I didn’t make up that title; the article is here. A sample:

You can feel everything. Your asshole is very sensitive; a lot more sensitive than your cunt in fact, and of course a lot tighter. Every move, every nuance, every twist and turn of the finger or dildo or cock goes right through your ass and into your brain. It doesn’t take much to feel completely filled up, and it rarely leaves you feeling like you didn’t get enough.
…
Getting buttfucked also forces you to slow down, loosen up, and enjoy the moment. You can’t be too goal-oriented about it — it simply doesn’t work. You have to relax, mentally as well as physically, and you have to be willing to enjoy as much as you enjoy and not push yourself to take more than you can. If you approach getting assfucked like you’re training for a marathon, you’re going to wind up with an extremely sore asshole. For someone like me, an instant-gratification junkie who has to get there right now and wants to be at the next place as soon as she arrives, it’s very valuable to get fucked in a way that forces me to stay in the moment.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Butt Hook Bondage Theater
• "From Behind, But In The Front"

Here’s some really bad dating advice from DragonFly Experiment:

Stop off at a Walgreens on your first date. When she asks what you’re doing tell her, “I’m getting some condoms so when I bang you tonight I won’t get you pregnant.” If she’s still in the car when you get back, you’re set. If she’s gone, you saved yourself some time and money.

Sounds like somebody has been reading too much Maxim magazine again.

Guys, how many gallons have you spilt upon the ground, and in assorted fecund crevices? Now you can find out.

(*Cough* 22 *Cough*)

Jay over at Makeout City (remember, “all you need are kisses to start a makeout party”) weighs in on the marriage question:

I don’t like the idea of marriage much, why do we need the law to force us to be faithful and loving of each other for Quite Some Time. I’d rather just have a girl, who is my girl and I’m her boy. I’d swoon over her all day, make sure she’s happy and we’ll read books together. Every day I would write her a new sonnet, then I’d either read it to her in the morning to wake her up or I’d give it to her to read to herself while I fixed her breakfast – that way I could have the best moment ever, every day. I like the idea of knowing people are smiling because of you but not being able to see them, and when they are behind you it makes my neck tingle. yep.

Sounds nice. Although I might run out of sonnets and have to switch to dirty limericks.

In for a penny, in for a pound. I’m going to chalk this up to the strange Japanese fetish for puppy dog girls, and move on:

Do you think she might want an, er, treat?

Busy weekend at Erosblog Central, which means that the nymphs were not as closely supervised as usual. This is the sort of thing that happens when Bacchus doesn’t keep ’em on a short leash:

Hey, did someone say “leash”? Now there’s an idea….

In a recent column by John Ross I stumbled across an amusing tale of his encounter with a predator-woman whose attentions he inadvertently managed to attract. Since she started by sizing up his wallet in full view of her date for the evening, he has a little fun with her:

“What do I look like I do for a living?” she asked, throwing it back at me. This was getting better. I considered the question, and made a point of looking her over. I thought of Miss Adelaide and the Hot Box Girls, the antithesis of this woman’s understated elegance.

“You’re a stripper.” (Understand that preposterous as my “guess” was, I delivered it with a straight face, and there are more than a dozen strip clubs within a half hour of where we were sitting.) Her jaw hit the floor. “So I guessed right, huh?”

“I’M A MOTHER! I have two children!”

“And stripping pays a lot better than being a receptionist, so you can work fewer hours and be with your kids more,” I said as I laid some bills on the bar to cover the cost of the chili. “That makes perfect sense to me. StripperMom,” I said, nodding. “I like the sound of that. See you later, Scott,” I said as I put on my coat. “Bye, StripperMom. It was nice to meet you and your boyfriend.” I stepped out into the damp air, jingling my car keys, feeling good, thinking of Jean Simmons, and wondering what eventualities I might have set in motion. I was certain I’d run into StripperMom again.

John plays hard, boys and girls, so wear appropriate safety gear if you try to follow along at home. Not for amateurs!