What do you find strangely erotic?

This reminds me of my friend Pat who, when people were trying to describe somebody in a "do you know this person?" kinda way, he'd go "wait...DID HE/SHE HAVE ARMS!?!?" and for some reason it always had me in stitches.

(Not that oops.)

Holy jesusness, YES.

thanks!!!!

But I claim not to be a fully-fledged fetishist as I don't think I would have found them of any interest if they weren't attached to Uma.

damn.

i especially love those forearms when they are planted on either side of me, giving it me proper.

homosexual ][ asks elsewhere if this the least erotic era of any in recent memory

definitely yes and this is pitiful

discuss

i mean, shit

I disagree but I think “recent memory” and “era” are problematic terms when trying to judge stuff.

If you’re a horny doofus into cheesecake then practically every website has an ad or seven showing you some zaftig model even if the ad is really for cheap car insurance

And if you’re into anything else it’s still kind of everywhere even without having to look very hard - androids, androgynes, LGBTQ sexytime is in every medium now, on demand, with good cinematography and everything

But maybe that’s what makes it less erotic, that all of this is just readily available now - basically everybody might as well be perusing hentai on the bus ride, and that’s the opposite of sexy

The pendulum always swings back, though. alt.sex.stories.moderated (which, tbqf, if not for pedo rape shit, probably would have died long ago) broke down last summer and nobody’s bothered to fix it.
Maybe the free porn parade is going to come to an end before long, and then mass media won’t feel compelled to keep pace with it, and prurient arts might escape the tragedy of the commons, for a little while.

Ha, in my first year as a biology student a genetics professor started a lecture about bacterial genetics with "Today we'll be discussing bacterial sex!"

Strangely erotic - running my hands under hot scalding water often produces a sensation like an orgasm.

No mess, but I'm sure it's not super healthy for your hands to do all the time...

https://www.nybooks.com/articles/2020/03/26/gary-lutz-private-parts-of-speech/

Over the last year, little by little, I have grown suspicious of the erotics of art. It’s not just that I object to the opposition, famously asserted by Susan Sontag, between interpretation and sensuality. It’s that any overeager commitment to producing or consuming art as an erotic experience often results in some very inexpert writing about both aesthetics and sex—rhapsodic, humorless, self-aggrandizing prose that gets off on the most basic category errors. When asked by an interviewer what the most interesting thing was that she had learned from a book recently, the actress and writer Phoebe Waller-Bridge replied, “That orgasms can be brought on by art, and vice versa.” I found this idea distressing. Practical considerations aside, what kind of sick person wants her orgasms to come from art? A person more concerned with receiving pleasure than giving it is one answer; a person who prefers her pleasure depersonalized, disembodied, and safely contained by representation is another. Art, after all, doesn’t demand reciprocity or reality.

Reading the aggrieved, heart-dragging short stories of Gary Lutz complicates these doubts. Grungy-haired and lantern-jawed, unnerved by sustained eye contact, and self-conscious of his middle age, Lutz is not ashamed to admit in interviews that he suffers from “ED”: “Experience Deficit.” He presents himself as a man who has lived a singularly unremarkable life of dejection, a man to whom nothing exciting has happened and who is incapable of exciting himself or anyone else—except through writing. Writing, he tells us, is where one word can draw other words toward it, tentatively at first, then with a violent resolve. Writing is where one sentence can “overcome its aloofness or diffidence and begin to make overtures to another sentence,” each rubbing the other the right or wrong way—more often wrong than right—before settling into a jittery, strained alliance. Writing is where withdrawing paragraphs can gaze upon each other with agony and longing, for they know that the end of one paragraph and the beginning of the next announces a traumatic rupture, “an irreversible parting of ways.” “Yes, I think there might be some fetishizing of language going on,” Lutz admits. “Shouldn’t writing be far more sexual than sex?”

Underbites

confusing first paragraph out of context. what kind of person finds interest in judging the sexuality of others as "sick"? well, the critic, of course, and fair enough, that's her job. lutz certainly does seem like a miserable, yes, aggrieved person, from the excerpts provided, and in that seems fairly unexceptional.

i suspect that there's something else at the heart of fetish other than the absurd, and also that the "something else" in question is probably inaccessible to lutz. unexceptionally, resorting to ero-guro, fetishizing grievance, is his fallback.

(for me, the objectified "other" of the fetish has tended to be the self; fetish writing has been an asymptotic approach to the self. that might just be me though.)

frankenstein girls