I’m reluctant to share this story at all, because the woman who put it on the internet framed it on both ends with misandrist generalizations about male hygiene. More on that, below. But first the story, which comes from clinical sexologist Danielle Kramer, talking about a time when she was under contract to provide sexual health clinical services for the military:

The base I was associated with…had barracks full of 18 to 24 year olds. A young enlisted guy comes in, tested positive for gonorrhea and chlamydia. Classic combo. Easy enough, we treat it, safe sex talk, you’re done. But the next day, two more guys came in with the same combo. And the day after that, three more guys. At this point, I’m like, okay, there’s either one very busy person on this base or something else is going on.

Then this one guy comes in, he tests positive, but he swears he is not sexually active. And I hear this all the time. So I’m like, hey, no judgment. I don’t care who you’re having sex with, but we gotta talk about this. And he’s like, no, there is no way. I’m not having sex with anybody.

Where do you live? The barracks? Who do you hang out with? And slowly, slowly, the truth comes out.

Turns out, a not small group of men in the barracks were sharing a Fleshlight. Two of them, to be exact. And none of them had been washing it for weeks. They were literally passing around a communal petri dish of gonorrhea and chlamydia like it was a Nintendo Switch.

Yes, I had to tell their commanding officer. Yes, I had to do an emergency Powerpoint about this. Yes, every single one of them had to get treated.

Not quoted are several sex-negative generalizations about men and cleanliness and safe sex, none of which are supported by the facts of the anecdote. I don’t prefer to share misandrist propaganda, especially when young men under military discipline in barracks are by no means a fair sampling from which to extrapolate general male behavior.

So why share the story at all? Because it ties in, conceptually, with the public Fleshlight art installation at Burning Man that’s gone viral in a hundred internet places over the years. Everybody who sees that installation or hears about it or talks about it feels a certain kind of way about public masturbation and/or shared sex toys, and a lot of those conversations include phrases like “nobody would” or “that’s too disgusting for anybody to…” or… you see where I’m going with this. The anecdote about young men under authoritarian control, in a sex-segregated barracks with very little privacy, establishes a sort of outlier of human behavior that I think is useful to that conversation.

That’s why, even though the story came wrapped up in sex-negative “men-are-filthy-beasts” packaging where I found it, I thought it was worth scraping it clean (as best I could) to bring it here.

Update: While curating the list of similar posts to appear beneath this one, I was amused to discover a prescient post from the very first year of ErosBlog’s publication, all the way back in 2003. (Am I allowed to call my own posts “prescient”?) In responding to a conversation outside the sex blog community (which was then very small) about why sex toys for men (male masturbators, pocket pussies, Fleshlights, and such) were considered much more taboo and icky than sex toys for women such as dildos and vibrators, I pointed out that men don’t have any sort of hygiene problems at all when it comes to cleaning things they care about, like, say, guns and military equipment:

[I]n objective terms the hygienic concern is arrant nonsense. Men have mastered cleaning tasks of a far more intricate nature, and will even voluntarily indulge when the object of their cleaning affections is, say, a much-beloved rifle. Nor is it implausible that a truly decent technology for assisted orgasm would command every bit as much gadgeteering enthusiasm as gun guys lavish on the contents of their gun safes.

So there! You can be sure that the very same military guys who supposedly passed around these dirty Fleshlights have been taught to field strip and clean a complicated rifle under challenging conditions, when given supportive social conditions for that cleaning task. The problem in that barracks was the social conditions, not the filthy-beastliness of the men.

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Among the literary stretch marks you can see on the recent skin of my corpus of blog posts, if you squint hard enough, is that I try these days not to over-specify the gender of the little sexual fantasies I sometimes arrange with a few words around the photos and artwork posted here on ErosBlog.

