The Erotica Blog

(Venetian Blonde - Two Hours Later) In shadows where the empty promise dies, truth echoes in the silence of the hall: nocturnal boots won't march to beauty’s call. With Marchesa, his informant lies. Though the master baits a trap, no rival tries to climb to where her fresh-dyed tresses fall. He leaves his bride a prisoner to his wall, nowhere to go. They’ll box up her disguise, but our proud-chested heroine won't rest: because her loyal maids of honor keep a silent King to ru

Titian - Venus of Urbino On linens sun-dried white, in soft repose, with strawberry-gold braids and ivory skin, she shows off all the work that’s been put in and turns her head to better frame the nose. Tiene con noncuranza un mazzo di rose (her servants fetch a vase to put them in, and a dress, lest her betrothed come in and find his Nyssia too long exposed). Her costume, the High Renaissance ideal, is his, not hers. Though this she does not speak, the women in their hastine

Modigliani’s Nu couché (Reclining Nude) Préférez-vous les Odalisques d’Henri Matisse or Venus, or Louis Fratino's dudes? My go-tos are Modigliani's nudes whose show was shut down by the French police. The red one - IMO, his masterpiece, speaks through her pose: "come close - I'm in the mood." Her directness is empowering, not crude, just pure and honest, without artifice. She lived in Midtown but has since moved far, where I'd be black bagged if I tried to go because I tagged

We must discuss this, Gus. It concerns Jo. Don’t act as if you don’t know what I mean. I heard your rendering caused quite the scene with the Salon, when you unveiled it at the show. You took my heart and put it on a screen, revealing what all Paris wants to know: whether she’s got the fire down below – not just above, but also in between. Unveil it now, my rival, or we fight! It’s one thing for you to have her in the sack but another thing to put her on display! Well now, th

Laure, you made me wait outside for hours just to see my Victorine without her clothes. Then she doesn’t welcome me. She strikes a pose, and lets me know that she’s not mine, but “ours,” or, someone else’s, which now everybody knows, as he’s come, and gone, and left a bunch of flowers and a cat – symbol of supernatural powers. That bracelet, ribbon, orchid, what are those? Her hand rests on her thigh, so I can’t see what he has had, she now dares me to kiss. I offer to oblige

you there / lost in sleep in the luxury of our thousand-dollar Paris suite while I'm wide awake four a.m. / I have a spatula and a bell crock of butter so I start glazing your forehead / and just as on your morning toast the butter softens on contact / spreads so smoothy / yet you don't wake / I move on to your cheeks and chin with little swirls like icing a wedding cake / you give a soft snort of delight but that's probably just a dream / you are always so happy in your drea

The arch triumphal, raised above your head, pointe flexed and strapped to idol-worshipped calf – stiff-necked and flat, you stare up at that red. She executes adeptly her piaffe (she deftly steps). Her dress, brushing your chin, whiffs perfume from beneath black silken sheen. Startling stabs from her stiletto pin alert you to the turn in her routine: the piercing spear that punctures your conceit. You flinch - so swiftly she brings you to heel. Wickedly she’ll whisper, then r