nightmare brunette

Last night before I went to bed I was looking through a blog site that mainly posts erotic photographs, some very cool music, quotes, and some of the blogger’s personal stories. I originally stumbled upon the blog via another blog I am subscribed to by clicking on the link source to a Katy Parry cover of Electric Feel.

I didn’t think much of the blog name nightmare brunette, but gave me some poetic impression and I automatically thought the contents of it would be filled with some artistic, emo filled contents. I was wrong.

The latest post displayed an artistic black and white photograph of a beautiful woman with a see-through sheer ribbon wrapped around her eyes. She’s topless but her arms are artistically and sensually positioned covering her breasts. The photograph gave me an overall sense of appreciation for womanhood and art, but as I scrolled down I realized the blog consisted of much more intimate subjects of eroticism and art. My interest and curiosity heightened.

Clicking through the pages with keen attention and sometimes reflecting on particular photographs, I was neither disgusted nor aroused by it all. I simply appreciated the art, the eroticism, and the delicacy and elegance of human bodies. The whole thing made me think of my self-proclaimed voyeurism. As I confessed to a friend that same night, the site satisfied my fair voyeuristic tendencies.

I’m not actually sure whether I could exactly be considered a voyeur in a true sense, since I do not engage in spying, mental undressing of people, nor do I get aroused by a mere sight of nudity—I appreciate but not aroused. I suppose, I’m voyeuristic in a sense that I like to observe and examine things around me, which I have been told causes a conversational quirk and stifles proper exchange in conversations. It is true yet I am not apologetic for it.

Last night nightmare brunette made me realize what I have always known: eroticism is a beautiful thing. It satisfies something in me. Men and women taken in those intimate photographs made me grasp the beauty of body, lust and desire. The sensuality, the sexuality, and the pruriency of those photographs only confirmed another thing about me—I am lustful and it causes a certain fear in me. What if I can only lust and never love? What if I constantly mistaken lust as love? Will I ever experience what true love is? Can I ever fully give myself to someone knowing in the back of my head I am lusting over someone else or something else? Will my libido’s desire always rival my heart’s desire?

For now I won’t know but from the gist of what I got from nightmare brunette love and lust is all about struggle and desire, and I find it beautiful and romantic.