Pussy Target: A Dart to My Heart for Sanity and Art

A dart stabs straight into my heart whenever Eva and Virginia show me their naked breasts, or spread legs, pussy lips moist and ready. There is no Disney or Marvel Comic fantasy here. This is tangible reality, solid and smooth as a bowling ball. My cock gets thick, and I ache to spurt cream for my girls, my hot, naked, tangible, human, living, breathing, cheerful, aromatic girls. No video entertainment, no known digital art is as good as the real thing, the Coca-Cola on ice in a desert of trivial nonsense. Yes. That is what we get most of the time, from most of our expensive 21st Century entertainments: A desert of trivial nonsense.

Sex is not the reason art bursts from me in the arms of beautiful, nude, sexually aroused women. The best art is often a spontaneous response to spiritual joy, joyfulness born in our own minds and our own bodies. The best art is not a clever technical response, a mathematical calculation, a scientific, logical, practical or economic response. The best art might use all those available tools, but the tools do not become the content. The best art is a spiritual response given tangible form. It remains true, much of the world's best art: painting, music, literature, dance, sculpture is created only when there is plenty of cash for the artist, and the artist does not need to worry where his next meal is coming from, or where he will sleep that night. He has a pot to piss in. He has more than two nickels to rub together.

However, great art does not always rely on comfort. The painter Vermeer created his masterpieces in poverty, in a desperate time, hoping his paintings would buy him some small necessities and comforts. Now those works cost millions of dollars ($40 million or more.) The current owners of those paintings buy them at bargain prices, when compared to the suffering of the artist during the time of creation. The current owners do not suffer at all. They simply transfer cash from one place to another. In our time, the old great art becomes a commodity, an investment tool, a personal vanity for those who can afford it. We notice, for the same amount of money (40 million dollars) forty living artists could have been hired to create ten paintings each, and those artists would be well-paid for each painting.

That's our tangible reality, as solid as a bowling ball: Our modern collectors of art enjoy investments as much as they enjoy art. Some believe the greatest art was none by dead people, as if living artists here and now are unimportant, and should probably be allowed to starve and die-out, like a recessive gene-pool, like dumpster rats behind New York City restaurants, with nothing worthwhile to offer humankind. There is little spirituality in that form of art patronage. If only the honored, honestly great, but thoroughly dead people have anything worthwhile to say, we can kiss our wrinkly asses good-bye. This explains the triviality and nonsense of our popular entertainments, and why we get no further than that. There is no audience willing to pay for anything truly exceptional and worthwhile. And therefore, there are no artists to create anything truly exceptional and worthwhile. We get what we pay for. We vote with our cash. If all the cash goes to trivial things. Our artists continue to produce trivial things.

There exists nothing, nothing I see or hear on streaming video, and no virtual reality equal to the actual reality and satisfaction of Eva or Virginia, stroking, squeezing or sucking my erect cock. No modern entertainments grab my balls as successfully as living, breathing, beautiful, cheerful, nude human females. The great art, the art which satisfies like joyful sex, art which is a tangible expression of spiritual reality, solid as a bowling ball, such art is real and urgent and present as a woman in orgasm--- That is the art I am looking for, that is the art I care about.