For example, instead of suggesting insupportably that every husband sometimes dreams of shutting his wife’s mouth with his cock, I might these days strive for a less-gendered phrasing to indicate the same thing. Such as, perhaps: No matter how happy a marriage may be, there comes for every spouse an inevitable moment of rising and irresistible lust to stop an outburst of unwelcome verbal feedback with a mouthful of stiff cock:

It’s probably not even true, but it makes for decent porn sales copy. And this is the 21st century, after all. Wives are allowed to have cocks too, so it’s a perfectly egalitarian sentiment, even if the photos chosen today don’t represent that dynamic.

Anyway, in Teaching Her A Lesson from Kink.com, we are treated to precisely such a domestic moment. She berates him across the kitchen island, the “discussion” moves to the living room, and angry words turn into face fucking, rough sex, and eventually, tenderness and smiles.

Although I can’t swear that any lessons were actually learned, the screeching and berating does wrap up very quickly, and is replaced by softer tones from both spouses and much better uses for their mouths. Surely that counts for a lot?

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I have written before about the bad old days of growing up when porn was on paper and if you weren’t an out-of-the-house adult, it was hard to get your hands on it. You pretty much had to find it or steal it, and the easiest theft targets were older boys who were hiding it in the woods, in tree forts, and in hedges. Comedian Ron White, a few years older than me and from a wealthier demographic apparently, talks about what you had to do to watch an actual porn movie as an adolescent young man back then, or perhaps in the decade before I became an earnest young horndog:

As Ron puts it:

When I was a kid, I had to earn porn. You had to wait till your friend’s dad went out of town on business.

You had to pull down a rickety spring loaded attic ladder. You had to crawl up into a dusty spider-ridden fucking crawl space. Forage through cardboard boxes till you find an 8mm reel. Then what? Learn how to work a fucking projector, that’s what.

And after all that? You got silent bushy porn!

I don’t think I need to say it, but lest anybody confuse Ron White’s implied/comedic distaste for hairy pussy for an official ErosBlog editorial position: there was nothing bad about “bushy porn” in 1970 when Ron White was a scrawny adolescent, and there’s still nothing wrong with it today, when you can find it.

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How does Jony know she married the right guy? Here, she’ll tell us:

This is how I know I married the right guy.

Back when we were dating, we were taking a shower together. As you do. And Alistair thought it would be really funny to pee on me.

And I think: “That is freaking disgusting, but, oh, well, I’m gonna get you back. You think you’re funny? I’m gonna get you.”

And so I decide to maintain eye contact with him. And while I’m maintaining eye contact with him, and he thinks we’re lovingly locking eyes, I am secretly pissing on him. I’m getting my revenge, and I’m pissing on him. And I’m just smiling, looking at him, maintaining that eye contact. And when I finish pissing on him, I look at him and I say, “Ha, ha! I got you back. I was peeing on you this whole time.”

And then he looks back at me and says, “You know what? “You don’t know! You don’t know that this whole time that you thought that I didn’t know that you were peeing on me, I was actually cupping my hands like this. I have collected all of the pee that you have supposedly peed on me, and now it is going back in your face.”

And then he proceeds to splash my pee into my face. My pee. In my face.

Game recognizes game.

And so that’s how I know I married the right man.

Part of what’s interesting about this is that peeing in the shower is a fairly common point of controversy between partnered people.

Some people — this could be men or women, but I think it’s more often men — who are alone in there when they let fly think it’s an obvious an obvious time-saving convenience. Others think it’s unsanitary, gross, taboo.

It gets more complicated in the showering-together scenario. I’ve seen accounts of women who discovered that their man was trying to surreptitiously pee on them. Dude, what the fuck? That’s obviously a fetish he’s not willing to take ownership of. It’s also a consent violation, and no way to treat your partner.

Much more often, the scenario is closer to this one: the partner-pissing is done openly. But there’s still no consent for participation in his unacknowledged pee fetish, because the activity is masked as prank behavior, roughhousing, or horseplay between lovers. If she’s “a good sport” the dude never has to admit his fetish, get consent for it, or apologize for trying it out without permission. If he’s exceedingly lucky, she enjoys the play as much as he does and neither one of them has to communicate their needs and desires openly!

