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ErosBlog: The Sex Blog

Sex Blogging, Gratuitous Nudity, Kinky Sex, Sundry Sensuality
 
 
July 24th, 2024 -- by Bacchus

1964 Dudes Ask “Should We Elect A Woman President?”

There’s a rule of thumb for media consumers: if the headline asks a yes-or-no question, you’re safe to understand that the journalist (perhaps the writer, perhaps the editor) thinks the answer is “no” and you don’t need to waste your time reading the piece.

You have been warned.

Now, in honor of us all having learned in recent days that Kamala Harris is likely to be the Democratic Party’s nominee for President of the United States in 2024, let’s do a little bit of time travel. In fact, let’s voyage back in time to that misogynist golden age of sixty years ago. It’s 1964 and Senator Margaret Chase Smith was seeking the Republican nomination for president. (She didn’t get it, so she went on to campaign for Barry Goldwater.) The fine fellows at The Dude magazine ran this illustration as a full page graphic in their September 1964 issue:

speech bubble next to a pink lipstick blot asks should we elect a woman president?

Are you ready for the misogyny yet? Because here comes the misogyny. This is the text of the accompanying two page article by one A. R. Devins:

This presidential year has been a milestone in American history. The reason does not lie in the identities of the men who have received their party’s nomination; or because the Democrats may be in or the Republicans out. Though the names and faces of officeholders change, the truth behind them remains ever constant. The really significant point about the political year of 1964 is that for the first time in American history, a woman has had the courage to announce that she thinks she ought to be president.

Senator Margaret Chase Smith of Maine has laid it on the line, and it is difficult to fault her. For if women run the country, why shouldn’t one of them live in the White House. That women do run the United States is beyond question. They boss their husbands; they control their children; they handle the door to door salesmen and manage the household accounts. It has been calculated that they are responsible for some 70 per cent of the purchase of goods. They also own well over half the country’s stocks and bonds, partly by nipping their husbands for fat divorce settlements, and partly by driving those who hang on into a premature grave, and thus collecting on the estate. There are woman judges, company directors, engineers and brain surgeons. In present day America, the only real advantage men possess over women is bigger biceps.

Now it may be argued that women are politically ignorant; we are all familiar with the party situation where the men retreat to one corner and debate affairs of state while women retreat to another and gab about babies. Possibly they should never have been given the vote. But this is a shaky argument since any Democrat considers all Republicans to be political imbeciles and wishes they didn’t have a vote either and vice versa. In fact, no one has come out against Senator Smith’s candidacy on the grounds that she’s a woman. For no one would have the nerve to tell the truth. There are only two reasons why a woman will not be sent to the White House. The first is based on hypocrisy: men are afraid to concede that a woman could do the job. And the second is based on petty envy. American women simply could not bear the thought that a member of their own sex had been elected president. They’ve spent their lives buying unnecessary hats, wall-to-wall carpeting, and electric stirrers for instant coffee in order to keep up with the Jones woman next door. But keeping up with a President Jones would be impossible. And as American women possess more than half of the vote like everything else, Senator Smith’s candidacy was doomed from the start.

But suppose we cut through the hypocrisy and the envy, and consider rationally whether there is any good reason why Senator Smith or any other woman should not be president. What do we actually expect our presidents to do? Remember first of all that Senator Smith is a Republican and therefore committed to the principle that the federal government should do as little as possible. Senator Smith is as capable of doing nothing as any man, even President Eisenhower, though he was admittedly a master of the art. We also like our presidents to be father figures. Senator Smith could not be a father figure. But she would make a fine mother figure; and motherhood is a lot more important to Americans than fatherhood.

A president – especially a Republican president – also has other vitally important functions. First of all, he has to explain regularly to the people that a government is like a family; it can’t spend more money than it takes in, otherwise it will go broke. On this subject, a woman can speak with authority because she has spent her life spending the family’s money and spending more than her husband earns. By doing so, she has proved that a family can, in fact, spend more than the husband brings home. That is the basis of the modern American economy which is known as going into debt; and the result has been fifteen years of steady boom. At the same time (the argument gets complex here but politics is complex – very complex) a president also has to explain that if people don’t spend money, the economy will go bust – that was the argument behind the tax cut. There is a contradiction here, but then one of a president’s major talents must be the ability to contradict himself. And there women excel. They are unequalled at confusing issues. Any trained wife can explain in one breath exactly why she must have a new dress while there is no money for her husband to buy a pair of socks. Just imagine the scene where President Smith appears on television to explain why the country must cut down on its spending and also spend more. There isn’t a husband in the United States who wouldn’t lean back with a sigh of relief at the familiarity of it all. He would feel completely at home. He’s been through it for years.

