"Euphoric", huh, very interesting. Maybe there is something liberating about it. Told ya so. :-)
Here's a response about the book above...
My favorite is the one with the topless male photographer taking a photo of the topless woman taking a photo of the photographer. The best part was the woman in the background, shielding the eyes of her son as she rushed him away from the object of his intense interest. Some might think she was a prude or ashamed of the human body. I think there's another, more likely reason ... she just didn't want to answer the questions a young boy would ask about the female body. "Mom, what are those and why were all those men staring at that lady?" Like most boys, I grew up very curious about girls. It didn't take long for me to discover that my questions would not be answerd by the adults; such knowledge was classified TOP SECRET and I didn't have the necessary clearance and "need to know." This was very frustrating for a little boy. So, in that photo, the boy whose eyes are being covered by his mom represents ME!!!
Thanks for letting DOMAI visitors and members know about this very interesting book ... which may at this very moment be in the process of being confiscated from a former teenage boy by his wife who just found it in his sock drawer ... and she has murder in her icy blue eyes. hahaha.
During a recent Cultural Revolution, I moved into a large old house with nine others. Friends beforehand, we had just escaped from higher education. The times, and our circumstances put us all on the edge of discovery.
As we were products of sexual and visual repression, our naked intentions popped erratically to the surface, usually in small accidents or timely clothing failures. The sweet sin in a glimpse of bare thigh was multiplied endlessly
The door would magically spring open a sliver, making Linda's morning bath a semi-public event. A trip to the lake found a string of beauties, sun bathing on their tummies, tops untied, turning teases in a surreptitious skin show fueled by subliminal dares.
Pamela had married Tom, a small fellow with a comic strut and a wise irony in his glint. They were good together, and we could often hear them cavorting into the night, or simply talking, as they lay abed. Tom was proud of Pamela in that boyish style that says, "Hey! Look what I found!"
Our first winter wore on. Sue baked cookies in her translucent housedress. Jeanne walked the halls half wrapped in a small towel, her eyes nude with naughtiness. But, Pamela would not play this game. I thought she was deferring to Tom, cradling his ego.
One especially cold evening, just after dinner, I mounted the stairs, feeling deep winter woeful. Just as I stepped on the landing, the door to Pam and Tomís room swung open.
There, bathed in soft light, stood Pamela, stark naked. Some cosmic joke was exploding in her laughing eyes, some wonderful insanity lit her cherubic smile, and some gorgeous hilarity jiggled her doddering breasts, porcelain pink, with pretty pert nipples, the shade of my reddening cheek.
Just then, I would have time stand still, but the door began to swing shut, easing Pamela out of sight and into mythology. Just before it closed, Tom's impish smile burst from behind it, leaving me with the twinkle in his eye.
Long story short, they had decided that I was much too downcast at dinner. Tom figured a Pamela Show would cheer me up. I think it was Pamela's ironic comment on our communal peepshow. Ah, youth, and an extra glass of wine with dinner.