In all the years I’ve spent reading sex and couples blogs and subsequently on social media, I’ve seen quite a few “he peed on me in the shower!” stories. They usually had worse energy and ended less happily than this one.

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Untold millions of words have been written about the parodoxical power exchange dynamics of the uncommon blowjob. How many of those words have been insightful or original? Safe to say, many fewer than that. But occasionally, at least, we get a scene in fiction that grasps at the meat of the issue (so to speak) and gives it good service:

A sudden and very specific need resonates through my chest, sparked from the marrow of my being. A need to satisfy him, to feel the power in giving him that gift.

I tug at the foot propped on his knee until he lowers it to the floor. He shifts to stand, but I stop him with my hands on his rock-hard thighs. Then I kneel between his spread legs.

He grabs my hair, his tone stern with warning. “Ivory.”

With a surge of bravery, I grip his cock through the trousers, touching him for the first time. “I want to taste this.”

“Fuck.” His exhale ricochets through the vast room. The hand in my hair pulls, pinching pain across my scalp. “Not here.”

If we go back to his house, I’ll lose my nerve on the way. I’ve loathed the feeling of a man in my mouth since the first time Lorenzo took me there. The gagging, loss of air, and utter humiliation of something so vile squirting across my tongue…

I want it to be different with Emeric. I need him to show me how to do this willingly.

Surrounded by the stiff muscle groups of his chest and legs, I stroke my hand over the pulsing swell of his erection. “I will crawl to you. Bow to you. Whatever you want, I want. Just…give me this.”

A thick, hoarse noise escapes his lips. “Christ in hell. How the fuck do I say no to that?”

He wraps my hair around his fist, his gaze cutting through the theater and pausing on the closed doors.

Is he thinking about Joanne and the time they were caught?

It’s after seven on a Friday night. We’re probably the only two people in Crescent Hall, and no one comes into the theater after school hours. But if those doors open, I’ll be on my feet before we’re spotted. Besides, only my back is illuminated by the dim edge of the lights. No one can see him in the shadows.

I know he considers all of this before he whispers gruffly, “Take me out.”

Excitement shivers through me as I loosen his belt and slide down his zipper. My hands shake, and my mouth floods with moisture.

The fist in my hair clamps down as tension ripples from his body. He lifts his hips, ripping at the trousers with his free hand. As the zipper shifts below his heavy sac, my gut quivers with anticipation to touch him.

In the dim space between us, the largeness of him juts up, long and beautiful and throbbing with veins. My hands gravitate toward it, fingers curling around the thick base.

He wrenches me backward by my hair and studies my face, his blue eyes a faint glow in the darkness. “The moment you want this to stop, raise your hand in the air.”

Because I won’t be able to use my voice? Fear trickles in, but I shove it away. I have the strength to be vulnerable with him. “I will.”

He releases my hair and grips the arm rests with both hands. “Now suck me.”

Kneeling to him, with my fingers trembling against the dark short hairs on his groin, I lower my head and slide my cheek along his shaft, nuzzling, kissing, and savoring the feel of steel sheathed in silky flesh.

His entire body melts into the seat.

I drag my nose along his length, inhaling the scent of a man I trust, pulling his woody musk deep into my lungs.

A groan notches his breaths, and his legs widen, stretching the seams around his fly. “Stop playing with it, and suck it.”

Smiling, I swirl my tongue around the tip, shredding a gasp from his throat. The sight of his blanching fists around the arm rests produces a throb between my legs. The jerk of his cock against my lips rushes wet heat to my core. His pleasure is my pleasure.

As I suckle and lick the crown, I reach into his briefs to tease his balls with kneading fingers. Then I close my eyes and draw him into my mouth.

“Ah fuck.” He grunts. “That’s it. Deeper. Flatten your tongue. There you go.” His legs shake. “Jesus, Ivory. Just like that.”