The president people to must also goad the people to work harder. “Increased productivity per man-hour” (per man hour, observe) – that is the constant cry. Who could cry it more convincingly than a woman? For the past two hundred years, American women have been goading their men to work harder. In fact, the main reason why this country is the richest in the world is that the women have been flogging their men on, like jockeys in the stretch. If a man tells you to work harder, you tell him to mind his own damn business. If a woman tells you to work harder, you go out and work harder. Other wise she’ll nag. Try to imagine, if you can, what it would be like to turn on the television set and hear a woman president nagging – on all networks simultaneously. It would be intolerable.

Four years of a woman president, and every production record would be smashed beyond recall. What else do we ask of our presidents? They have to make speeches. Has anyone ever argued that women can’t talk? A president has to tell the military they can’t have any more money. For this a woman is ideally trained by years of taking her children through toy stores and smacking their heads when they try to buy soldiers, rockets and space ships. A president has to receive Boy Scouts who have distinguished themselves by helping across the road old men who wanted to nip into a bar on the same side for a drink. Women know exactly how to handle Boy Scouts – they drove their own kids into the movement to get them out of the house. And presidents have to kiss babies. The case rests.

No, it doesn’t rest. For what else does a president do? What does he actually do, from nine to five? He tries to keep the peace between business leaders and trade unionists, between civil rights groups and white supremacists. In other words, he tries to keep the kids from fighting. A man has no experience at this kind of thing; he’s been too busy trying to hang on to his job (which, admittedly, also takes up a lot of a president’s time). A woman has spent her life trying to control the children. Suppose she gets lip from foreign prime-ministers? All she has to do is threaten to cut off their allowance. It worked with the kids; it will work with the prime ministers. And they can’t yell at her even if they want to; no gentleman raises his voice to a lady.

Clearly a woman in the White would confront some challenges. She’d have a rough time throwing the ball out at the beginning of the baseball season; but Truman and Eisenhower weren’t too strong in the arm either, and they got by. She might look a bit odd playing Commander in Chief at military parades, but the Waves looked a bit odd too, at the beginning of the war, and everybody got used to them. A much more severe problem is that if a woman were elected president, there would be no first lady in the White House. No one would be hanging about to work out the menus and dredge up the entertainment to lend class at state dinners by hiring Lawrence Welk, for example, in the style of Mamie Eisenhower. There would be no one to take the wives of foreign dignitaries by the arm and tell them how to get to the ladies room. However, Margaret Chase Smith had a lot of experience with that particular problem in the Senate, and she seems to have survived. Anyway, she might be able to rustle up some male relative to do the woman’s work: there are precedents. Adlai Stevenson used his sister.

Besides, the very fact that a woman was president would provide many compensating advantages. It would rescue us, for example, from having to watch the president acting lovey-dovey with his wife, especially while campaigning, surely one of the most loathsome exhibitions that democracy has ever foisted on its victims, the people. But suppose, you say, the president really likes his wife? There must have been such cases. This raises another question. It must often have crossed the average American’s mind that the coun- try was really being run-like most homes by the president’s wife. At least, if everything was out in the open, with a woman as president, we’d know where we were.

Certain other nagging problems remain. Could a woman get tough with Cuba – just assuming, for laughs, that any of our male presidents have? Could she take off her shoe at the conference table and outbang Khrushchev? Or could she win an argument with him in the kitchen, as that model of virility, Richard Nixon, always claimed that he did? The answers, I submit, can safely be left to husbands who have ever tried to outshout, outshoe, or out-tough their wives. The real danger of having a woman as president would actually be that she would get too tough; that she’d forget she was just a president and remember she was also a woman. The chances are that in no time at all she’d be telling us what to do, where to send our children to school, how much we could spend, and what to spend it on. In fact, the main drawback to Margaret Chase Smith as a presidential candidate seems to have been that she belonged to the wrong party. A woman president who believes the federal government should not exert too much power? The idea is laughable. If she would just switch to the Democrats and come out openly in favor of throwing her weight around, she’d fit inside the White House like a hand in a glove. And yet a woman president? No, we’re not ready for it. Just for a while, we still need to preserve that old, idle fantasy that there are still some things a man can do better than a woman.

