000-08:00

Shunga, c. 1830, attributed to Eisen

This one might be hard to read at first glance. That's a tent of mosquito netting around the couple. The Edo period lifestyle was very indoor/outdoor, with little protection from the elements beyond sliding screens and mosquito netting.

It's a hot, buggy summer night, the kind of night where you sleep naked on top of the covers, but are still miserable. The couple here slide in each other's sweat as they make love. Rocking under her lovers thrusts, her head strikes against the gossamer walls of their tent again and again, until the netting gives way and, like a newborn, she slides into the outside world. Surprised, she sucks in a deep breath of fresh, moving air. The edge of the netting tickles her chin. Through heavy lids she looks up and sees her lover's burning eyes fixed on her through the darkening screen.

For more about shunga, see my first post on the subject.

I found this image at a place well worth checking out if you want to see more shunga, or maybe, as I do, contemplate buying your own prints: AK Antiek, an antique dealer from the Netherlands.

I dreamed of strange lips

2009-01-18T22:41:00.001-08:00

I dreamed of strange lips yesterday
And cheeks wherein the ambiguous blood
Was like a rose's...

--from Swineburne's "Fragoletta"

Hermaproditus was named after his parents, the gods Hermes and Aphrodite. When he was a stunningly beautiful boy of fifteen, he went swimming in a pond in the woods and was accosted by the frisky naiad Salmacis. While he struggled to get away from her, she cried out to the gods that she'd give anything to be one with the beautiful boy, so the ever-cruel gods folded her body into his, making him into an androgynous being, neither man nor woman.

I wonder what Aphrodite and Hermes thought about this. And talk about punishing the victim! Anyway, this is of course where we get the term hermaphrodite. And the depictions of Hermaphroditus during the Greek and Roman eras tends to be stunningly erotic, giving them lots of room to play out their well developed homoerotic tendencies. And this sculpture, known the "Sleeping Hermaphroditus" or the "Borghese Hermaphroditus," is the most magnificent of all of them.

This sculpture is a 2nd century CE Roman reproduction of a 2nd century BC Greek original. However, the puffy couch dates from 1619, and was commissioned by the Cardinal Borghese so that our pretty one would have something nice to lay upon.

These images are of the version that lives in the Louvre, but other copies are to be found in the Uffizi in Florence and in the Vatican Museum. All of these pictures are courtesy of the wonderful Wikimedia commons.

An object fit for worship

2009-06-27T10:12:00.001-07:00

I can't tell you how much I love this image. It's not even an image, it's an object. Many of the images I show here exist in abstraction. Remade into pixels, most images float free of both medium and context. This one, however, is firmly grounded on paper, and in time.

It is a well-loved image. It's spent a lot of time in a wallet, and has been passed around among friends. The left corner is worn off because that's the corner he held with his left hand while jerking off with his right hand.

The image itself is gorgeous. I'm no fan of the bj images where the woman looks like a wide mouthed bass latched onto a scud. This is gentle, almost reverent. That gorgeous cock is disembodied--an object for worship. In fact, the whole image is so simple and solemn it reminds me of a religious icon.

As with the last post, this card came from the Erotic Postcards page at AMEA. Please visit them to see similar images, as well as their other erotic collections.

A particularly honest sort of porn

2009-06-20T08:42:00.000-07:00

Porn from the early days of photography (c. 1900) tends to be striking in one of two ways.

It is either wonderfully direct and unpolished:

That is to say, the photographic vocabulary of pornography as we know it has not yet been developed.

Or it is sweetly goofy.

When I see this one, I can't help but hear A Bicycle Built for Two in my head:

All three of these images are from the Erotic Postcards page at AMEA. Please visit them to see similar images, as well as their other erotic collections.

Another Kitty for You

2008-02-24T14:36:00.001-08:00

Anonymous, c. 1780 "Refined Pleasures in Love"
Source: my beloved Taschen Erotica Universalis

So, devoted readers, what did I say about cats a couple posts back? Here's another happy kitty, strolling through the larger context of a genre of antique erotica that I call "Even the Peasants Do It."

Back then erotica like this was only meant to be seen by those who could afford it. The perusal of erotica was in itself a refined pleasure. Later it trickled down to the masses in the form of naughty postcards, girlie mags, stag movies, the videotape and eventually the apex of popular porn, the internet.

But in 1780, this image of two peasants at play was meant to be enjoyed privately by a wealthy man, and perhaps his mistress, if he chose to show it to her. This particular image is extra interesting to me, because in this genre, peasants are usually depicted as brutish in their desires, but these lovers are as gentle and sophisticated as any pair of aristocrats. The picture is from France, and as it was created on the eve of the revolution, it perhaps hints at radical republican sensibilities on the part of the artist.

What did the man who owned this image think about when he looked at it? Perhaps he remembered the little maid he used to meet in family stables on the sly. Perhaps he reflected that some of the most refined pleasures in life are free.

Bécat. Because.

