Photography

Hungry Woman by Keith Ebsary

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Hungry Woman

by Keith Ebsary

 

<p class="”copyright”">Photo by Joel (<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/joel_nilsson/sets/">J. Nilsson Photography</a>) Copyright © 2014. Model: Angela Renner.</p>

Photo by Joel (J. Nilsson Photography) Copyright © 2014. Model: Angela Renner.

 
 

Steak.

A mountain of steak, a bombardment of bovine, meaty, majestic, marbled and magnificent. And it’s all for my wife, the wafer-thin gorger in thong and bra picking at the slabs of flesh with slow and lazy fingers as she coyly telegraphs the imminent feast. Meat smells fill our bedroom­­—salt, char and blood—and the lights play over the sharp strake of her shoulders and wild lines of her ribs. She looks into my eyes, and the look is hungry, as my fingers drop one by one in a silent countdown.

One.

Two.

Three.

Then the camera is on and the feast begins.

The first steak disappears in wolfy bites, jaws chomping in frenzy on tissue and gristle. I watch her throat bobble and gulp as her lips and tongue click in robotic harmony to the animal sounds mumbling through the juices inside her mouth.

The second steak is gentle, a quiet dinner in a riverside café, a bottle of wine with candlelight and fire. She fondles the meat with a lover’s touch, nuzzling the seared muscle with playful nips of her teeth. Meat juice precomes down her chin and she licks it away, eyes drilling through the camera to the unseen faces beyond.

The third steak is wild, ripped and shredded like the carcass of a woodland beast. She growls and barks as her fingers plunge into the wet muscle and tear off chunks that are swallowed whole. Her lips curl in predatory rage and her body hunches over the kill, a prize for her alone.

The other steaks become a smacking blur. She eats and eats and I watch in fascination as her gut bulges from the banquet packed within. The camera catches it all, every throat-swelling swallow, every satiated grunt. I try to fade from the scope of her hunger, become the shadow behind a plant. Finally the eating ends and she collapses onto the pillows behind her. I turn the camera off and join her on the bed where she lies with eyes half-open and stomach distended, glutted on cow like a sullen lioness digesting her kill. She crooks her finger, Come and I do what she says because she reminds me of everything beautiful.

Her kisses taste like meat and she is the sun inside me.
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Eddie Woods — in conversation with John Wisniewski

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Eddie Woods

 

in conversation with John Wisniewski

 

Eddie Woods at the Beat Hotel (Paris, July 2009). Photo © by Lars Movin

Eddie Woods at the Beat Hotel (Paris, July 2009). Photo © by Lars Movin

JW: You had a variety of jobs over the years while getting on with your writing. Could you tell us about some of them, maybe a few that you enjoyed doing?

 

EW: I wholeheartedly agree with André Gide’s dictum, “All work that is not joyous is wretched.” And while the word ‘enjoy’ may not apply to my time in the Air Force, I still got a lot out of those four years, about which I’ll be writing in one of my future memoirs. It’s a given that I grooved on journalism. Some of that is covered in my most recent book, Tennessee Williams in Bangkok. And I am now encouraging Stanford University to obtain copies of all the pieces I wrote for the Bangkok Post so they can go into my archive there. We can forget the Tehran Journal (I was their sports and night editor in the mid-1970s), as that paper got buried after the 1979 Islamic revolution. I dug being a short-order cook and had the best teacher, namely my father! Programming first-generation IBM computers for two years was all right, until they started to bore me and I quit. Selling encyclopedias was a gas. Did that throughout the latter part of the Sixties, made good money, got to travel around Germany and France, then out to the Far East (where another life began for me). Managing a steakhouse in Hong Kong was cool. Ditto a few other gigs. It would never have crossed my mind to toil in a factory or on a farm. I’m a dunce when it comes to any kind of manual labor. All I’m good at with my hands are eating, writing, and sex.
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Love for the Strings: The Art & Performance of Hikari Kesho’s Shibari Photography — a visual essay by Mark McCawley

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Love for the Strings:

 

The Art & Performance of Hikari Kesho’s Shibari Photography

 

a visual essay by Mark McCawley

 

Hikari Kesho has always had a passion for the photography of bodies, particularly the female form, exploring what he called “body expression” when at the age of 18 he began his first serious and continuing explorations of photography by enrolling in a major photo club. Often his photographic research led him to interpret the body with the use of chains, ropes, even ivy, anything that could be used to “lock” the position of the subject in a desired position, to transform the subject “more charming, more beautiful graphically, yet certainly also the most erotic” to the eye.
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Gibberish, Hallucinations, Paranoia, and the Long Way Out of Town by Jose Padua

Posted on by josepadua Posted in Art, Daily, Essay, Jose Padua, Photography | Leave a comment

UG_LongWay

Gibberish, Hallucinations, Paranoia,

and the Long Way Out of Town

 

by Jose Padua

 

I can’t remember the quick way out of town anymore, and while we were stuck in traffic on North Capitol Street this morning, we saw this man standing at the entrance to this building, which is listed as the address of the Ida Mae Campbell Wellness & Resource Center. From behind the man looked like he was perhaps a businessman or even a doctor, but as we waited in traffic he remained at the door, and after a moment I could see that he was staring at a sign above the doorknob. When he turned around briefly, I could see he had a totally blank expression on his face, the look of someone who is far beyond just being lost. Then he turned back around to stare at the sign.
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Poem by Jose Padua

Posted on by josepadua Posted in Art, Daily, Jose Padua, Photography, Poetry, Writing | 2 Comments

Poem

 

by Jose Padua

 

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POEM

Although I support
my sisters all over
the world in their
struggle for equality
and quest for empow-
erment, I must confess
that from time to time
when I say the word
“titties” it is not one
of my Tourette’s tics
but simply me, thinking
about breasts the way
a six year old thinks
about ice cream. Sorry.

-Jose Padua
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