 
July 23rd, 2024 -- by Bacchus

Moment Of Joy #16

Today’s moment of joy:

The most joyous thing I saw today was a fictional submissive who was outraged beyond all self-restraint (and got punished for a tantrum) when she was denied her morning coffee and realized she’d missed her opportunity to put “coffee denial” on her list of hard limits for the encounter.

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July 22nd, 2024 -- by Bacchus

Enticing In The Desert

Either she’s exceptionally horny for some urgent male company, or she’s pulling off her shirt as an enticing distraction. Why? Well, we don’t know. But my best guess is that she’s got a boyfriend with a pump shotgun crouched down behind that rock to her right, and her job is to lure those belligerent fellows into an ambush:

woman pulling off her shirt while three men wearing desert gear run rapidly toward her

Artwork is from the May 1973 issue of Adam magazine.

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July 20th, 2024 -- by Bacchus

A Schoolgirl’s Anal Masturbation

What’s more fun than a porn star who puts on a schoolgirl outfit and pretends to play with anal sex toys (a long glass dildo with lots of bloopy bumps, and a jeweled butt plug) as if it were her first time?

hazel displays her spread-open pussy while she shoves a glass dildo up her anus

hazel fingers her labia and clit with a look of erotic arousal on her face as she works an anal dildo into her asshole

hazal plays with her own pussy while she works a buttplug in and out of her brown hole

Not much is more fun than that, honestly. Photos are from Hazel’s Anal Experiment at Collective Corruption.

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July 18th, 2024 -- by Bacchus

Her Famous Head

Craig Ferguson has a lot of double entendre fun with actress Kate Mara Maria Bello in this clip where her stylish hat turns into a discussion of her fantastic head:

Update: Post text corrected thanks to Payton in the comments, who tells me I had an incorrect ID for the actress.

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July 17th, 2024 -- by Bacchus

Anal Roughie Fun In A Secluded Barn

Whilst rummaging through one of my older backup folders, I happened upon an original sex story that was posted by its author to alt.sex.stories.moderated back in March of 2000. Because I saved it (for some long-forgotten reason that no doubt boils down to “I’m a data hoarder”) in its original Usenet email-like format with all headers, I’ll link to a copy of that .txt file for archival benefit, and for the edification of readers who were not around back then and may never have seen such a thing.

headers for the story The Barn as posted to alt.sex.stories.moderated in 200

The story is titled “The Barn” and it’s by Paulinus Fang (aka “The Dirty Dentist”). A quick search of Google, Bing, Duck Duck Go, and Yandex turns up no trace of this story left anywhere on the searchable/living web, but the original ASSM posting contains a .sig/tagline with a link to Mr. Fang’s story page on Lycos. (Amazingly, the Internet Archive’s Wayback Machine has a pretty good 2001 copy of his page, which is why I was able to drop that link.)

I’ll also post the story below, with fair warning that it’s a heavy BDSM/kidnap story that presents as noncon (which is to say, it reads as if it were depicting kidnapping and rape). Its original tagging includes a “NC? anal” tag, and that question mark is significant. As was common in those times, a plot twist late in the story implies, but does not 100% establish, the consent that initially seems absent from the text. In this, the story is truly an authentic artifact of its time and place. If you don’t want to read a story like that, now is your time to stop. (The full set of tags included in the original posting looks very incomplete to modern eyes; it was in its entirety “nc? anal, bdsm”.)

The Barn

The candles flickered as the air currents moved, stirred by the swing of the girl suspended by her wrists from the hook long ago driven into the beams of the old barn.

She waited, limply, no longer willing to try to break the bonds linking her to the ancient structure.

Few thoughts passed through her brain, her mind long since blank through deprivation of her senses. The blindfold smelt of him, the one who had dragged her to the barn, bound her and hung her like curing ham. She remembered it being placed around her face, the red pattern blurring as it passed closer to her, then only the dull light passing through the cloth.

