ONLY 150 copies of this exclusive limited edition erotic photo book are available!
ISBN: 978-0-692-69596-8 | 10×8 in. hardcover | 112 pgs. | limited edition of 150
REEK is proud to present HIDDEN VALLEY RAUNCH, a devilishly robust collection of candid and alluring erotic instant prints of Mercedes the Muse by her most freekishly flattering fetish photographer, Moses. You have watched your favorite naughty muse get tied up & cut loose in her exclusive DVNTV mini-doc series, MERCEDES THE MUSE, now prepare to see her like never before in the first erotic book dedicated solely to Moses’ beautifully trashy instant prints taken around desolate landscapes, bombed out churches and cluttered motels throughout California.
This glaringly sexy, surprisingly funny and often hauntingly alarming limited edition hardcover features over one hundred never-before-seen dirty instant pics that lack the slightest trace of censorship, crossed legs or inhibitions. This is not brother’s marginalized porn industry magazine, nor daddy’s hidden stash of girlfriends-past-Polaroids. No, this is 100% pure, unrelenting classic Moses serving up dish after kinky dish of ass-to-the-face Mercedes the Muse with a side of his unmistakable fleshy irreverence that allows you only a half second to break that stare before you are trapped like Kratos in Medusa’s gaze.
The early nineteen nineties saw an experimental infrastructure dumped onto our lactating public, one all too eager to turn their clunky PC furniture into a global communications tool. The advent of the internet gave this old unit a new purpose until boredom set in and we began their methodical replacement, first by laptops, then by cell phones and smartphones & eventually the omnipresent omnidevices. Overnight, human beings were crawling across an invisible web, creeping toward opposing magnetic poles where they would confer and spit earth-shifting ideas via a concise, electronic global platform without having to exit their bedroom. If we are to trace the cyber architect’s world wide ontological bread trail for what ‘information’ was sought then retrieved from the start, positively, absolutely beyond any shadow of doubt titties and assess would instantly surface. It is in our inherent human nature to seek out and capture the nastiest, trashiest; absolutely most enticing and provocative images we are certain hide out there. Try and manage recalling when last you drove past a theater queue of forest animals prepared to hand over hard earned monies in exchange for viewing torturous, arousing & explicit acts flickering twenty feet tall before their eyes. Humans do it and we’ve even assigned a name to the event – a date. The next time you fill up the old fam sedan or visit the podiatrist, survey the lot and take note of the folks focused intently on that cloaked homing device we keep tucked away deep in our pockets and purses. The combination of five publicly private minutes and a smartphone have given birth to a sexual liberation / convenience unparalleled by generations past.
Now, if you were transitioning into or already experiencing teenagerdom during this Fruitopian era you were most likely hopped up on residual grunge music and CGI dinosaur doo-doo. Few some of us red-blooded male youth were testing the limits of USA basic cable, acquiring a tangy deviant taste as we clamored at any & all opportunities to stay up all night with the buxom-but-hideously named Rhonda. Huddle around the family’s two ton console television set, son. Twist that knobless volume neck down to a din hiss, sit motionless bathing in the cool, clear static-blue slapstick erotica carelessly piped in from silly places like Switzerland and Austria. A steady stream of raunchy 1-900 love line ads, Kraut sexrompedies and American diet soda commercials hacked their way through the feature presentations, establishing new televised titillation expectations in this toe-headed twelve year old who felt this banal and pedestrian teasing needed demolishing at once. I and we were living in this phony envelope – pushing time tainted by more withholdings than your federal taxes: withholdings that ultimately mutated myself & countless other Gen-Xers from commonplace deviant-defectives into full-blown smut-sleuths. Ooey-gooey hormonal rage was driving me mad. My tender imagination had been squeezed dry. Even in youth I knew the most effective relief for Bludonic Ballancockia was having truly trashy publications splayed bare before bleeding virgin eyes. So began a journey in every direction to accost one fathered – friend after big-brothered chum in hopes of gaining access to those legendary and elusive smut stashes. I absolutely had to feel those tacky, cheap pocket digest pages crackle between my fingers & nothing on earth, no lurking thing in the darkened corners nor great hanging beast in the bright blue sky would dissuade me.
My very closest weirdos displayed remarkably little concern for my immediate medical needs & given their tall tales of the endless paper T & A at their disposal, I was rather dismayed by their blasé attitudes toward my challenge. How could this be? Then again I suppose I already felt much like Daffy Duck when he discovered Ali Baba’s treasure is right under his beak; this was evolving into a real transcendolecent moment. Several celibate seasons passed and my pestering persisted before the time-sensitive materials were delivered. Our hanging out and weekend sleepovers commenced, but since I have never been one for the Stephen Kingesque club-house-circle-jerk, surveying the booty in the presence of the troops was completely out of the question. I was now their caretaker, barely thirteen and not at all concerned at the moment with complications in finding ‘alone time’; nobody wants to be around a boy thirteen years of age. I was finally free to survey each paper nasty at my leisure, free to take in all the glorious printed verboten splendor any one prepubescent could handle. Oddly enough, I was suddenly struck by the lack of any sensuality emanating from the covers. They were dull and contrived & reeked of a hyper-Cosmo appeal. These snoozefests also showed little or no signs of ever having been taken for a real test drive. Pages were ironed flat and the spines were so square a house could be framed out with them. I could see the debacle playing out now; Dad made an impulse buy while hitting the drive-thru liquor mart on the way home from work, but fear of the misses discovering his synthetic desires quickly set in & sent Pops stuffing his wayward stack back deep in the closet. Or perhaps he is simply stowing them safely away to one day pass on to his eldest junior & then to Junior’s junior and so on & so forth. I mean, my God, these fucking issues were mint. Oh, what difference did it make, I felt as if I was watching helplessly from shore as an encroaching tide slowly ate away at my sexual sand castle leaving only a sad insipid shallow mote. I realized at once the major prejudices I now & would forever harbor against disgusting erotica afterthoughts such as poor film stock choices, commonplace duds & staged, dick-shriveling-libido-numbing scenarios. I struggled from one banal page to the next hoping to find any cause for grown adult men to first desire marginalized material and then fear it. Even at thirteen I was acutely hopeful of the full glories le femme beast was surely capable of and this garbage could not be further away. Nobody could ever have truly fawned over these fake plastic Kewpie dolls flashing more airbrushed soapsuds and stupidity than skin or sensuality. Without doubt the silent suburbanites and I pined over that same lens-shattering lasciviousness and lewdness with a healthy pinch of tongue-in-cheek hilarity. We needed to suck in images of a built-for-speed wabi sabi maven boldly stomping over smashed televisions, kicking splintered doorjambs, stretching over peeling plaid wallpapers and devouring any landscapes unfortunate enough to cross her hyper-erotic rampage. This is undeniably what he, she and we all want. There is a time and place for discretion, but the time is not now and its world is never erotica.
John Ledbetter REEK founder, editor-in-chief
REEK LIMITED AND SPECIAL EDITION BOOKS ARE:
- created in total collaboration with the artist, insuring 100% quality control from concept to customer.
- strictly locked at the depicted number, so no edition will be reprinted or extended under any circumstances.
- available 100% exclusively at REEK.
REEK is as exclusive as the day is long and absolutely loves it and intends on keeping it just exactly that way for ever and ever & ever. Today’s marginalized art market is awash in a we-are-all-creatives! false positive mediocrity so here we find ourselves with the pointed obligation to disrupt the further exchange or sale of boring, stale and obligatory… little a … small r… tiny t…
REEK | Publisher of Books + Art ©John Ledbetter, all rights reserved