2009-03-09T00:46:00.001-07:00

How can I explain my love of erotic illustrator Paul-Emile Bécat (1885 - 1960)? In smut terms, he's pure vanilla. In art terms, he's pretty darn middlebrow. But I'd argue neither of these things are bad!

I adore his pastel tinted 18th century world where pretty ladies have unadventurous sex on big soft beds with 18th century gentlemen in white stockings and wigs. The gentlemen are almost never completely undressed, and I really like that.

To see more of these pretties, or to learn more about Bécat, just hit the Bécat label, or enter his name up in the search box up at the top left.

Obtain internet postcards of Bécats like this one at
AMEA/World Museum of Erotic Art

Beauty Revealed

2008-05-27T23:57:00.000-07:00

Sarah Goodridge, Beauty Revealed (Self-Portrait), 1828

In 1828, American portraitist Sarah Goodridge (1788-1853) painted this miniature of her own breasts and gave it to the famous statesman Daniel Webster.

It measures only 3 1/8 inches across, and was painted with tiny brushes on a slick wafer of ivory, and nestled into a case with lined with white velvet and trimmed with red (which, unfortunately, you can't see in this picture. It looks like a tiny candy box.)

In the period before photography, portraiture was precious, and expensive. If you had enough money for any sort of portrait, it was likely to be a miniature painted by an artist like Miss Goodridge. They were often incorporated into jewelry as pins and lockets, and carried or worn on the body. It was not uncommon for lovers to exchange portraits which they kept secret, yet wore always, for private contemplation.

In this self-portrait, Goodridge protects her identity, but paints her breasts with such specificity (note the mole, and the unique shape of each breast) that her lover would be sure to recognize her.

It is a striking statement even today, but I think this painting also reminds us to never assume our ancestors, especially our female ancestors, were less frank about their desires than we are today. Goodridge was a 40 year old "spinster" when she painted this.

This tiny painting is the only evidence that they ever had an affair. His correspondence to her over what was a long friendship gives nothing away. Hers to him was destroyed. They also had a professional relationship, for she painted him at least 12 times.

Sarah never married, and only left the Boston area twice in her life, both times to visit Washington, DC, where Webster lived. The first trip was in 1828, after the death of Webster's first wife, and the second in 1841, after Webster separated from his second wife. This picture dates from the first visit. No one knows if it was meant as an offer, or a memento.

I don't know if she ever wished to be Mrs. Webster. All we do know is that, being a politician, he did not marry her, but chose a wealthy woman for his second wife. However, they seem to have maintained a friendship--at least--afterward, and he kept this all miniature hidden among his belongings all his life--his heirs discovered it after his death.

Sarah died before him, and willed him her paint box: the precious tools of her trade.

I first learned about this amazing image reading Love and Loss: American Portrait and Mourning Minatures, by Robin Jaffee Frank. It's an amazing catalog, full of gorgeous pictures of real 18th and 19th century people.

Another blog, Illustration Art, beat me to the subject, and he's got another self-portrait of Sarah up.

A burning ring of fire

2009-03-20T14:37:00.000-07:00

When I first saw this image I almost fell out of my chair. I don't know much about it. It dates to the Renaissance, maybe around 1588. It's British. The artist is either Nicholas Hilliard, miniaturist to Henry VIII, Elizabeth and James I, or his pupil, Issac Oliver.

I have no idea who the man in the picture is. I found the image randomly on Wikimedia Commons, and their information is minimal. The person who uploaded it took it from the Victoria and Albert Museum print shop website, where you can buy a print of this image. But the image description is decidedly less than useful. It sounds like it was written by an intern who had to make something up in a hurry.

Anyway, so much for provenance and back to why I nearly ended up on the floor. You see, I love portrait miniatures, so I've seen quite a few in my time. Back in the days before photography, paintings and drawings were the only way for people to keep images of their loved ones close at hand.

Miniatures were less expensive than big paintings, accessible to the middle class, so they're a good way to get a look at real people from the past who were not lords and ladies (though lords and ladies had their miniatures painted, too.) Check out this Wikimedia Commons category summary to see lots of portrait miniatures in one place.

Another advantage of a miniature over a painting besides price was that you could not only keep your loved one's image close at hand--you could keep it close to your heart. Miniatures were often carried or worn as jewelry. You'll see them in other paintings hanging around necks, pinned as broaches and incorporated into bracelet cuffs.

It would be quite respectable for you to carry a miniature of your husband, your parents, or your child. If you were engaged, you and your fiance might have miniatures painted of yourselves and exchange them.

But what if you were involved in a secret love affair? What would you do with that miniature? Of course you'd want your lover's picture, but you'd have to wear it tucked under your clothes. Or you might have to keep it in a secret cabinet in your boudoir and only take it out at night to kiss it in secret.

I've seen one miniature which was nothing but a little circle holding a bit of face--one clear blue eye and an arching brow. That was all they dared to carry, but it was enough.

