Remember about twenty years ago, when the camel toe fetish was new? I mean, the fetish wasn’t new; but the name and keyphrase as a hot internet search term, and the camel toe haiku, sort of were. Anyway, this joke ad dates from that era, if my metadata don’t deceive me:

About that “Cougar model” with the built-in beer opener: I knew a guy who was in Southeast Asia during our wars there. He swore on a stack of bibles (for which he really didn’t have much other use) that this one time when he and his buddies were on R&R they went to a brothel (not what he called it) where one of the sex workers (not what he called them, either) could do the beer-opening trick even without the benefit of a plastic prosthetic. I wonder if Amber the Farm Wife ever tried that?

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The site logs, which do not lie, tell us that many searchers are looking for “camel toes”. Far be it from ErosBlog to disappoint.

Folks, it’s time for camel toe haiku:

Riding on the seam
Split between good and evil
I cannot choose sides.

Or how about:

Twin islands rising
in a sliding Spandex sea.
Land ho, camel toe!

As my grandmother used to say, “Everbody’s crazy but me and thee, and sometimes I wonder about thee.”

I continue to venture through pre-Code movies made in Hollywood, to see what might be of naughty interest there. This week I came up with Search for Beauty (1934).

Our heroes are Olympic athletes Don Jackson (played by Buster Crabbe) and Good Blond Girl Barbara Hilton (played by Ida Lupino). Their antagonists, a trio of grifters: two rather dim con artists and a not-so-dim Bad Brunette Girl Jean Strange. Jean, who is played by Gertrude Michael) (who we last saw on ErosBlog singing “Sweet Marihuana”), fronts for a racy “fitness” magazine, and then takes over a “health hotel.”

The opening of the movie contains not just stock footage of the 1932 Los Angeles Olympics but both men’s and women’s locker room scenes. The men’s scene contains the earliest guy-butt shot I know of in a mass-release Hollywood movie.

Leading man Buster Crabbe was an All-American swimmer in real life. He would go on to become the first cinematic Flash Gordon as well as Buck Rogers. This movies dares not just to ask, but also to answer, the question “what does he look like in the shower?”

Pretty good, as it turns out.

The big gag about the “health hotel” is that manly Don combs the world for the best male and female athletes from the United States and the British Empire to serve as “instructors,” and we all know what our trio of grifters hope that will lead to.

(Cranky digressive rant: In the mind of whoever wrote this movie, “The British Empire” apparently meant only the United Kingdom and the pre-war Dominions (i.e. Ireland, Canada, South Africa, Australia, and New Zealand), and the only athletes worth looking at anywhere were white. This in spite of the fact that India, at least, though part of the British Empire in 1934, sent its own teams to the 1932 Summer Olympics. Their mixed race (to the best of my ability to tell, by reading its roster) field hockey team took home gold medals. But there’s nary an athlete of visible African or Asian ancestry to be seen herein. Internal response to cranky digressive rant: Dude, it’s 1934. Do you really expect both racial enlightenment and guy butts in the same 77-minute movie?)

Anyway, once all the beautiful young people are assembled, they’re obliged to put on a gratuitous Art Deco style musical number, so carefully coordinated that one wonders if it didn’t inspire Leni Riefenstahl. The homoerotic element is not neglected, naturally.

The plot of the movie cranks forward from there, given a bit of crackle by the fact that it’s largely a battle of wits between Good Blond Girl and Bad Brunette Girl. Good Blond Girl wins in the end, with a bit of legal trickery that probably violated local Blue Sky laws (but hey, who’s counting), winning both corporate control of the health hotel and the heart (and excellent pecs) of Buster Crabbe. All ends happily for our heroes. They even get a bad visual pun to end the movie with.

But perhaps that’s not my favorite detail. That would be the pair of shots depicting the fate of Bad Brunette Girl, who is forced to “exercise” at the end of the movie. Take a close look at one of her “instructors” in the background.

No, a closer look:

Even in the pre-Code era, movie studios had censors. All I can say about whoever watched this movie is “dock that censor a day’s pay for napping on the job.”

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For as long as I have been a sex blogger, lists of sexual fetishes (in varying degrees of obscurity) have been crossing my radar. Sometimes these were compiled by other bloggers for fun, sometimes they were articles in online publications looking to entertain readers with novelty sex trivia. For some reason I’ve never figured out, the fetish lists often resort to complex portmanteau words chimera-stitched together from roots in Greek or Latin (or even Greek and Latin at the same time). Thus they’ll list something like “knismolagia”, instead of just saying “tickling fetish”. If you look it up in a really good dictionary, you’ll likely see a legend like this: “Mainly encountered in word lists rather than actual use.” You don’t say!

I have more interest in the thousands of small fetishes described by carefully-worked-out tag systems that attempt to catalog millions of hentai/manga erotic artworks. These systems serve as enormous catalogs of micro-fetishes. Rule 34 provides that if a thing exists, there is porn of it — and the marvelous truth is that a tag/name exists for every obscure fetish you can imagine, and for untold thousands more that you never could have dreamed up in a month of feverish wanking. I’m serious. Did you know that “ear insertion” is a thing? I don’t know the fancy Greek portmanteau word for it, but if you’re a catgirl, it’s a risk:

Every highly-online person has been aware for decades that tentacle sex is a surprisingly-frequent preoccupation in Japanese erotic animation. And those sticky probing tentacles, man, they go everywhere. There are a lot of them, too! They almost always wind up in an airtight gang-bang situation, with tentacles jammed everywhere you might imagine a tentacle getting jammed. But this is the internet. No fetish is too micro. If you want “anal tentacles” and nothing but anal tentacles, the internet will provide. Find me a polysyllabic Latin word for that!

It takes no particular imagination to have a fetish for tattoos and body art. Hell, back when porn magazines were still printed profusely, there were entire thick glossy titles devoted to nothing but sexy tattoos and body modifications. It’s when things get exquisitely particular that the internet comes to the rescue. There’s porn (there’s always porn!) for people whose narrow fetish is “pussy tattoos” — just pussy tattoos, no ink anywhere else:

I could go on all day. Cataloging the infinite varieties of human arousal is one of my favorite things to do. But I’m going to end the game (for now) with a nice plump juicy “cameltoe” image:

I defy you to find a word in a classical language for that!

Gentle readers, although this sex blog is not yet a month old, it’s time for that ever-popular favorite, the sharing of odd search queries. Prompting this exercise is today’s new instant classic:

rape my cameltoe

I don’t know whether to be proud that, as of this writing, ErosBlog does not even appear on the first page of Google search results for this query — or dismayed that it appears at all.

Also rather fun is:

bondage rooms for rent

Now, the neat thing here is, Erosblog appears on BLOODY PAGE FOURTEEN of the Google search results. Somebody paged through a hundred and forty fricken’ results, apparently looking for a quiet place with a cage and some overhead rafters and a bondage bench where they could spank their sweetheart in privacy (paying by the hour) while avoiding the watchful eyes of Mom and Dad. Is this an entrepreneurial opportunity for some clever landlord with an extra truckload of soundproofing panels?