Vanna Vechian lives. I publish very irregularly via Une Vie d'Artiste by Erica Chappuis. Working on things...

misuse of the Vanna Vechian name

Dear readers,

My Hotmail account has been cracked a while ago and false cheap messages have been sent in my name. This upsets me and my good name. It should not upset you, I can only hope. Nothing to do with me.

There is a link (singular, plural)(sapioslut, nevermind the exact link) that equally has nothing to do with me.

Sad but true. Wish I could help it.

Love, Vanna, yours truely.

The Honesty of Anton Beeke: Troilus & Cressida

My dear partner made me aware again of this scandalous poster The Honesty of Anton Beeke: Troilus & Cressida.

We are writing 1981.

It was a theatrical poster, out on the streets, showing a rough photo of a female rear and there was shock galore. By the right, religious moral fractions and by feminists and who not.

Shocking, but is shocking wrong?

A day in the office

Story withdrawn.

my domain www.vannavechian.com

Friends,

I have (temporarily) given up my domain www.vannavechian.com in response to a price hike by my provider.

I will be posting my existing stories, or most, in this place in the interim. 'Three graces and one' is the first, as you will have seen.

Forget-me-not.

Love, Vanna

Three graces and one, by Vanna Vechian

We have agreed to meet in Café Americain in Amsterdam. I would be there first and you would recognise me, as I would wear bright red from top to bottom and be reading a book. You have not been to the Café before.



It is a bright summer's day. When you enter, it takes some time for your eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. Americain is large L-shaped space with a multitude of columns and corners. This makes you slightly nervous, even if you have been given the dominant's role. There is no woman in red that glares you in the face. You are wondering why this is so, why I have not made sure you'd see me immediately. Slowly you start walking around and surveying the space. There! A woman in red, of about the right age... But she is busy talking to someone, though she has an open book in front of her. She does not look your way when you stand still looking at her for the interminable period of half a minute. You decide to go on. You pass many people, predominantly women. None in red... Was the woman you saw the one you are after? Then in a remote alcove you see two women in red talking to each other. They sense you standing there, stop their conversation and both look your way, quizzically, ironically. Then they both stand up. Both could be me.



You are about to speak when you hear a voice behind you. 'Peter...?' You turn around only to see a woman in red walking away from you. The one you saw before. As you start to follow, you hear the footsteps of two other women following you.




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Of course you have to go with them. Of course you know you are being played with. You realise that they cannot all be Vanna, that two of them, at least, are not and - will they tell you? With a shock you realise that the woman of your desire may not even be among them. But then they may lead you to her. There is no choice.



The bright light outside first manifests itself through the loose folds of the blouse and skirt of that woman when she steps out of the café's hallway into the open. You glimpse for a moment at her true form, but then the sun immediately blinds you as you step outside yourself. The leading woman strides on without delay. Your group walks for about ten minutes. You are aware of the attention it draws from the people on the street. What a curious procession! You watch the woman in front of you and hear the two behind you click-clacking on. The sight of the motion of the first and the regular and deliberate sound of the heels all around you place you in a half-hypnotised state. Her straight shoulders and free and easy hair waving... The legs that alternate in pushing back the light fabric of the skirt that ondulates as well... The forceful steps... Click, clack... Not once does she look back.



You have reached a quieter section of the greatest of Amsterdam's canals and the woman before you ascends the six steps to the front door of a grand house, pushes it open and enters. You follow and so do the other two. None of the three have yet spoken a word. You find the marble hallway and the corridor that follows in relative darkness. Its coolness forms another stark contrast with the outside you have just left. The sound of the heels of the first woman have stopped. She has begun the ascent of a carpeted staircase, lightly, as if weightless. Again you follow, in turn followed by the other two. The first woman arrives on the landing and once again the rhythm of her heels punctuates the silence, this time on wood, as do soon the sounds of the other two sets.



The destination... You have all entered a large, all but empty room at the back of the house. The curtains have almost completely been drawn and are slightly stirred by the light breeze outside. The ceiling is high and ornately decorated, as it the fireplace. Now, finally, the woman turns around and faces you. You stop at a distance of two armlengths. Her gaze is clear, confident and unwavering. You stand there and stare back. Are you as confident as she is? Why is it that you finally turn around to find that the other two stand and face you as well? They form a circle around you. Three against one? One for all and all for one?




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The gazes of the three are confident, ironic, but not antagonising. But... Why does no one speak, why don't you? Your confidence, however, is sufficient to allow you to take in these women. Yes, they all might fit the image you have built of me, Vanna, which cannot be more accurate than this. About the right age, fairly trim for their age, shoulder-length dark hair, attractive. That is not to say that they look alike. The hair of one a straight, of another slightly curly, the third has a fringe. One has raised cheekbones. There is a little nose amongst them, there are wide-set eyes. You cannot decide who best fits your image of me, Vanna.



