Daddy’s Baby Bitch
It was a small sketch, easy to just pass over, easy to miss. But, as I gazed upon it, blue ink on paper framed, just sitting on a wall, my eyes couldn’t look away.
She sat on the floor, her head in his lap; her hair cascaded down her back. It was as if she were holding onto him tight, finding comfort and protection with him there.
You don’t see him; only his legs and hand are featured. But you don’t need to. You see her, her devotion to her Daddy. It was a simple drawing, small and inconspicuous, but it was my favorite piece.
Hot. Just so simple, and yet so hot.
Her eyes closed. Her tongue sticking out. Her hands holding up the boot she is licking. All of her attention, her focus on this one act, for this one person.
It reminded me of the times I licked boots, and did other things to leather. As I stood in the gallery, staring at the drawing, all I could do was sigh and rest in my immediate and sustained arousal.
Two Parts of a Threesome
They stare out at you, one with his eyes and the other with his presence. The two of them, both beautiful, staring at you. Through the lens, they pull you in. Through the photograph, they grab your eye, your attention, your desire.
You know who the missing part of the threesome is.
As I strolled around the gallery, I happened upon prints for sale. Most were out of my price range.
But then I saw a pack of post cards. The backgrounds were earth tones, a favorite color scheme of mine, and the small drawings were delightful. A dozen lovely ladies in various burlesque performance attire. From the subdued suits to the flashy feathers, each had its own personality and prowess.
I bought the pack, knowing I wouldn’t ever mail the cards. These images would be for my enjoyment, my own small pieces of art.
Again, it was something so simple. Black drawing on a white background. Very little detail. More of an outline than a solid sketch. But the artist uses his sparse lines perfectly, indicating the curve of the body, the form, the nakedness. Naked, save for the socks.
Two pony tails fling out to the side and her body is twisted, indicating movement, as if she had just turn away in shyness or, more likely, in glee. It is simple, yet brilliant. As soon as I saw it, I thought Yup, that’s me.
As I walked around the gallery, taking in the art, I looked down once and saw boots. Doc Martens. The signature yellow lacing. They were immaculate leather, possibly worked on before the patron came out to the showing.
Their owner was on the other side of the art wall, behind the paintings, drawings, and photos I wandered past. I never saw who owned the boots, never saw the form above the knee. Just those pair of boots tempting me behind the wall, whispering for me to get on all fours and lick them.
There was art you could touch: a book with pages sown in, a block of ice melting with each new hand on it, a smooth stone with twisting folding forms. There were performances; the one I happened to catch was of a woman in geisha attire dancing with a fan. There were films playing on screens. The one I will never forget involved giving fellatio to a pistol.
The Seattle Erotic Arts Festival was much more than I expected. Photographs, paintings, sculptures, films, and live performance pieces spread out over a space for people to mingle and muse as they wished. I saw a few friends featured, which made me smile. I was captured in moments, captivated by work that I am still in awe of.
There are many reasons why I loved my time in Seattle. SEAF was the icing on the cake.
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