#dressing up
A splendidly salacious donation from Yanni, who has found a much bigger and clearer print of one of these “Arabian Nights” photographs which featured here three years ago.
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One of the better-known and most beloved pornographic photoshoots from the Victorian era - two beautiful boys in stockings, flouncy petticoats, a wonderfully ill-fitting black corset, and wearing flowers in their hair. (For further shots, see here)
I know, I have posted this marvelous photograph before, but this copy is larger and fractionally less cropped, and I only need an excuse as thin as that white frilly petticoat to reblog anything from this photo set again!
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This remains one of my favourite vintage photos of all time, there’s nothing I don’t find completely beautiful and fascinating about this shot and those lovely, lovely models.
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A pretty abysmal quality scan, but this is a single stray photograph from the Arabian Nights set posted previously, it seems to have escaped and got left out, and I couldn’t leave the poor lonely thing all forlorn and uncollected now, could I!
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Dress Up, The Party Season Is Here
I hate dressing up!
I finally got to wear my fav fairykei style, somewhat like my avatar too (look at the hat), and funnily enough it’s for an assignment video. Have to finish that
She dressed for him, even when he didn’t tell her what to wear.
She hadn’t realised she was doing it at first, hadn’t realised that as each piece of clothing slipped through her mind she was dismissing it not because of her own inclinations, but because she knew how he’d react to it, and she was going after a very specific reaction.
She wanted to excite him. She wanted to catch his eye, even when he wasn’t deliberately looking out for her. Especially when he wasn’t deliberately looking out for her. She wanted to make him notice, when he wasn’t especially trying to.
Even when he did tell her what to wear, there was something about the way she wore it that made it her own, forced his eyes to revel in the sight of her. But it was those times that he didn’t, when he gave her free reign, that his power over her was felt the hardest.
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He didn’t say anything. For the longest moment, he just looked at her, regarded her, gazed and stared, his eyes wandering up and down, assessing and analysing. For the longest moment, she had no idea what was going on in his head.
He had made her get dressed out of his view, so she wandered off with clothes in hand and that pert little bottom bared for him to watch wander off, and came back as he had imagined her. Or at least, that was the idea. But the nerves set in, the neurosis and insecurities, and she worried and fretted, her fingers fondling the thin mesh of the babydoll, pulling and tugging on it. And still he watched.
It seemed like an hour before his lips even parted, an hour before he was about to speak, let alone before a word actually passed his lips. And somehow, that just made it more uncomfortable, more anxiety riddled and difficult to handle. She wanted to scream, to run over there and shake him until he told her what he thought.
She wanted to curl up into a ball and have the world forget about her.
And then, a flicker. The corners of his mouth turning just the slightest amount. Just enough for her to wonder whether she’d seem anything at all, as if her anxious mind might be playing tricks on her. Then there it was, again. And again. Alternating between almost smiling and almost deadpan. He was toying with her, she slowly started to realise.
He saw that recognition on her face, and the smile was properly born. His hands spread, and the smile turned into a grin.
“My dear, you look positively edible. Like the most candied of sweets. Come over here so that I can devour you.”
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I love the ambiguity of the photograph. How a motion can be either starting or ending, depending on the perception surrounding that frozen moment. Spending a few moments figuring out all the clues, like her hand being above the zip, showing she’s puling upwards, getting dressed rather than undressed.
I love being able to imagine that it might be the other way around, just with a little denial.
And I especially don’t love it when my queue messes things up and posts pictures out of order. Sorry about that, boys and girls.
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At some point, the uniform changed. The uniform, in fact, stopped being a uniform at all. It used to be all leather and chains, studs and buckles, with maybe a bit of latex thrown in there for good measure. It was about making a statement, and making it as loud as you bloody could.
I don’t know whether we’ve become more comfortable or more cowardly. No, cowardly is the wrong word. Private. We’re certainly less aggressively D/s than people were before. It isn’t necessarily something that defines you so much as something that you define.
