exploring the aesthetic obsession

[fahye]

Let me put it differently again: if I tell you, for example, some of the things I find erotic in this world - at random, as they flash into my mind - all you'll be able to visualise at first is an ill-assorted jumble of images, a grab-bag of trivial fetishes: boxes with sliding lids, for example, lipstick (as you may have guessed), crisp airline timetables, secret gardens, Johnny Depp (taken as a whole), Marlene Dietrich singing 'Falling in Love Again', a very slight limp in a man, waiters, frail wrists, Andorra... Now, none of there things is 'it', none of them is the thing-in-itself, none of them is part of the mechanics of sex (for example) - in fact, that's why they're erotic. And if I were to describe a scene in which Johnny Depp, a waiter in an Andorran restaurant, nestling in a walled garden, limping almost imperceptibly, a freshly printed airline timetable in his outstretched hand (slender wrist exposed), as I slid the lid of a camphor-wood box back to reveal a glistening lipstick... Marlene's voice in the background, something about never wanting to... Well, the 'it', whatever it is (and it may not be sex), is in there somewhere, in that jumble of fascinations, but it must be re-experienced, not named, not known. (And it's worth noting, too, that this restaurant scene is no more erotic than a single wrist. Eros is like the speed of light: absolute, impossible to improve upon.)

- Robert Dessaix, from the essay 'Orientalism'

Glory, glory.

Cigarettes, rain on windows, John Cusack's voice, very long skirts of rich heavy material, a jangling multitude of metal bracelets on wrists. Bruises, bare curving waists, ribbons, black lace, beautiful words spoken slowly. Fire, cathedrals, red wine, soaring mirrored buildings, the port de bras in ballet, slim blades and ancient instruments; painted nails plucking at harp strings.

Eros as the subjective case: and you?

Comments

[schiarire.livejournal.com]

Glass, mouths, fingers, ankles. Elaborate earrings. Shoulders & wrists, lace & smoke & saxophones. Caravaggian chiaroscuro in all its photographic clarity of perfection; diagonal intensity & the illusion of movement. Lipstick. Chipped nails, or with the paint flaking off. Draperies & folds & old jeans. Broken pianos. Breath.

[dopplegl.livejournal.com]

Shoulders, necks, jaw lines and those very defined male hip bones. Biting and scratching. Smoking in movies (Marla smoking in Fight Club is so hot). Men in jeans with no socks. Frayed jeans. Fire, smoke, water, wings. Latin. Silhouettes. Wall sex.

[not-in-denial.livejournal.com]

Submission, taking what I want. A spirited discussion that manages to avoid becoming heated. Mind games, dressing up, black clothing that accentuates and enhances. The scent of leather, the scent of arousal. Knowing that I have the advantage, playing out the role of the big bad seducer with more experience than my prey. Eye contact - making eye contact and winning in staring them down. A fiery and obvious reaction to my touch. Knowing that I'm always right. A dark night in the middle of the city, a secluded location where no one will hear you scream. Rope, the scent of hemp. The beauty of knots and elaborate rope ties. Candle-light, and the heat of the wax. Watching others, while they're not realizing that I'm there because they're too caught up in themselves and their scene. Performing and knowing that I'm being appreciated. Darkness and mystery with a little bit of danger mixed in. Knives. Fighting and winning, having the upper hand.

I could probably keep going on forever. ^_^;

[rimestock.livejournal.com]

Gypsy violins, a dark-toned man's voice singing. Small fires (for sexy). Large fires and explosions (for erotic). A bare back, half-visible through the play of light and darkness. Hands. Shoulderblades. A man's long dark hair. Good scotch and good cigars. Waltzes. Knives against skin, just barely not drawing blood. Bruises, yes. A lock of hair brushed out of someone's face. A shy, hidden smile, that could almost be thought demure, until the wickedness of it is seen. Lightning. Pianists' hands. Shadows and firelight playing over pale bare skin.

[nextian.livejournal.com]

*eyes*

I almost wrote knives.

Then Juilliard started trying to throttle me.

(Also, Marcus has, what, all of these?)

[rimestock.livejournal.com]

*snickers at you*

(A lot of them, yes. Not all. Not quite. He's not a musician.)

[nextian.livejournal.com]

Flames flickering on the edge of vision. Fire-colours. Long hair. Long dark hair. Blonde Greek curls. Collarbones, and the dip in the throat. Citrus. A quiet piece of music in another room. French spoken imperceptibly. Dark laughter. Intoxication. Someone else's power. Hands through hair. Tongues. Wings of all sorts. The curve of a wineglass. Very long skirts. Hooked noses. Perfect nails. Baritones. Tenors. Altos. Delicate things. A very little bit of blood.

