Marge Monday

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

The Gaze

Center of Attention

She loved being the center of attention.

Triangle

An over the shoulder glance

An over the shoulder glance can say so much.

Discreet Pee

They were swimming at the beach, and as they were chatting and he was taking a photo of her in her new yellow bikini, she realized she had to pee. She didn't want to go all the way back up the beach to the parking lot to the public bathroom. And she wasn't sure if peeing underwater was going to expose her to some bacteria or something in the ocean, so she did it standing up, pulling her bikini bottoms just to the side enough. No one had any idea, except them. The pee tickled her thigh as it went down. Soon she'd wash off with the salt water. Neither of them really had a golden shower fetish. It wasn't any part of their love making, but it felt at least then, naughty, and kinda turned her on to think that she was standing up in public, urinating down her leg.

What she wanted

When asked what she wanted, she pulled the sheets off the single bed and drug the mattress into the living room. She fetched her toy from the top drawer of her dresser and some ropes from the closet. She wanted to be tied up, and taken. 

She loved being on her stomach, not facing him, her face on the bare fabric. She loved being taken from behind, violated by the toy or his cock, or both. She loved it in the back, helpless to resist. If he would really get wild and "have his way" with her, it was really having her way.

Tennis Pro

This is no doubt the dream girl of probably any guy who grew up in the 80s. For some reason tennis was really big. It sort of followed all the hollywood movies about the rich preppy girl who dated the rich preppy jock, but eventually (and through a cornball series of misadventures) fell for the smarter, nerdier, but sweeter guy. So many of us wanted to be that guy, who defeated someone named "Chip" or "Lance" and  had one sweet shot at a girl like "Mandy" or "Carrie."  

Tennis was in. Izod shirts were in. Collars up. Porsche 911s were in. Cocaine was in. Bands with synthesizer keyboards were in. Belonging to a country club was in.  Wearing sweatshirts that said Harvard were in, even if you didn't know anyone who went to Harvard. And lovely blonde girl-next-door types were the one all the girls wanted to be, and all the guys wanted to be with.

How many fantasies involved a match of strip tennis back then? Or maybe I should say, what fantasy didn't involve strip tennis? 

Some Party

Wow, this is some party! How can I RSVP?

Marge Monday

In our new series, we celebrate the animate MILF sex-pot, Marge each Monday.

Here's Marge skinny dipping!

Higher Education

What she really learned in college.

Now Wife

Your then girlfriend holds your dick her hand, smiles at you, as she is nailed by another guy. You knew then, you'd marry her.

Completely Awesome

How many things make this image completely awesome? 

Wearing high heel leather boots.

Wearing sunglasses.

Wearing a cool sweater and nothing else.

Her apartment, in morning.

Her breasts, pert with hard nipples.

Squatting, legs open.

Touching herself.

Her face, absorbed in pleasure.

Her right hand secretly reaching behind her.

Her Commute

One way to make her commute more interesting. Set her camera on her bag. Set the self-timer. Have to turn off the flash, otherwise the guy behind will know what she's doing. No flash means the image is a bit blurry, but still, pretty good. She's been trying different outfits on different days, going comando. She even shaved to see what that'd look like on camera.

A Bit Racy

When we saw this image, we just had to reblog. It's from Katie, a 20-year-old redhead gal with her own tumbler, "Improper." 

When she posted this image, she wrote:

There is a lot to be said about this photo, but I think your mind doesn’t need much help to do the talking. Sometimes I feel a bit racy, who knows how long i’ll keep this photo up…

Then a reader asked:

is that your own wetness, or did your boyfriend fill you up

And her two-word reply, which made it sexiest of all:

fill’d up.

Snow Mobile!

A sunny day. Snow on the ground. What better way to feel the thrill of a snowmobile ride than to do it au natural.

Sarah and Rachel

Rachel, my girlfriend, was always jealous of my best friend Sarah. Rachel knew that Sarah usually dated other girls, but also that Sarah wasn't strictly gay. Definitely bisexual, Sarah had had several boyfriends in high school and college. 

I met Sarah in grad school. She lived in an apartment by herself and her fat cat. I started coming over to study for tests and get help on papers. She was a really great writer. She always had the heat turned way up, because she was from California, and found living north far too cold. She also loved to drink whiskey, particularly Bushmills. Related to both the heat and the Bushmills, she usually wore just a tank top and boy's boxer shorts in her apartment. 

Rachel was in another state then (I'd moved away for grad school and she was finishing undergrad.) Sarah had broken up from some long-term relationship. So we were both alone at nights. It was inevitable that the late nights, whiskey, and skimpy clothing would eventually lead to us having sex. 