I’m throwing that ‘we’ around like it applies to everyone. I am not you, you are not me. But we might be the same, in a few things. I’ll eschew the Leather Daddy outfit for a suit, if it’s all the same. I’ll dress you up in polka dots and pearls, if you don’t mind all that much. There’ll be lace, but I’m not so sure about the leather.
I don’t need to make a statement. At least, I don’t need to make one that everyone’s going to hear. I’m more than happy to speak in a whisper, against your neck, than a bang, fired into the air. Because this isn’t something that’s going to end any time soon. In fact, it’s just about got started. And the choices we make about what to wear and how to present ourselves are only testament to quite how many there are, and how broad the appeal has become. No longer is it merely the domain of the metal heads and the sadomasochists. It’s something for everyone.
So dress however the fuck you want to dress. I couldn’t care less.
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His hand settled on her hip, and he leaned in, lips pressed against her ear. She trembled, shivering under his touch, and it was difficult to resist the smile that attempted to curl his lips.
“You have never been more beautiful to me.” He had a good voice, and he knew how to use it. Normally it was all rumbling steel, power and primal all mixed up into one. Here it was just… soft. Intimate. A voice made to dwell between the duvet and the mattress. For a moment, the shivering stopped, and it seemed like she was feeling a little more confident.
He leaned away and she started again. His other hand slipped into her’s, and he gave it a squeeze. They were in the foyer, a moment of privacy before they slipped into the throng, and the nerves were visibly eating her alive. He started to pull her around, until she was facing him. She didn’t meet his eyes.
“You want this.” He was trying to transfuse his confidence into her, intraorally. “You are going to step through that door, and they are going to gasp.” He squeezed her hand again, a silent emphasis. “And I am going to be there, right beside you, and I’m going to swell with pride.” The hand at her hip moved upwards, trailing all along her side, past her shoulder, and against her face. He held it before kissing her brow.
A smile threatened to break on her lips, before her brow furrowed. She pulled her hand away.
“Why?” He frowned, started to open his mouth.
“No, I mean, why are we doing this? Why do you need to show me off, why do I want to be shown off? What are we doing?” The whole time her eyes were flying around the room, anywhere but him, anywhere but those eyes. He let her have her say, waited for her to run out of questions.
His hands came up, and held her face. Forced her to meet his eyes.
“Because I can’t keep you to myself any more. I can’t live with seeing you on my bed, knowing that I’m the only fucking person to ever see that. I can’t sit there and enjoy you, when I can at the very least share the sight of you with a few other people. Hope that you can touch them with even a fraction of the revelation that you drowned me in. I can’t be the only one. It’s not fair."
Her throat bobbed for a moment, a swallow reflex. The trembling had stopped. The flitting eyes had stopped. Her whole body was on pause, waiting for a response, waiting for her to respond. And so she did. She blinked, twice, and then brushed her eyes with the back of her hand. And she turned to the door.
"Well, then, we better get in there."
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I’d be so happy if my family could mention gay people at other times than complaining about the way people dresses at pride parades. So this is what I’d love to reply to them, after telling them to fuck off:
1: I don’t agree at all, I think a parade is the time to dress up however you want. In speedos, in fabulous rainbow coloured outfits, in fetish gear or whatever you feel like. If you don’t like it nobody forced you to oogle.
2: If you’re that ignorant that you think dressing up in a certain way for once in a pride parade reflects badly on that person or lgbtq people in general, then you’re the one with the problem.
3: I’d love to be that person in an outrageous outfit at pride, because I love dressing up.
4: You’ve never actually in person watched the fucking pride parade, so the way people dress there should be like 0% your concern!!! (and it would still be the same even if you went of course, it just adds delicious irony)
After going trick-or-treating last night with friends and hearing quite a few warnings about being careful with what candy we eat or to be careful due to our costumes, it really struck me how dangerous a fun tradition has become.
Love,
Your Old Fashioned Girl ♥
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