She heard footsteps in the edge of her senses: was he back? What would happen? A sound, something hitting the floor, yet what? She did not know, would never know.

Hands touched her face, tracing slowly down her cheek below the blindfold, a finger nail scraping slowly down her neck. She shivered, shrank back, yet could not because of her bindings.

The hands were gone, silence, then they returned to her neck, touching her dress, two hands in the neck of the simple cotton dress. The fingers tightened then moved apart, stripping the dress from her back, tearing textiles asunder. The shriek of the cloth, destroyed, was the only noise.

The cooler air caressed her back, chilling the beads of sweat breaking her skin. The wait, the dread, the thoughts of what could happen, what price he would extract from her, were almost unbearable.

She felt the warmth of his breath on her ear before he spoke, softly to her. “You shouldn’t be here, you know that, don’t you?” he hissed. She swallowed, unable to speak through her dry mouth, but nodded her head.

“Nobody knows that you’re here,” he paused, the breath returned to her other ear, “you’re just a missing person. I can do as I please.” She felt him move away from her. Her ears strained for sounds indicating his intentions, but she heard nothing, only silence.

She arched her back, wracked with pain. Her brain screamed with shock yet was unable to register the site of the pain. After a few seconds the burn shot across her shoulders, followed instantly by sweat on her top lip. A second bolt of pain across her buttocks caused her to jerk again, then relax. She swung slowly, revolving on her rope with the tips of her toes touching the dusty floor. Then silence.

Braced for the next blow, she waited; the seconds passed slowly, becoming minutes, still waiting. Would she be released? Would she be free again? When would he strike her again? What had he used on her?

Still hanging by her wrists with the ache in her arms returning after becoming overridden by the two blows, she felt his presence. She thought how strange it was that she should become so tuned in to her environment even when deprived of the use of her eyes.

His hands were on her hips, turning her on the end of the rope, holding her firmly. Was this when he would finally cut her down? No! She felt his warm, naked body press against her from the rear, his fingers searching between her buttocks, touching the delicate flesh, the paper thin skin in her cleft, the thicker feel of his penis, the blunt end pushing, probing, searching. She clenched her buttocks, determined to stop his entry but could feel his fist, wrapped around his penis, holding it in position against her anus, his knuckles pushed into her firm buttocks. He pushed, slowly, steadily against her anus. Unable to resist the force her anus stretched until, with a sudden pop, he was inside her, his groan drowned out by her cry.

The sharp stinging of her anus increased as he entered her, turned to a burning, then eased as he slid in, his penis disappearing as he pushed. She felt full, full enough to burst, slightly uncomfortable with the fullness yet he unexpectedly did not start to thrust, he just waited with his penis buried deep in her rectum. The tears soaked into the blindfold.

After a few minutes he started to move slowly, backwards and forwards, sawing into her, deeply, his breathing rate increasing audibly behind her. She was powerless to offer any resistance, with her hands tied above her head and her feet hardly touching the ground. He stopped; she felt him adjust his position, then holding her firmly he started to move her forwards and backwards, pulling her further onto his penis, then pushing her away: it was as if he were masturbating with her anus. The sensation of fullness changed with her swinging motion on the rope. The rate increased until her held her firmly against him, his penis jerking in her bowels and he shot deeply into her. He pushed her forward, and his penis withdrew from her anus, the semen leaking out.

The girl was left hanging for a few moments, then without warning she collapsed to the floor, tasting dust in her mouth from the barn. She could feel the severed rope around her wrists being untied, as the pressure was released she felt the blood rush into her hands, the tingling pins and needles adding to her day of discomfort. As feeling returned, she reached up and slid the blindfold up her forehead. The light bursting into her eyes caused her to close them. Slowly she squinted though eyes half closed, adjusting to the light, trying to focus on her captor who stood over by a table, packing a riding crop and rope into a bag. He turned, saw her looking at him and spoke again in his soft voice. “Is it next weekend that we are going to visit your parents?”

And there you have it: an authentic sample of BDSM porn the way it was, back at the dawn of the new century!

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July 16th, 2024 -- by Bacchus

Moment Of Joy #15

Today’s moment of joy:

The most joyous thing I saw today was the feral smile on the face of the dom whose sub realized a moment too late that “make me” are words of consent.

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