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April 18th, 2026 -- by Bacchus

Fist Through The Drywall

Overheard on social media:

“I’m a divorce attorney, and you’ll never be able to convince me that someone is your soulmate once I find out that they’ve punched a hole in your wall.”

My first reaction: Hard agreement. That’s not your lover, that’s an assault and battery that hasn’t landed on you yet. Get out now.

My second reaction: First of all when she said “someone” I heard “a man” and you did too. We’ve all seen plenty of fist-holes in drywall and thin door panels. I’ve never seen one put there by a woman’s fist. But I, myself, have never punched a wall. Asking only somewhat tongue-in-cheek: am I a defective man? Is the patriarchy gonna toss me out for imperfect performance of masculinity?

I’ve never even bruised my knuckles. I’ve been super mad, I have hit stuff (although not people, not as an adult) with my open hand and thrown things and broken things and made very loud noises, but punching stuff is apparently not in my automatic go-to toolbox of shit a man does.

meme about putting a cape on an angry person and calling them super mad as a joke

I’m afraid people will look at this and see a free-floating “not all men” response to a question nobody asked me. But that is emphatically not my intention. Remember the first thing I said: hole-in-wall punching is very much a pattern we all recognize as man stuff. But I’ve never even been tempted to do something so obviously painful and stupid. Sometimes I genuinely wonder whether I’m a singular weirdo, but I’m not singular; there are plenty of peaceable men with smooth knuckles like mine, running around loose out here.

This is what I suspect is closer to the truth: the wall-punchers are a large defective subcategory of men, ones who attract way more attention than they deserve to our gender, by means of the damage they do and the fear they cause. I can’t even accuse them of poor impulse control, because I’ve never so much as had the impulse to punch architecture. It’s hard to see as an anger management deficit, because I’ve never been that angry. I don’t understand their malfunction, but they obviously have one, and it’s not rare.

I’m not, however, stupid. My working theory must be that the wall-punching results from some state of overwhelm I’ve never experienced where negative emotions (which I have experienced) exceed self-control and the ability to foresee immediate negative consequences. But another theory is that the wall-punching is deliberate, controlled, and performative. In other words, it’s a threat. Not overwhelm, but evil. “Look what just accidentally happened to this wall; sooth and placate me, or…”

No real man would. No conception of masculinity I recognize allows it. But just like I said at the top of the essay, it does sometimes feel like me and the patriarchy do have beef about masculinity, and how to perform it.

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April 16th, 2026 -- by Bacchus

When Leftists Flirt

There are several good lines in this leftist flirting video but the meaningful pause after invoking disagreement with Andrea Dworkin made me spit out my tea:

She says “I have read a lot of Andrea Dworkin, but I want you to know that I don’t agree with her about… everything.” If you know, you know!

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April 14th, 2026 -- by Bacchus

Fucking Sluts: A Love Poem

I rather famously don’t believe in sluts. I’m not sure that comedian and actor Bo Burnham does either, but he certainly did go through a phase in which he liked to shock audiences with transgressive language. I extracted and excerpted this (he called it a love poem, and I think I believe him, but you easily might not, and that would be a defensible stance) from a spoken word performance he did on Comedy Central back in 2013, presently available on Youtube. It’s hard for my rapidly-aging ears to make out all of his intricate rapid-fire patter on the recording, but AI-assisted transcription is getting super-good these days.

I Fuck Sluts

Sluts! Sluts! Sluts! I fuck sluts.

Sluts get fucked when I fuck sluts, no ifs, ands, and/or buts. I fuck sluts. I fuck sluts.

Nice girls are nice, but no good for nut-sucking. They’ll need a serene night to greenlight a buttfucking, but that’ll be easy with sleazy old slutfucking. Boo to the nice girls. Praise be to slutfucking. I have a list, a list, yes a list of all the sluts I’ve missed. I’ve never fucked or sucked these sluts, and thus my nuts are fucking pissed.

So when I fuck the lucky slut, my nut removes her from the list. Another dumb cum-bucket struck from my nut-sucking, suck-it-slut, slut-fucking bucket list.

Sluts can be white, black, brown, pink, or almond. They can be skinny with big tits, or be skinny with small ones. Sluts can be perky, preppy, or posh, with their brains and their clothes all shrunk from the wash.