I thrill at his praise and bob my head faster, tightening the suction of my mouth. When he’s not turning his neck to glance at the door, I know he’s watching me, absorbing the contentment on my face as I give and give. Imagining the desire hooding his eyes charges me up, almost as much as the way he bosses me every step of the way. Spit on it. Lick under the head. Twist your wrist. Take it deep.

Holy hell, this man. He can’t just sit there and enjoy a blow job. His harsh whispers demand I do it the way he likes it, ordering the exact motions to make. Suck faster. Stroke harder. Make it wet.

He’s a control freak through and through, but I knew he’d respond exactly this way. I love him like this. His filthy fucking mouth and the coarseness of his timbre makes my lips tingle and my nipples harden.

When he loses the last of his restraint, there’s no warning. In a blur, he grabs my hair and slams my head down. I gag, slobbering atrociously and sucking for air. A pained moan escapes him as he bucks his hips and drives harder, deeper. I choke so violently my eyes water against the pressure, and my fingers scramble for purchase in the folds of his slacks.

Both hands tangle in my hair as he holds my face against his groin, his cock digging against my throat, his voice hoarse. “Raise your hand, dammit, and I’ll stop.”

My hands are free. I can lift them anytime. Then he’ll release me, and the discomfort will end. The power in that breaks something open inside me.

I want this. I feel it at gut level, this need for him to fuck my mouth savagely, carelessly, and without thought. Maybe because he’s held back for so long, restraining himself for me, and I ache to give this back to him. Or maybe because I want his hurt so hard and deep inside me that he’s all I feel.

With the broad head pounding the back of my throat and taunting my airway, it already hurts. My tonsils feel like painful masses of swollen tissue. He’s doing this because he wants to, and I love that, crave it, like no decent woman ever would.

I’ve never been decent. I’m dirty—Emeric’s kind of dirty that leaves a claiming painful pleasure in my throat. He tries to fuck me as deeply as he can because he’s my master, the man I hunger for in the darkest, most terribly beautiful way possible.

“Raise…your…fucking…hand.” He punctuates each word with jabbing strokes in my mouth.

I bury my nails into his thighs, a silent plea. Don’t stop.

He stabs his hips and pulls my hair, legs shaking, and breaths wheezing out of control. Just when I think I can’t take any more, the balance shifts. He goes quiet, slowing his thrusts, stroking my hair, and filling my mouth with his release.

My name reverberates through the theater as his body convulses and sighs.

The power is mine. I bask in it. His hands tremble, and I grab them, hold them, our fingers intertwined. I have him.

That’s from Dark Notes by Pam Godwin.

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She wanted to beat her vaping addiction. And he had an irresistible incentive to offer: his submissive asshole!

I can’t say whether this was a skit or a podcast interview originally, but the dialog transcript reads like this, more or less:

I wanted to quit vaping and my boyfriend knew that I really, really wanted to peg him. So he was like, if you quit vaping for 3 months, you get pegging privileges. You have rights to my untouched asshole. How could I say no?

And has this incentive been successful for you?

Yes, it has.

I quit the last year and I’ve reaped the benefits of my reward. He told me anytime you want, I will drop my drawers and you can just put something in there. It is so positively delightful. He’s actually in the room with me right now if you want to get his perspective.

Hello. Has this situation been a positive development for you as well?

Yeah, definitely. I think we are a perfect match.

To all the people out there wanting to quit something, just find yourself a submissive-ass boyfriend who will let you peg him if you quit it. This has really made me believe in love again.

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A commenter teased me for my snark on the last post in which I suggested that pseudo-bodybuilding content from 1957 might actually be not-very-subtly gay-coded. And so I was moved to do something I intended to do anyway: go and find some of the “Maclane Studios” content that was being advertised in the 1957 artwork.

It’s not all over the internet, nor is it easy to find. Hints and indications are that it’s mostly sequestered in the private collections of wealthy collectors these days. But I did find these photographs of four small glossy black-and-white photographic brochure/catalogs advertising the Maclane Studios artwork. Click to embiggen, as they say.

Gay? Hell yeah, brothers! But just deniable enough to sell through the mail without going to prison in 1950s America.

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