But you do make a choice. It is the woman that led the way. Is it because she looks like the leader, the most confident or rather the most likely submissive? Or all of that at the same time? Or because she is the only one that spoke to you... ('Peter...?') Or is the choice arbitrary and you felt compelled to make one? She responds to the first words any of you have spoken since her initial word. Your words are, 'The game is mine now. Turn around, undress and bend over, please.' Her gaze turns downward before she complies and turns around. Had you expected this easy victory at this stage, if that is what this is? Your arousal knows no bounds as you see her undress. It is her back that you see, but you know the time is yours and you will get to see all. A woman's front is the fulfillment, but the back is the promise. It shows the great strength of woman, the delicate neck carried by the shoulders on the strong tapering back, arching back, which narrows at the waist, in turn supported by the hips, both strong and delicate with the soft buttocks and finally strong yet slender legs. A journey! A journey in time too as each part is revealed in turn, as the red bell-shaped skirt is taken off first, followed by the ample buttoned blouse. The chemise she wears is purple. Her legs are bare. The bra is green and she unhooks it expertly, without fumble or hesitation. You notice now that her nails are painted in the same green, as are the French panties that, once taken off the luscious buttocks and cast on the floor, turn to nothing. Oh, and there she goes... She supply bends over and responds to your unspoken command by pulling her buttocks apart with her beautiful hands with the enticing green nails at their ends.



Then all is still.



Her secret passages are on full display and you quietly admire them, as you are quite in control of your arousal. The wrinkled ring of her anus... The double oyster of her vagina... You would have disapproved of the untrimmed pubic hairs you can see around her front passage - you prefer women shorn -, if they had not somehow moved you... A spot of imperfection enhances perfection...



Time stands still. No, you become aware of the clock of the pulsating cock. You have sensed this, but when you turn around you are still surprised to see that the other two women have followed your order quite like the woman you addressed.



Before you spring into action, you do notice that the other two do appear to be shorn...




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Is this luxury or deceit? Is Vanna amongst them? Why have you not asked? Is it the fear that the answer may be: no? Do you want to enjoy the luxury before you discover the deceit? Or is indeed your faith in that elusive Vanna, whom you have known and desired for so long but only now will have had a change to meet (or almost)?



You snub the one that you chose, the leader, and approach one of the others, who also shows her passages to you so willingly. These are hairless, yes, but the prime reason for the switch is the willingness of this woman and her sister, who were not directly asked. Her rear is so ripe and enticing, certainly no less so than those of the two others, the leader and the third ...



You grab her hips and halt for a second whilst choosing the hole... Which one? The higher or the lower? The former, the anus, has not been used in the case of Vanna. The vagina will be wet, naturally, and will accept you easily. No, you will take the anus, tight and unclean as it is, even if you hurt yourself too... unlubricated... You brace yourself, ready to thrust forward...



Then, behind you, rustling, followed by a voice that speaks, softly, 'Peter...'



You freeze, but your heart burns... Could this be...?



You then release the sweet hips you were holding and turn around.



You are dazzled, but no less driven to establish your ownership. I see this in your eyes. Dazzled, as you are beholding a bird of paradise. I am dressed in red, yes, but the dress I am wearing is ornate and elaborate, well beyond the practical. It could be a state-dress of a Chinese empress or of a baroque French queen. The high, pleated collar, the shoulder pieces like wings, the sashes and bows, the great pleated skirt... Delicate, yet overpowering. The décolleté, however, is obscene. The breasts are lifted and thrust forward, offered, like large pink apples of flesh. The nipples stand proud in the centre of small and dark areolas. Driven to establish your ownership... It is the obscene bare breasts that give you license. You are inclined to violently destroy this great creation, that both hides and glorifies the wearer, but you don’t. Master of your urges or slave of your fears? The first surely…



You say, 'Vanna, you have thwarted our agreement.

'You have done so in style, however. So much I have to admit. And your appearance exceeds my expectations, even if these have been allowed to build to excessive levels.

'Whilst I admire the playfulness you have displayed, I will not accept it. You must pay for playing with me.

‘I demand that you in turn will satisfy all of your three friends here under my eye.

'Then you will help me be satisfied by the three of them under your vain and idle eye.

'And you, you will ask? Shall I will find you a rogue off the streets, take you both to the first available hotel of sorts and see you be fucked by him?

'Shall I then, at long last, consider you redeemed of your actions? Will I then spend the next twenty-four hours with you in the Amstel Hotel and feast on you and have you feast on me?

‘Or shall I follow my base desires here and now without ado, the desires that have been building to unbearable heights during the years before this meeting?



'My beautiful three graces, uncover this woman!'


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Copyright by Vanna Vechian, 2006. Reproduction allowed only for personal use.

Leonard Cohen and his ladies

This blog has been about art and literature since I resurfaced here to your great readership.

Time to return to the erotic. Mildly and respectfully.