We both knew I was cheating, but it didn't feel wrong. We were great friends and the sex felt a natural extension of that friendship. It was definitely physical, and the only emotional level was just the enjoyment of being together. There was no jealously or possession. Sarah knew Rachel would move out to be with me. And she knew when that happened, I'd be back with Rachel. 

When Rachel did move out, she sensed something between Sarah and I. She seemed jealous, because Sarah was tall (Rachel was short), Sarah had large breasts (Rachel was A cup), Sarah was a beautiful writer who could connect to me as an artist (Rachel felt like an outsider).  But for all the reasons Rachel was jealous of Sarah, she was also attracted to her. She could see why Sarah and I had become such good friends. She even confessed to me one night that she thought Sarah was pretty sexy and that she'd had some fantasies about her. This of course turned me on, and we had amazing sex that evening, perhaps both thinking of Sarah. 

Hearing Rachel talk about being with another woman was a huge turn-on for me, and when she was specifically talking about Sarah, it was even hotter. It became a form of foreplay for us, talking about what Sarah would do to her. 

I knew, and perhaps Rachel knew, and maybe even Sarah knew, that our relationship could only go one of two ways. Rachel had guessed that Sarah and I had already been intimate. She could have broken up with me, or stayed with me, but insisted that I stay clear of Sarah. Sarah could have become the home wrecker. Or, she could embrace it. 

Sarah must have known this, too, because she invited both of us over for dinner to her apartment. She cooked us a great meal and poured wine. She and Rachel talked easily and seemed to laugh a lot. After dinner we all sat in her tiny apartment living room and drank more and listened to records. Then we watched the movie Frida, which probably was carefully selected, because not only was Frida one of Rachel's favorite painters, but also a bisexual. the film featured a couple sexy girl-girl scenes. 

After the movie, we were all pretty drunk. Sarah started some silly game, where we answered questions about things we've never done, where you drew a card and then had to answer truthfully if you've done it or not. If you haven't, you said, for example, "I've never made love in a car" or you had to tell the story of when you did. A fantastic game when drunk and sexual sparks are flying. 

Every card seemed to draw really sexy stories. And it wasn't long before Rachel drew a card that said "last thing you've fantasized about while masturbating." She blushed. She admitted that she'd never had a woman lick her between her legs, but that it was her number-one fantasy while masturbating. 

"You never have," asked Sarah, softly, almost sympathetically. She looked at Rachel with earnest eyes and said quietly and simply, "would you like to?"

Rachel just nodded. I think she was probably too scared inside to find words. I knew she wanted it and was pretending to be cool about it.  Sarah didn't rush, she just moved closer to Rachel and touched her hair, and then whispered something to her in her ear. Rachel lay back on the carpet, and Sarah, still not rushing, traced her hand over Rachel's clothes, and then slowly undressed her, without word, just calm and relaxed. When rachel was naked and on her back, eyes closed, Sarah moved down between her legs.  Her face was only a few inches from Rachel's trimmed hair. She could feel the warmth of Sarah near her and her breathing. Sarah asked, "Are you ready?" And Rachel nodded. Sarah gently lowered her mouth to Rachel, and with her tongue, made one smooth long lick up Rachel's folds, giving Rachel the very first experience of another woman. Sarah licked again and rolled her tongue over Rachel's clit, which had become swollen. Rachel sighed, her eyes closed and her mouth smiling. She was loving it. 

Goldie Locks

Wife in Morning Light

She said she always thought she looked best in a soft morning light. 

I agreed.

Introducing: Marge Monday

Well, of all the animated cartoons in history, the Simpson's have set the record.  More than 20 years on the air, they remain part of American popular culture.

Not surprising then, that Marge, the wife of Homer, and mother to Bart, Lisa, and Maggie, has become something of a sex-symbol, even appearing in Playboy magazine. Yes, really. The real Playboy.

So, in appreciation of Marge, America's hottest MILF of all time, we're introducing Marge Mondays. Every Monday, we'll bring you a new, sexy and sassy tribute to Marge. Enjoy!

Wife Swapping--This Just In

Sarah and Sona

Sona was a girl in our grad school. She and Sarah had a thing going on the side, even though Sona had a fiance back home. Sarah had an apartment and liked whiskey, and women.

Dude, your girlfriend is hot

This is probably what a lot of high school dudes imagined as their ultimate fantasy: a room they could write on the walls the names of their favorite bands, like Metallica, and hang Penthouse posters, and get their hot girlfriends to get naked and spread for a photo that they'd then show off to all of their f*ckin jealous friends. 

