Gosh, there are an awful lot of hawt girls around here. And here's me joining for the articles...
Not to mention flaunting my silly teddy bear hat all over the place.
I've lost all interest in depicting myself as a sex object. My job, I think, has ruined things for me. Every single day I get naked and people stare at me for three hours at a time and then they pay me and I go home and say to myself, "THANK GOD I'M WORKING IN THE SERVICE OF THE MUSE!"
Nude art models can be sexy, there's no doubt about it. But that's definitely not the point. And nobody's supposed to acknowledge it while you're modeling. Personally, after three years in this business, all I can think about anymore is sex. I mean, all the time. Not just at work... always.
This is a terrible quality in a model but so far no one seems to have noticed. It mortifies me, though, because I'll be standing there holding a little gesture, stuck in position for twenty minutes, and I'll start thinking about sliding up and down on a rock hard cock. I don't mean to. I can't help it. I'm staring at an eraser (a goddamn eraser) that's fallen on the floor and suddenly I can feel my vulva swelling slightly and I know--I KNOW--it's turning that particularly juicy shade of raspberry.
So I think, FUCK, think of anything else! Think of roadkill! Think of dead babies! But it's too late, because now I'm thinking about rock hard cocks sliding through rotting babies which HELPS NOTHING. Through all this, mind you, my face has to stay absolutely still for the portait artists.
At this point, I begin to notice a gathering wetness at the join in my legs. This is the part where I panic, slightly.
Because then, inevitably then, I'm picturing not just a milky white droplet falling from my poon right there, in front of everyone, but maybe--worse--a whole dribbling line, a squirting of the G spot (I have a talent for coming at will, often accidentally, hands free), The dribbling thing has never happened. However, the droplet, oh the droplet is THERE. There's a rock hard cock sliding every which-a-way inside my mind and my face is still and a fat white droplet is dangling on the lip of my vulva and then, after a terrible moment of suspension, it DROPS and I feel it hit my leg.
I feel, but cannot see, and definitely cannot move to wipe away (because that would REALLY make it obvious, wouldn't it?), this droplet as it slips slowly down the inside of my thigh, as it curves around the back of my knee, and it crests the line of my calf, as it slides the long road down to my ankle and there holds--the tiniest possible weight on the bottom of my ankle bone--until it falls with an audible splat! to the stand.
Naturally, when the timer finally beeps and I sink into a deep stretch specifically calculated to allow me to serruptitiously wipe away the snail track, there's never anything there. The whole thing is entirely in my head. Always. Rotting babies, rock hard cocks and all.
My next pose is inevitably reclining. I often wonder just how still my face is during these poses, espeically as I approach orgasm on the strength of my thoughts alone. What do the artists think they're drawing?
But even for this reason, my work constantly reinforces that my visual image is not a sex symbol. I enjoy taking pictures of myself looking silly but I can't be bothered with cupcake poses. Do you realize how ungodly painful it is to stand stock still in stilleto heels for three hours at a stretch? (Ooh. Alliteration.)
So I look at all these pretty girls and I'm thinking, GOD I'D LIKE A PIECE OF THAT but I'm also thinking, like most women, I sure wish I was that sexy. Except I am. I am sexy. But I don't particularly want to perform it. I've got nothing against other people performing their sexiness, but, for me, I have to have a line to maintain my sanity.
Every single day I go to work and I take off my clothes and I ask whether the artist wants a long pose or a series of shorts and I watch his face as I disrobe and I see him (they are almost always hims) make an instant assessment and then swallow it back, because this is art. I KNOW that the artists I work for want to fuck me because, given enough time, they'll eventually make it plain. But I get paid for art, not for sex, and I don't want to switch, don't intend to switch.
For me, more and more, sex has become exclusively a product of my perception of experiencing love. This isn't a perfect system because, like I said, I think about sex a LOT and I tend to find ways to cheat if I'm desperate. Still, it's the best I've got if I want my work to stay in the studios when I go home.
I'm on this site because I want to meet other girls who write and who take their clothes off for money, for whatever reason. I want to know whether they think of what they're doing as "porn" or "art" and why they think what they think and what, for them, is the line between the two.
And I want to make friends who love to write and who might get something out of what I write and, most importantly, I suppose, can recognize a sexy girl--even when she's wearing a ridiculous teddy bear hat.
Not to mention flaunting my silly teddy bear hat all over the place.