But other sluts are pretty and funny and smart. These sluts can lift all your thoughts from your dick to your heart. They can talk about science, music, or art. They can put you together, or they can pull you apart, but don’t trust these sluts. Don’t you dare! They’ll force you to trust them and love them and care. And then they’ll be gone, and then you’ll be aware of that hole in your heart that that dumb slut left there.

[In a tone of sarcastic over-explaining:] “So, you see, he was lashing out with sexist language because he had his heart broken…”

In 2013, Bo himself was only 23 years old. The viewpoint-narrator in this poem (and with this language I am explicitly disclaiming the old mistake of finding the author’s opinions in the words of his characters) sounds at least that young to me. It’s right at the top of the poem. “Boo to the nice girls” my hairy ass. There are nicer girls to be met!

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April 12th, 2026 -- by Bacchus

Eating Cake, And Her

In Pack Rivals: Part Two by Hanna Haze, our man Nate brought Bea an apology cake. She took it as an opportunity for some serious flirting, which had the consequences you would expect when an omega teases an alpha in an Omegaverse novel:

I reach into the box, scoop a massive piece of frosting into my hand and throw it right at his face.

It smacks him on the nose.

For a long second we both stare at each other, icing dripping off his face. Then I dive for the box as he does the same, our hands scrabbling inside as we both fight to grab more cake.

I pull my hand out first, taking my opportunity at his closeness to slam a handful of cake in his face. He swears and then tries to do the same to me.

I yelp and attempt to dodge away but he grabs my arm and smears cake all over my face.

I blink away icing and lick at my lips, unable to help but laugh hard.

He grins at me. “You have a bit of cake on your face, little bird.”

“Really, where?” I ask innocently.

He drags me closer and then he’s kissing me, sponge and frosting melting into our mouths as his hot lips claim mine. My breath halts in my chest and then I melt into him.

His hand slides around to cup the back of my neck, smearing cake into my hair, and he pulls me in closer as his other hand comes to claim my waist.

I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t let him rock up with a cake and think he can kiss me. He hurt me. They all used me.

But right now, while he’s kissing me, I find it really damn hard to remember why I was mad with him in the first place.

I’m too busy feeling.

He nibbles at my lips and then his mouth strays lower, along my jaw and down to my throat, nipping all the way.

“Hmmm, this cake tastes pretty good.” He licks all the way up my neck, making me shudder. “Or maybe it’s just you, little bird.”

“Just because you made me a cake, doesn’t mean I forgive you,” I whimper, as the hand at my waist finds the tie of my gown.

“Let me give you something else to show you how sorry I am then.” he says.

“Wh-wh-wh-what?” I whisper, as his hand slips under my gown and against my skin. His touch feels heavenly. It feels like an eternity since anyone touched me and my body rings like a bell.

He pulls back and gives me one of those wicked grins I know means trouble.

I should definitely stop things now. I should definitely send him on his way. I should definitely not lean into his touch as his hand slides over my ribs and cups my breast, squeezing ever so gently. Far more gently than I’d expect of a man like Nate. He flicks his calloused thumb over my nipple and then he lifts me up onto the counter and rolls me down flat.

God, I’ve been imagining this ever since I met these alphas.

I’ve done a really efficient job of resisting them, of resisting all the things they could do to me, resisting all the things I could do to them. But oh jeez has it been hard! And as his mouth comes down to kiss my nipple and suck it up into his mouth, I realize I want to stop resisting for just one moment. For just once.

“I’m going home,” I whisper to him. “Back to Naw Creek.” He pauses, his dark eyes connecting with mine. “I’m telling you because I don’t want to use you, Nate. If you want to stop …”

He holds my gaze, his eyes swirling, not with their usual mischief but with something like a plea.

I’m not sure what he’s pleading for. Permission? Forgiveness? For me to stay?

My heart pounds in my ears and my stomach swoops with anticipation. I want him to keep touching me. I want him to keep kissing me. I don’t want him to stop.

“Whether you stay or fly away, little bird, I want to show you just how damn sorry I am.”

He trails a line of reverent kisses down my body, lower and lower until he reaches the apex of my legs. He nudges them apart and then he falls to his knees.

“Where I should always be when in your presence, little bird.”

In my next panted breath, his mouth is right where I need it, right where I’ve wanted it for weeks and weeks.