Yup. That was about it. 

Snowjob

One of my very favorite memories is the time Jennifer and I stopped for a short walk somewhere on a mountain pass in the Cascades. We'd planned on staying at a mountain cabin owned by a guy from work. He was nice enough to let us use it, and gave us a map and the secret code for the alarm and the hiding place of the key. Unfortunately, the snow was so deep, we couldn't even make it a quarter mile off the highway. We tried to drive up to a rustic mountain resort we'd heard of, but that, apparently was snowed in and closed for the season. So we retreated, back to the highway to a small town, which was little more than a gas station and a motel. We stayed the night at the motel, and normally would have had great travel sex, but as I recall, there was no hot water, no heat, and the fuse blew when we tried to turn on the lights. They eventually fixed the lights, but after what seemed like three strikes, we called it a day and went to bed.

The next day we decided to return to the city, but before we went, we crossed the highway, and walked down a dam. The reservoir was frozen over. After the dam, on the other side, the road climbed up a stell hill, winding into the mountains. We hiked about a mile. We snapped a couple photos, and in one  Jennifer lifted up her jacket and flashed me. She then, without any prompting, squatted down, opened my pants, and took out my cock. Even though the air was biting cold, the warmth of her hands immediately made me hard. She began to suck me, right as snowflakes began to fall. Normally, when you're getting sucked off by the woman you love, you don't think about anything else. But I started thinking about the snow and if we'd get back before it piled up and if the pass would get snowed in and if we'd have to spend another night in that cold, dank motel. And the more distracted I was, the harder it was for me to cum, and so the harder she sucked, gripping me with her hand and really going at it. She was not distracted. In fact, she seemed totally turned on and focused on my erection which seemed larger than usual, hard in the cold air, and thick in her hand. As she pumped me, I could feel the cum begin to build in my balls. 

Just then, I saw, far in the distance, another couple walking up the same road. They were too far away to tell if it was a man and woman or two men, or who. But they were headed for us, and I had my pants open and she was kneeling in front of me, bobbing up and down on my cock. If I could see them, they could probably see us, and could no doubt tell exactly what was going on. 

I told her people were coming. This seemed to make her go faster and harder. She pulled her mouth off my cock and held it open, her tongue, inches from the tip. She does this when she's feeling extra naughty. She wants to feel me shoot on her face, and she tells me this. She likes to talk dirty to me and tells me to cum on her face, to let her feel it. The people are closer now. I can see that it's a middle-aged couple. They are still far away, but they've surely seen us by now. Jennifer is gripping me with both hands, jacking me up and down, her face eager and waiting. Until I shot a large, pent-up load onto her face.

She pumps out every drop. Then she zips me up, and stands quickly. The couple is now so close we can see they are walking a small dog dressed in a red sweater. Jennifer's face is dripping with cum. We can't walk down the hill past them, so we turn up and try to put distance between us and the dog walkers. As we stride, our breath scatters in the cold air. She is glowing with sweat, rosy cheeked, and splattered with cum. She is letting it evaporate on her skin. She says she likes the feel. She says it's good for her complexion. She says it makes her feel naughty and slutly. She says having the couple see what she was doing turned her on even more. She says her underwear is soaked. She says she wants me to fuck her up against a tree, yanking her pants down just enough, and taking her from behind. Hearing her say this makes my half-hard cock twitch and regain a little stiffness. 

Her hand is down her pants as we walk, and she is rubbing herself. She says she's so close she could climax if we stopped. We've now put the couple almost out of sight. They've stopped, either to let their dog do it's business, or because they saw us and are keeping a respectful distance. She stops, her back to the couple. She's rubbing herself. I am standing in front of her, watching the couple. She asks me if I can see them, and I say yes. She asks me what they are doing. "Nothing," I say. "Just standing there." This seems to get her even hotter. She's rubbing herself harder, getting wobbly in the knees, and her face has the look of bliss. "Can they see us?" she asks. 

"Yeah," I say. "I think so."

She smiles. "I'm going to cum," she says. Her head rolls back, her eyes squeeze shut, and her mouth goes slack as she shutters and moans. Then louder, she gasps. Then louder, her orgasm cries echoing off the hills. "I'm cumming," she cries.

The couple with the dog look up, but they can only see her from the back. Maybe they didn't hear. Maybe it was bird or something that caught their attention. Sound carries in snow. The couple turns and leaves. 

We give them 10 minutes or so of a head start before we, too, turn and head back to our car.