A few words about Leonard Cohen, whom I love and respect.

I am watching Leonard Cohen Live at the Isle of Wight 1970. He is a phenomenon. Sexy is too mundane a word to describe his presence. He is a magician, although that word is an empty cliche too. He looks a bit absent. I know, it was in the middle of the night. I have not seen other performance of that period. On his recent Live in London DVD (2008) and indeed it is the same man. I am certain, however, that during the 2008 concert he is quite conscious of what he does and communicates with his band. Absence then does not apply. I am less sure of that, but do have the feeling he is supremely in control on the 1970 occasion, but by way of casual magic, not by direct and open communication.

Isle of Wight was a war zone before he came on, in the grip of that great tension between organisers, longhaired still, and the audience, who demanded to be admitted free of charge, in the name of some revolution or other. He refers to that a few times and playfully, I think, mentions that they have the number but not the strength to establish their nation. I can not escape the thought that he is at once supportive and ironic, in other words above all that. But he holds them in his grip, firmly, like a magician, a sexy one at that.

The purpose of this blog entry is to air my suspicion that he has a spell on his female backup singers. An erotic spell. Listen to 'The Guests', 'Take this Waltz', 'Dance me to the end of Love' and especially 'If it be your will'. All great songs, whether I am right or wrong in the following. Forgive me, but I can only imagine the Master having severely primed his ladies before the recording. Sex is in the air. Or perhaps he merely looks at them intently during the session, constantly, or rather only sparingly, coyly. The eyes of the lady or ladies on their part will not leave the face of the Master, they adjust their posture, as if offering their breasts, extending backwards their ripe hindquarters, ready for the taking. The relation is clear, he is the Master and they follow. He is a great lover, no doubt, sensitive and full of empathy, but the initiative is his, as is the timing and choice of position - above all whether anything will happen at all and who the chosen one will be. His ladies are ready, as is so clear from the swooning, subservient tones. They do not compete, but like sisters wait for the whims of the Master. It is, to use a big. provocative word, obscene in my eyes, very mildly and respectfully so. Can anyone see this differently? Regardless, I love and respect Leonard Cohen, his ladies and the songs they sing, and everyone that loves them.

Less than zero

I have just finished Bret Easton Ellis' (BEE) Less than Zero. What amazes me is that Less than Zero is 25 years old this year. Previously, I had read Glamorama (see Wednesday, November 08, 2006), Rules of Attraction and Lunar Park, in this order, and seen the film based on American Psycho. His work has been praised and denounced. Little doubt about his ability, much about his morality, is a quick summary. I enjoyed them all, including the least successful Glamorama, which I commented on before. Cynical his work is not. (Should I care if it wasn't? Oh, I don't know. Not sure I care. I should, but don't. It worries me that I don't.) It is set in and around LA. The cast are sons and daughters of Hollywood producers and directors, rich and spoilt. BEE works hard at putting up attrocities of the milder and extreme sorts, from beautiful drugged out teenage boys serving drug dealers to a snuff movie someone has paid $15,000 for showing a naked girl being raped, mutilated (and later presumably killed.) We follow Clay, the protagonist, first apparently as nihilistic as the rest (as far as we know that rest), later at least aware that he is missing something, such as the ability to say that he once loved his beautiful (ex-)girlfriend Blair. It comes to nothing, because his summer break home ends and he returns to his New England college.
The title 'Less than Zero' refers to an Elvis Costello song, off his 'My aim is true' album. Indeed, it is Elvis that serves as the parent, the way he looks at Clay from the Trust promotion poster, or just past him in fact. The lyrics refer to Oswald Mosley, the UK fascist leader, and perversion in general. No direct clues to BEE's morality tale. (Clues? What do you suggest? I am in control here, baby.) Less than zero, meanwhile. Is that indicative of what Clay is about, having realised he was not going anywhere but unable to act and correct, making him arguably less than his oblivious peers rather than more? Or is less than zero to indicate how the emotional or moral climate is 'freezing', a BEE stock word? That is indeed what the phrase in EC's song suggests.

I know little about BEE. I understand he stems from the circles he describes and that he is elusive. He should be. The fact that he puts so much inside knowledge into his body of work, that the protagonist could indeed be himself is part of the mystique of his work. Not to be spoilt by by BEE revealing what is truth and what fiction, what autobio, what borrowed. (I have read quite a few novels that borrow heavily from truth. A trend, perhaps, in these days of reality television etc. I like it. Food for thought of what truth and fiction really is.)

BEE's Imperial Bedroom is just out, to favourable reviews, judging from those that I have read. The book is waiting for me. As I understand, Clay's vague drive to want to escape from the nihilism of his peers has not borne fruit. He has become part of the Hollywood system. I cannot wait to read it. Elvis Costello returns as the provider of the title. Will he play a cameo role again? (Stay with me. I will be back, dude.)