[miscellanny.livejournal.com]

Necks. Collars. Forearms. Layne Staley's voice. Violence as the only available means of contact. The curve of waist and hip. Pianos. Subtle admissions of love from the taciturn; even an instant of fingers touching. Fingers in mouths. Trust. Melted wax. Cuffs. Scars. Rolled up sleeves and unbuttoned collars on the straightlaced. Vagueness, absence. Too-large watches on delicate wrists. Localised cold. Long build ups and UST. Wings. Opposites, juxtaposition. Black ribbon. Long fingers. Fingers tracing lightly across books. Latin.

I should stop at some point, huh?

[indy-go.livejournal.com]

Hands. Especially thumbs. Long, slender fingers that can reach more than an octave, on the piano. Red hair and eyebrows and eyelashes. Men who sing, and sing well. Train stations. Foreign languages. Shoulder blades. The hollow between the jaw and the ear. Freckles. Being held without the presence of sex. Interlocking fingers. Ankle-deep streams. Frankness and honesty.

[wickedtrue.livejournal.com]

WTF? I thought I had replied to this early. Say thankya for the reminders.


Calves, long baritone range, callused thumbs, I'll come for you, my sweetling, on the back of a black black horse, dirty sweat, accents, strong necks, spaces between the fingers, inner wrists, en pointe, faded scars, half exposed collarbones, farmer's tan, platonic comfort, well worn jeans, casual confidence, compassion, roughened hips, words words any words traced across skin.

Love.

[copperbadge.livejournal.com]

I did not think, at the time, that you could possibly be right. For that you must have some tolerance; I am long used to the idea that romance is something held at close quarters. But you know this.

Perhaps for us it is more than romance. If you had tried to teach me, when you were nineteen, that an affair of the mind could satisfy more than affairs of a more physical nature, I should not have respected your intellect in the slightest. You must, at the moment, have rather little respect for mine. To write to you is the most satisfying hour of my week, and to read your letters almost as good. I do not feel I miss anything; there is pragmatism and poetry to be had, and what more could either of us desire?

--The Patrician's Papers, ch. 9

[tropes.livejournal.com]

Collarbones. Corsets. Binding. Black and white films. Juliette Binoche. Legs that were shaved two days ago, just slightly stubbly. Calves. Short hair. Thick paper. The way ink sinks into fibrous paper and spreads. Letters, written by hand. Public foreplay that can't be seen. Limestone walls. Wedding bands.

Of course, Alan Tudyk. :D

[vivien]

Hands slowly sliding under clothing, seeking bare skin underneath. A variation on that theme: Leather gloved hands over naked flesh. Being held down, but not confined. The neck where it meets the jawline. The curve of the breast. Cleavage. Dark hair, pale skin, red lips. Accents. Lovers' whispers. Dreams shared. That look across the room of knowing and wanting. Danger tamed by love.

[unravels.livejournal.com]

Intricate calligraphy. Narrow shoulders. Really good music played loud enough to be described as pounding. Clocks with visible gears. Worn denim jackets. That particular timbre in a male voice. Long, tangled necklaces. Fire and metal. Wide leather cuffs on innocent accessories like watches. Long necks. London, especially the grimy parts. Inky black hair. A place on the water with no view of the shore. Dusk. Unintelligible voices in another room. Sleek electronics. The sound of the cello. Drag. Speech through gritted teeth. Red liquid ink. Thunderstorms. Power subverted. Breath visible in cold air.

[nextian.livejournal.com]

(specifically for Ji's)

(specifically, and rather failingly, for Beth)

(specifically for ... the owner of this journal, actually, since I felt it polite. *g* Hello. Sorry. You still don't know me.)

... some of mine in the icon to this post, I suppose.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

It's lovely! Mmm.

Well, we can always fix that! Hello-I'm-Fahye-mostly-British-partly-insane-et-toi?

[nextian.livejournal.com]

Hello-I'm-Emma-unfortunately-American-although-trying-not-to-be-and-quite-all-the-way-insane-by-now-and-hullo. *g*

Your Devil brings joy to the soul. ^^

[fahye.livejournal.com]

Joy to the soul? He'll be disappointed :D

Who do you play, then?

[nextian.livejournal.com]

I don't. I only lurk, despite Hans' and Beth's best efforts. Am Lily at Dreamer's Diaries, though, and Juilliard at No Man's Land. ^^

[stars-like-dust.livejournal.com]

Dark wood, cold marble, stained glass windows, patterns on tile, scarves. The curve of shoulder into neck. The line of sweat down a spine. Bizet’s Carmen. Grand pianos (polished keys). Fingertips against bare skin. Knee length skirts. Stockings (black, seamed). Pavement shining with rain in the darkness. Jeans low on hips, bare feet, ocean waves, the tang of the sea breeze on lips and tongue. D string on a cello, cheekbones, cream coloured parchment , lilies, jasmine, expensive perfume. Wedding rings. Chocolate. Smooth red wine and crystal glasses. Salt-tequila-lemon, faded coasters, proximity, one button at a time. Midnight.