Well, here we are again, at the start of the greatest year
ever, and DOMAI kicks it off with this bonanza newsletter and gallery.
Hope you enjoy.
Oh: it's hard to pick favorites amongst such a picture bounty,
but isn't this an amazing photo?
I graduated from college ten years ago, in the spring of
2000. I entered school expecting to find myself constantly
surrounded by beautiful, inhibition-free women; a constant cast-member
of a Animal House style sex comedy. I was disappointed when I
found that the collegiate experience of the late 90s, at least at my
heavily academic New England university, was nothing like the movies
had prepared me for. There were plenty of parties, and through
the first few years I had a string of serious and not-so-serious
girlfriends. But for the most part, my weekend evenings were
spent in small groups in the dorms, talking, joking and drinking--and
everyone stayed fully dressed.
Letter 2 by Erik S:
Robert A. Heinlein is one of the most well-known "Dirty Old Men" in recent history. He had the DOMAI attitude before many (most?) DOMAI readers were born, and kept them throughout his life.
Many people have enjoyed his books, for whatever reason. Most would agree that there is lots of nudity and/or sex in most of them not specifically written for teens, especially those that involve Lazarus Long and his family, but there is a passage from the 1963 book "Glory Road" that really seems to strike me as having the DOMAI style.
(In context, the narrator is at a nude beach, La Plage des Grottes on Īle du Levant, off the French Riveria.)
Woman, girl -- I couldn't be sure. At first glance I thought she was eighteen, maybe twenty; later when I was able to look her square in her face she still looked eighteen but could have been forty. Or a hundred and forty. She had the agelessness of perfect beauty. Like Helen of Troy, or Cleopatra. It seemed possible that she was Helen of Troy but I knew she wasn't Cleopatra because she was not a redhead; she was a natural blonde. She was a tawny toast color allover without a hint of bikini marks and her hair was the same shade two tones lighter. It flowed, unconfined, in graceful waves down her back and seemed never to have been cut.
She was tall, not much shorter than I am, and not too much lighter in weight. Not fat, not fat at all save for that graceful padding that smoothes the feminine form, shading the muscles underneath -- I was sure there were muscles underneath; she carried herself with the relaxed power of a lioness.
Her shoulders were broad for a woman, as broad as her very female hips; her waist might have seemed thick on a lesser woman, on her it was deliciously slender. Her belly did not sag at all but carried the lovely double-domed curve of perfect muscle tone. Her breasts -- only her big rib cage could carry such large ones without appearing too much of a good thing, they jutted firmly out and moved only a trifle when she moved, and they were crowned with rosy brown confections that were frankly nipples, womanly and not virginal.
Her navel was that jewel the Persian poets praised.
Her legs were long for her height; her hands and feet were not small but were slender, graceful. She was graceful in all ways; it was impossible to think of her in a pose ungraceful. Yet she was so lithe and limber that, like a cat, she could have twisted herself into any position.
Her face -- How do you describe perfect beauty except to say that when you see it you can't mistake it? Her lips were full and her mouth rather wide. It was faintly curved in the ghost of a smile even when her features were at rest. Her lips were red but if she was wearing makeup of any sort it had been applied so skillfully that I could not detect it -- and that alone would have made her stand out, for that was a year all other females were wearing "Continental" makeup, as artificial as a corset and as bold as a doxy's smile.
Her nose was straight and large enough for her face, no button. Her eyes --
She caught me staring at her. Certainly women expect to be locked at and expect it unclothed quite as much as when dressed for the ball. But it is rude to stare openly. I had given up the fight in the first ten seconds and was trying to memorize her, every line, every curve.
Her eyes locked with mine and she stared back and I began to blush but couldn't look away. Her eyes were so deep a blue that they were dark, darker than my own brown eyes.
I said huskily, "Pardonnez-moi, ma'm'selle," and managed to tear my eyes away.
She answered, in English, "Oh, I don't mind. Look all you please," and looked me up and down as carefully as I had inspected her. Her voice was a warm, fall contralto, surprisingly deep in its lowest register.
She took two steps toward me and almost stood over me. I started to get up and she motioned me to stay seated, with a gesture that assumed obedience as if she were very used to giving orders. "Rest where you are," she said. The breeze carried her fragrance to me and I got goose flesh all over. "You are American."
"Yes." I was certain she was not, yet I was equally certain she was not French. Not only did she have no trace of French accent but also -- well, French women are at least slightly provocative at all times; they can't help it, it's ingrained in the French culture. There was nothing provocative about this woman -- except that she was an incitement to riot just by existing.
But, without being provocative, she had that rare gift for immediate intimacy; she spoke to me as a very old friend might speak, friends who knew each other's smallest foibles and were utterly easy tete-a-tete. She asked me questions about myself, some of them quite personal, and I answered all of them, honestly, and it never occurred to me that she had no right to quiz me. She never asked my name, nor I hers -- nor any question of her.
At last she stopped and looked me over again, carefully and soberly. Then she said thoughtfully, "You are very beautiful," and added, "Au 'voir" -- turned and walked down the beach into the water and swam away.
In other parts of the book, Heinlein occasionally adds to this description in bits and pieces. (My favorite such line: "She knew she was female, she knew she looked good, she liked it that way.")
Immediately before the above passage, Heinlein says something that could have been straight off the DOMAI website:
"Some people disparage the female form divine. Sex is too good for them; they should have been oysters. All gals are good to look at; the only difference is that some look better than others. Some were fat and some were skinny and some were old and some were young. Some looked as if they had stepped straight out of Les Folies Bergeres."
Note: - Glory Road by Robert A. Heinlein, copyright 1963
-- Erik S
[I had to remove the gallery from this page.]
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