Just a Shirt

I love it when she gets up from bed, and it's chilly in the house at morning, and so she grabs whatever is in reach to slip on. Sometimes it's just a shirt.

The Golden Hour

She liked the golden hour. She liked the light. She liked the smell of the sage and lavender. The hills looked soft. During the year that she wrote her dissertation, she lived in the hills at what had once been a farm house long ago. No one was around for miles. She loved to take a bike ride, each day at this time, and feel day turn to dusk, and to feel part of everything around her at this moment.

One Thing Lead to Another

Meg White

Meg White, drummer of the White Stripes. Such a hottie. Arguably the best breasts is rock. 

The Real Thing

In 1969, the Cola Cola company introduced the slogan: "It's the real thing." 

There's been some variations over the years. "Look for the real things"(1974),  "America's Real Choice" (1985), "Real" (2003), and "Make it Real" (2005).

Pretty much any of these slogan would make a perfect caption for this photo.

Lovely View

What a lovely view. Golden light, and her blonde hair glinting in the sun. Her breasts soft and full. 

The sweetest thing is that this is a self-snap, standing over the camera that she's set on self-time. It reminder me of when she stands over me, offering her curls, and the wet soft skin beneath, to my waiting mouth.

A little help

Tube Socks Rule!

Improper

Here's Katie, a 20-something gal who goes by the moniker "Improper" on her tumbler blog. What a cutie. She looks so much like an old friend of mine, Caroline, who I had a huge crush on for several years.

This is a new favorite photo, combining so many sexy elements: outdoors in winter, cute hipster glasses, cute sweater, no pants!, and she's growing her bush back of cute red hair. And of course the cute smile/grin/smirk. All in all, sexy.

Have a seat

Her First Toy

From the very beginning, the sex with Rachel was good. She was very relaxed and open about her sexuality, and never afraid to try something new. Surprisingly, for as much as we loved sex and as much as we'd already done on our own and with past partners, neither of us had any experience with vibrators or other sex toys. 

Rachel said she'd always wanted to try a vibrator, but just never had taken the next step of ordering one. So, for a present, I went to a local adult store and bought her a vibrator. I saw lots of different shapes and sizes, from small pocket rockets to giant double-dildos. Since neither of us really knew where to start, I decided on the most basic, a smooth plastic torpedo-shaded vibrator. It took 2 AA batteries. A twist of the handle controlled the speed. It was pretty loud, actually. 

I took it home and gave it to Rachel. She eagerly wanted to try it. She laid back on her bed, naked. Soon she was lost in her own world. I took a photo to capture the moment. 

She loved her torpedo vibe, but in time we added to the collection: a jelly butt-plug, anal beads, nipple clamps, and eventually a better vibrator, larger, quieter, and more powerful, shaped like a cock, with textured bumps and nub to stimulate her clit. After a while, the original toy didn't get much time out of the shoebox we kept under the bed, but we kept it, because it was our first.

Sometimes firsts really are special. 

Panayiotis Lamprou: the casual power of an intimate portrait

This is a reposting of an article originally written by Sean O'Hagan for the Guardian. It is one of the most thoughtful and thought-provoking articles we have ever read. Our sincere appreciation to Mr. O'Hagan for his work and we hope by helping the dissemination of this work, the conversation is carried to wider circles, resulting in deeper and more meaningful conversations around this topic.

Lamprou's Portrait of My British Wife – on the shortlist for this year's Taylor Wessing photographic portrait prize – is a private moment made public. But when does art become voyeurism?

• Sean O'Hagan
• guardian.co.uk, Friday 17 September 2010

Photographers have taken explicit photographs since the invention of the form. It is still a surprise, though, to see Panayiotis Lamprou's image, Portrait of My British Wife, on the shortlist of this year's Taylor Wessing photographic portrait prize. It is, as the Guardian's arts correspondent, Mark Brown, put it (perhaps understating the case somewhat), "arresting because of its intimacy". It begs the vexed question, when does art become voyeurism or, indeed, pornography?

Lamprou photographed his wife sitting outside their summerhouse on the Aegean island of Schinousa. She has just finished eating an omelette and the dirty pan sits on table at her elbow. She is staring at the camera with a gaze that is difficult to read, wearing a short dress – or long T-shirt – and nothing underneath. Her legs are apart and her vagina is visible beneath the skirt. There is something both coy and provocative about the portrait, which, according to the photographer, was not originally intended for public display. (What changed his – and her – mind?) It will be interesting to see how the National Portrait Gallerydisplays the image when they exhibit it in a show of 60 of the submitted portraits in November.