I've lost all interest in depicting myself as a sex object. My job, I think, has ruined things for me. Every single day I get naked and people stare at me for three hours at a time and then they pay me and I go home and say to myself, "THANK GOD I'M WORKING IN THE SERVICE OF THE MUSE!"
Nude art models can be sexy, there's no doubt about it. But that's definitely not the point. And nobody's supposed to acknowledge it while you're modeling. Personally, after three years in this business, all I can think about anymore is sex. I mean, all the time. Not just at work... always.
This is a terrible quality in a model but so far no one seems to have noticed. It mortifies me, though, because I'll be standing there holding a little gesture, stuck in position for twenty minutes, and I'll start thinking about sliding up and down on a rock hard cock. I don't mean to. I can't help it. I'm staring at an eraser (a goddamn eraser) that's fallen on the floor and suddenly I can feel my vulva swelling slightly and I know--I KNOW--it's turning that particularly juicy shade of raspberry.
So I think, FUCK, think of anything else! Think of roadkill! Think of dead babies! But it's too late, because now I'm thinking about rock hard cocks sliding through rotting babies which HELPS NOTHING. Through all this, mind you, my face has to stay absolutely still for the portait artists.
At this point, I begin to notice a gathering wetness at the join in my legs. This is the part where I panic, slightly.
Because then, inevitably then, I'm picturing not just a milky white droplet falling from my poon right there, in front of everyone, but maybe--worse--a whole dribbling line, a squirting of the G spot (I have a talent for coming at will, often accidentally, hands free), The dribbling thing has never happened. However, the droplet, oh the droplet is THERE. There's a rock hard cock sliding every which-a-way inside my mind and my face is still and a fat white droplet is dangling on the lip of my vulva and then, after a terrible moment of suspension, it DROPS and I feel it hit my leg.
I feel, but cannot see, and definitely cannot move to wipe away (because that would REALLY make it obvious, wouldn't it?), this droplet as it slips slowly down the inside of my thigh, as it curves around the back of my knee, and it crests the line of my calf, as it slides the long road down to my ankle and there holds--the tiniest possible weight on the bottom of my ankle bone--until it falls with an audible splat! to the stand.
Naturally, when the timer finally beeps and I sink into a deep stretch specifically calculated to allow me to serruptitiously wipe away the snail track, there's never anything there. The whole thing is entirely in my head. Always. Rotting babies, rock hard cocks and all.
My next pose is inevitably reclining. I often wonder just how still my face is during these poses, espeically as I approach orgasm on the strength of my thoughts alone. What do the artists think they're drawing?
But even for this reason, my work constantly reinforces that my visual image is not a sex symbol. I enjoy taking pictures of myself looking silly but I can't be bothered with cupcake poses. Do you realize how ungodly painful it is to stand stock still in stilleto heels for three hours at a stretch? (Ooh. Alliteration.)
So I look at all these pretty girls and I'm thinking, GOD I'D LIKE A PIECE OF THAT but I'm also thinking, like most women, I sure wish I was that sexy. Except I am. I am sexy. But I don't particularly want to perform it. I've got nothing against other people performing their sexiness, but, for me, I have to have a line to maintain my sanity.
Every single day I go to work and I take off my clothes and I ask whether the artist wants a long pose or a series of shorts and I watch his face as I disrobe and I see him (they are almost always hims) make an instant assessment and then swallow it back, because this is art. I KNOW that the artists I work for want to fuck me because, given enough time, they'll eventually make it plain. But I get paid for art, not for sex, and I don't want to switch, don't intend to switch.
For me, more and more, sex has become exclusively a product of my perception of experiencing love. This isn't a perfect system because, like I said, I think about sex a LOT and I tend to find ways to cheat if I'm desperate. Still, it's the best I've got if I want my work to stay in the studios when I go home.
I'm on this site because I want to meet other girls who write and who take their clothes off for money, for whatever reason. I want to know whether they think of what they're doing as "porn" or "art" and why they think what they think and what, for them, is the line between the two.
And I want to make friends who love to write and who might get something out of what I write and, most importantly, I suppose, can recognize a sexy girl--even when she's wearing a ridiculous teddy bear hat.
heavenlyfury:
I am a girl who likes to write and takes her clothes off for money... though neither are how I pay my bills. Porn vs. Art is a long statement that I won't get into here, but I'd like to. I've enjoyed poking around your profile here, your photos and writing are refreshing, especially at 3am.