Karl never liked to do this. Karl was never good at it. Karl would rather crawl through broken glass than get down on his knees for me. And yet here this alpha is doing just that.

I’ve always wondered if being eaten out is as amazing as other girls make out.

When Nate’s tongue hits my clit, I know instantly that it is. Oh my lord it is.

I stuff my own fist in my mouth to stop from crying out as agonizingly slowly he swirls the tip of his wet tongue around my sensitive nub, my toes curling in pleasure, and the pulse between my legs hammering like crazy.

“So fucking delicious,” he groans, the sound vibrating all the way to my core as he slides his tongue through my folds towards my hole and then back to my clit. He continues this steady stroke, around and around my clit, then down to my hole.

My skin tingles, the nerves in my body are electric and alive, and every sweep of his tongue heavenly torture.

My fingers tangle in his hair and I can’t help tugging it, willing him to go harder, to give me more.

He growls, deep and low and I almost come into his mouth right then and there.

“Need more,” I pant.

“Going to give you more, little bird, but I want to make you sing for me first.” I curse at him but he only repeats his growls and continues those delicious sweeps of his tongue.

When the tears start to spill down my cheeks, he finally gives me more. His tongue moving more quickly, flicking against my clit and making me buck, my hips lifting from the counter.

“Yes, baby, thrust your sweet smelling pussy into my mouth. I could eat you out all fucking night and every single day.”

I whimper and he kisses my cunt – properly French kisses it – sucking me up into his mouth, and making my legs shake around his head.

“Oh God!” I mutter, my fist falling from my mouth as I suck in air, dizzy with the sensations he’s driving through my body. “Oh God! Oh god, oh god, oh god.”

“Just like that little bird, just like that.”

He pecks at my clit and the cool metal of his lip ring hits against it.

I scream out.

“Like that?” he asks.

“Hmmmm,” I moan. And he does it again, knocking the metal against me over and over and over again until I lose all sense of time and place, the sensations buzzing through my body, harder and harder, until I can’t breathe, I can’t see, I can’t hear, all I can do is feel.

I come, ecstasy crashing through my wrecked body, tears swimming down my cheeks, my body jolting and bolting with each glorious wave of pleasure, until I collapse down, washed up and wrecked and tingling all over.

He continues to lap between my legs, purring into my folds, bringing me down slowly to Earth.

Now that, I think we could all agree, is a handsome apology!

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April 10th, 2026 -- by Bacchus

Uncomfortable Bear Rug

Party Bear would like to know: is there any polite way to uninvite yourself from the event after a messy orgy has broken out?

polar bear taxidermy rug wants out of the orgy party

bear rug wants to escape the group sex swingers

orgy bear wants out!

He is a very hospitable bear but his eyes are screaming “Get me out of here!”

Photos are from Color Climax 100 (January 1979).

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April 8th, 2026 -- by Bacchus

When The Cat Is Too Fresh

Sedona Violet is talking from a lesbian perspective here, but I don’t find a word to disagree with. Her flabbers are ghasted at the notion that pussy, or coochie as she calls it, must be shower-fresh to be palatable. She says “unflavored cat is diabolical” and I am inclined to agree:

Here’s what she has to say about it:

Someone made a video talking about how people have a problem eating “walked-in coochie”… you know, coochie that’s had time to marinate in its own juices. And all I have to say to that is: do you bitches not season your food?

Because what do you mean, you only eat freshly washed cat? Sans salt? Sans flavor? Sans taste?

The fuck?

It’s not even just that it doesn’t taste like anything. It tastes like soap! Is that really what you wanna be eating? You want soapy cooter-cat in your mouth?

When it’s that fresh, it takes at least a round or two to get a little bit of flavor going in that bitch. And what do you do then? Stop and clean it up? Do you make her take another shower? Because, ooh, I can taste you now?

I don’t think y’all are gay enough for me!

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April 7th, 2026 -- by Bacchus

Fire One!

A few weeks back I heard this joke circulating that I meant to share on here, but I kept forgetting. The joke contains a reference to an actual naval action that happened on the 4th of March:

A US submarine sank an Iranian warship in the middle of the Indian Ocean, by firing a torpedo. That hadn’t happened since 1945.

Apparently a torpedo is the only kind of pedo the US will fire…

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