Detail from Jeffrey Stockbridge's photograph of twins Tic Tac and Tootsie Photograph: National Portrait Gallery/PA

Undoubtedly many visitors to the gallery will find the image shocking, even offensive. Ironically, its tone of languor and intimacy sets it apart from the other three shortlisted portraits, all of which are provocative in different ways. Indeed, both Jeffrey Stockbridge's portrait of Tic Tac and Tootsie, twin sisters who have turned to prostitution on the streets of Philadelphia to fund their drug addictions, and Abbie Trayley-Smith's portrait of a young girl at a charity for obese children, could be considered more voyeuristic and exploitative.

Lamprou's portrait, though, cannot use the defence of social documentary or reportage. It is a private, intimate moment made public and, however consensual the contract between photographer and subject – and husband and wife - much of its arresting power lies in this uneasy dynamic. Do we, as viewers of what was originally an intensely private exchange, become voyeurs?

Lamprou's intimately explicit portrait is a very different kind of photograph than, say, the formally driven Teutonic female nudes of Helmet Newton, the hardcore imagery of Robert Mapplethorpe or the garish art-porn of Araki. Neither does it fit into the fashion-porn genre indulged in by the likes of Terry Richardson. Again, it is the intimacy of the setting – and the fracturing of that intimacy – that sets it apart and may even, for some viewers, make it even more problematic.

In both its explicitness and its blurring of the boundary between the private and the public, Lamprou's portrait calls to mind the taboo-breaking work of the young American photographer, Leigh Ledare. His book, Pretend You're Actually Alive, is a visual and written portrait of his mother, an erstwhile exotic dancer, who is both a narcissist and an exhibitionist. Over the years, he has photographed her in various explicit poses, both alone and with a succession of younger lovers, and the titles alone - Mom Spread With Lamp (2000) – give some indication of the content.

When Nan Goldin included Ledare's work in her selection for theRencontres d'Arles Festival, last year, it caused considerable debate among visitors, many of whom found it either offensive or disturbing. (Ledare, for the record, is a charming, well-balanced individual, and the book does work, in an albeit disturbing way, as a fractured chronicle of a thankfully singular strain family dysfunction.) It does beg the – now quaintly old-fashioned – question, are some things better left to the imagination than the camera? Or, more pertinently, the gallery wall?

Interestingly, too, it is nearly always women who are the object of the camera's gaze in these provocative photographs. (Mapplethorpe, a gay man, and Richardson, a self-confessed exhibitionist, both turned the camera on themselves, but they are the exceptions.) Would, one wonders, a full-frontal photograph of a relaxed, sun-dappled Lamprou taken by his wife be as arresting or provocative?

A photograph by David Chancellor of a 14-year-old American girl hunting in South Africa. Photograph: National Portrait Gallery/PA

What strikes me most about Lamprou's portrait – apart, of course, from its explicitness – is its apparent casualness. It has none of the heightened formal power of David Chancellor's portrait of a 14-year-old girl astride her horse with a dead impala. Instead, it looks, at first glance, like a holiday snap – but that, too, is part of its odd, and confusing, power. The dirty pan, the cluttered table, and the blurred chair in the foreground are all familiar signifiers of that certain feeling of relaxed torpor that descends on us when we settle in to a holiday. It's just that the eye is drawn elsewhere; we are given licence to look, to linger, to transgress the boundary between the accepted and the forbidden – at a cost, perhaps, to all of us, the photographer, the subject and the viewer … and to our ever-shrinking imaginations.

Fernly, Nevada

My last year of college, my girlfriend Jennifer and I had flown up to Oregon for the Chirstmas holiday, where I bought a pickup to drive back to college to have for the last semester of senior year and to use to move. We wanted to make a road trip of it, so on New Years day, we set out in the new truck. 

We drove south over the Siskiyou Pass and down into Northern California. We then turned East, to climb over the Sierras into Nevada. On the pass, we were caught in a huge snow blizard. It was literally a white out. Cars and trucks were spinning and fishtailing, and sliding into each other. It was truly terrifying. Even with the windshield wipers going full speed, all we could see was a  pelting sheet of snow, and the blur of taillights. We pulled off the highway at the first exit we could. 

The two main hotels by the off ramp were already sold out from other drivers like us trying to wait out the storm. Luckily, we found a room in a small motel. It was one of those places that sort of smelled like mildew and had rough skratchy towels and a lumpy bed. But for us, it felt like we'd completely lucked out. As the storm dumped snow outside and trucks and cars continued to swerve and collide on the highway, we kicked back, grateful to be safe, and warm, and with each other.