And of course there's the very private miniature by Sarah Goodridge of her own breasts. I've posted about that before. But other than those rare examples, miniatures tend to be very proper, very formal, very...how should I say?...very tight lipped about the people who are in them.

And then there's this guy.

Oh. My. God. What a rock star he is! He's standing in flames!!!!

I've never seen anything like that in a portrait of this period. Portraits where the backgrounds reflect the emotional state (as opposed to the social status) of the sitter really don't appear until the late 1800's. Think about Van Gogh's self-portraits, for instance.

And he's undressed. Yes, he's wearing a shirt, and that's plenty dressed by our contemporary standards, but he should be wearing a damn neck ruff. He should be buttoned up into velvet to his chin. This gentleman is dressed for bed. Ahem. "Bed." It's indecent, I tell you. Shocking.

And note what he's cradling in his hand. Yep, that's a miniature portrait of the lady (or gentleman?) for whom he burns.

This image is meant for his love, and no one but them. It's intensely private. That look in his eye says, "This is all for you. Come and get it."

*retires to fan self*

The Fantastic Bondage of Franz von Bayros

2008-09-23T16:29:00.001-07:00

Franz Von Bayros, Paroxysme-érotique, from the portfolio titled "Tales of the Dressing Room" Image source Wikimedia Commons. Click image for a closer look.

(This is one the most amazing images I've ever seen. Especially of a woman in this period. She's totally actualized. She has super powers. And the composition is gorgeous.)

Franz Von Bayros, Jupiter and Europa, from the portfolio titled "Tales of the Dressing Room" Image source Wikimedia Commons. Click image for a closer look.

(The best Jupiter and Europa. Ever.)

Franz Von Bayros, Tantalus from the portfolio titled "Tales of the Dressing Room" Image source Wikimedia Commons. Click image for a closer look.

(Tantalus' punishment, now proverbial for temptation without satisfaction ("tantalizing"), was to stand in a pool of water beneath a fruit tree with low branches. Whenever he reached for the fruit, the branches raised his intended meal from his grasp. Whenever he bent down to get a drink, the water receded before he could get any. -- From the Wikpedia entry on Tantalus.)

***

I would like to introduce you to Decadent illustrator Franz von Bayros (b. Zagreb 1866––d. Vienna, 1924). His work may remind you of Aubrey Beardsley. He is of the same generation, and I've heard him classed as a "follower" of Beardsley, but Beardsley died in 1898 the tragic age of twenty-five, so he could have followed him for long. They share that fin de siecle love of the lush swirling line and an appreciation of the sharp discipline of black and white. Beardsley's imagination was prodigious. Von Bayros's was filthy.

Von Bayros's erotic world is mainly populated mainly by wicked, self-indulgent women and naughty, naughty school girls. Men are few and far between in his images. I wish his kink leaned a little more toward mine, because his drawing is magical, and no matter how obscene the subject, he never makes me feel squidgy. In the end I think it's simply the case that there is no room for strutting masculinity in the rococo world he's created. But there is plenty of room for animals, and that's another delight about his work--the curious pugs, cheeky monkeys and not-so-innocent fawns. All these creatures end up full actors in the spectacle, sometimes becoming more compelling than the people.

In my beloved Erotica Universalis Gilles Nèret says that Von Bayros was "obliged to move from one European capital to another as each outrageous new work was banned by the authorities." Even today, in our more liberal climate, his use of very young subjects would get him into trouble.

It's worth remembering as you look at the images above that in his time masturbation was a taboo subject, an act considered immoral as well as physically and psychologically dangerous.

Push my buttons

2008-02-29T21:47:00.000-08:00

If you take yourself to Ebay this moment, you can buy this Japanese button or stud made of bone from an outfit called CJ's Antiques for the Buy It Now price of $335. It's made of bone, carved and painted, and quite small as you can see by the comparison to the penny. They think it dates from around 1880, possibly earlier. This is the side view and back view, showing how nicely it's made.

But why so very expensive? Well lookee! The top of the button comes off, revealing a second image inside: the same couple in a much more intimate moment.

And if that's not good enough, his penis works!!!

It's, er, hung from a delicate miniature suspension system, so that it bobbles up and down.

You might find all that red between her legs disconcerting. That's just the red inside of her kimono, but the color has worn off in places, making it look a little like a tide of blood. But in fact, the paint's probably been worn away by drunk guys passing it around and pointing at the critical bits.

Coco de Mer Redux

2009-06-17T09:45:00.001-07:00

All images in this post from the Coco de Mer photo editorial

I've mentioned this photo editorial before, but that was almost a year ago, and but a brief mention. I thought it deserved a re-visit because the images are so striking.

Coco de Mer is an erotic emporium based in London and Los Angeles, but they have a lovely, non-squidgy website of some of the most gorgeous erotic equipment you're likely to ever see. They also offer classes and diverse free web content--such as these pictures, or their own little arty porn flix. I might blog about these later, but go ahead and check them out.