La pornographie silencieuse du passé

You stare at those photographs — grainy, faded, dead-eyed women frozen in time – and you think: How beautiful. How timeless.
Shut up. That ain’t art. That’s porn. Just printed on glass instead of your goddamn screen.

Paris, 1890. The streets stink of piss and cheap perfume. Somewhere above a bakery, in a room with cracked windows and rats bigger than your sins, a girl takes off her clothes for the camera.

She’s not a model. She’s a maid. A hooker. Maybe just some poor girl who said yes for a warm drink and two francs.
And she’s freezing.
Because the bastard behind the camera needs twenty minutes of stillness. That’s what it took back then – long exposure, like some slow ritual.

And she stands there – one hand between her thighs, the other gripping the back of a broken chair, nipples like punctuation marks.
She doesn’t smile. This ain’t for fun.

These photos? They weren’t locked in museums. They were postcards. Yup. You could mail them. “Greetings from Montmartre – here’s a blonde with her legs open.”
To dodge the law, they sold them under the label “anatomical studies.” For doctors, of course. Yeah. Sure.
The postman was probably the most aroused man in Europe.

The rich had leather-bound porn albums.
Collectibles. Fetish libraries.
They didn’t jerk off to bodies – they jerked off to poses.
“Knees apart.” “Back arched.” “Girl with candle between her tits.”
Some men had hundreds.
The early NFT bros, trading flesh on cardboard.

Oh, and 3D porn?
They had that too.
Little stereoscopic viewers — you put the card in, look through the lens, and boom — naked lady pops up like she’s in the room with you.
1900.
And she’s more alive than your girlfriend on a Wednesday night.

Sometimes, they shot the girls after they died.
No joke.
One minute she’s overdosed on laudanum or strangled by some baron, next minute – she’s in makeup, propped up for one final pose.
The last orgasm she never gave.

And yeah – they shot everything.
The so-called “respectable” part of history left that out, but the lens didn’t.

You think queer porn was invented in Berlin nightclubs in the ’20s? Think again.
There’s another photo: two men, not kissing, not holding hands – but one down on his knees, doing the job with closed eyes like it’s Sunday prayer.
That ain’t just sex. That’s devotion.
Shot in secret. Shared in silence.
Because back then, a blowjob like that could get you ten years in prison or ten minutes with a rope around your neck.
But they did it anyway.
They held still.
They let the lens make them eternal.

These weren’t just pictures. They were confessions.
Confessions of hunger, of loneliness, of men who didn’t know how to touch, only how to look.
Every print was soaked in guilt and lust.
Every frame said: I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop.

And now, you – with your clean fingers and incognito tabs – you look at them and feel something.
Shame?
Lust?
That’s the magic, pal.
That’s the ghost in the silver.

This wasn’t art.
It was survival.
It was porn before plastic. Before filters. Before fakeness.

It was real.
And it still gets under your skin.