Recently I saw a bitter complaint from an enlightened gentleman who correctly pointed out that trollish internet misogynists had deprived an entire generation of men. How? By inventing the derisive term “tramp stamp” for the sexy tattoos that women place in the small of their backs or right at the top of their butt cheeks. Such a sex-negative sobriquet has surely reduced the number of these tattoos on display whenever the weather is warm, or (even better) when it’s face-down-ass-up sexy-time in a bedroom near you.

I am ashamed to realize I accepted that judgmental nomenclature for many years without a second thought. But at least I didn’t contribute significantly to tramp-shaming; I can only find two ErosBlog posts with “tramp stamp” in them. Better yet, one of them features Donald Trump’s poorly-rendered ugly mug, and the other one put “tramp stamp” in scare quotes while addressing some issues the ancient Greeks may or may not have had with these tattoos.

Be all that as it may, I’m now delighted to learn that there’s a new, much more sex-positive nomenclature in town. These tattoos are tramp stamps no longer; the fun kids are calling them “cake toppers” now! And I, for one, welcome our new pastry-decorated overladies:

Self-described sassy redhead Juniper Anne says

Since tramp stamps are now being referred to as cake toppers, I’m thinking about getting one that says:

All you can eat carrot cake
Baked fresh daily
Homemade
For professional eaters only

But it’s a little long, and a little too forward. What do you think? Should I do it?

I’ll do it. Don’t tell me to do it. Okay, bye-bye.

Do it!

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We don’t have enough context to know precisely why our hungry heroine is on her knees in a tiled shower stall with four burly men, draining their balls and getting all sticky. Perhaps she has a praise kink, and their warm regard is all the incentive she needs. Maybe she’s got a thirst for cum. Maybe she’s a groupie, and they control doors she wants to pass through. Everybody wants something in this life:

The fun thing about art is that a lot of the time, we get to write our own story. We might not be “right”, but we can’t be wrong, either!

This illustration is by Adler.

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I’m not sure I’m 100% on board with the modern “eaters” slang for men who are avid cunnilingus enthusiasts. Perhaps I’ve watched too many zombie movies. But the cultural zeitgeist goes where it will, without consulting me. And Shawna says eaters are a problem:

I do occasionally indulge in “real men” discourse, and I’m indulging myself now: with appropriate consents in place, real men aspire to be precisely this kind of problem!

Transcript:

Eaters are a fucking problem, okay? I don’t make the rules, they just are. They will hold your ass down in that fucking sniper position and you’re not going fucking anywhere. Okay? You think you’re done? No. Haha, no, no, no, no, no. Not until they are. Whenever they’re pleased with their work, they will let you know. But until then, you are at their mercy.

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I am not enough the art historian to comment intelligently on what an engraver of the Italian Renaissance was trying to say about beauty and eroticism when he produced an engraving of ten naked men with superbly-delineated muscles (and the proverbial tiny dicks of classical art) all hacking each other to death with swords and axes. But saying something about them, I am quite sure that he must have been:

The etching is Antonio Pollaiuolo’s Battle Of Naked Men AKA Battle Of The Nudes at the Cleveland Museum Of Art. This scan was sent to me by a learned friend, who found it in a well-thumbed university-library volume of philosophy, namely Ways Of Worldmaking by Nelson Goodman (1978).

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I grew up hearing people talk about “playing footsie under the table” without ever really having a clear and literal understanding of what they meant. They used it metaphorically to mean “fucking around and wasting time”, which I understood; but I come from a rural hellscape land of mud and snow and heavy work boots; nobody’s tables had long concealing tablecloths, and nobody wore the kind of fancy shoes you could slip off discretely, one foot with the other. In case you, too, were somehow allowed to proceed through life without ever gaining clarity on the concept of how footsie is performed, it starts like this:

This footsie artwork is by Alazar, and comes from the February 1991 issue of Leg Show magazine.

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There does seem to have been a serious effort to make “topless women as musical acts” catch on in nightclubs in the late 1960s. Apparently it didn’t get too far. This trio, however, was not “real” — according to the February 1969 issue of Continental Film Review, they appeared in a movie, not in a club:

The topless group is said to have appeared in the German movie Doctor of St. Pauli. Apparently (not pictured in the magazine) there was another movie called The Go-Go-Girl from Blow Up (alternate title: In Schwabing the Nighis are Long) that featured more than one topless group.

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This is Camella Donner, cruising back in 1978 for Mayfair magazine off of Antigua in the Lesser Antilles:

The Donner Party jokes write themselves!

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