This article [link gone] contains a chilling tale of Google Revenge by (who else?) a scorned woman:

Amanda created an alternate digital identity for her former boyfriend – a personal Web page that would, in all likelihood, be accessed only by those people Googling him by name. On this over-the-top Web page, the guy makes a series of mock confessions that, if taken seriously, would be toxic in any future dating situation. He “admits” to being untrustworthy, jobless, sneaky, a lousy lover, and, finally, a carrier of venereal disease. Hey, Mom, let me tell you a little bit about my new boyfriend.

Confession time. When Bacchus first read this article, it gave him an evil urge to go and do likewise to an arguably-deserving ex. The urge was quickly suppressed, after mere moments of consideration, on purely pragmatic grounds — she could, and would, do unto as done upon, and belike with an evil genius of even higher calibre. Best not to go there.

But Alina promptly leapt for, and attained, the moral high ground:

In the end, we each get what is coming to us in some shape or form– a natural consequence of our good or bad decisions. The most poetic justice is the kind that never shows its hand. So don’t bother. Vengeance sullies the soul of the bearer more than the soul of the intended target. Limit the collateral damage. Call it a day. Thank ex-man/woman for what he/she may have taught you about the world, about human relationships, and more importantly, about yourself.

But wait, don’t grab for your insulin yet! Alina may be high-minded, but she’s still human:

Life, love, and the pursuit of happiness prove far too beautiful and elegaic to be drowned in revenge fantasies. That said, it can never hurt to check the google galaxy for unfortunate slips. Picture me grinning.

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

Who said suburban living was bland and banal?

Here is some more sex writing that uses the up-front “this stuff doesn’t turn me on and by the way I’m a feminist” disclaimer. Come on, guys, ball up, find your nuts, and write about sex without all the wussy disclaimers!

It’s right here in paragraph three — this guy wanted to get it right up front:

But I never quite recovered from the blow to my libido, going from interested to bored to downright queasy within an hour. It’s a shameful confession for a sex-positive feminist to make.

From an otherwise fairly decent article on porn.

Daniel Rodosh of Rodosh.net was kind enough to send along this Study Guide to the Complete Porno Films of the Bard of Avon. Example: “Finally, an adaptation of The Taming of the Shrew for everyone who thought Ten Things I Hate About You was too cleverly written.” Ouch!

There’s a long and fascinating article in The Atlantic called “The Wifely Duty” about the decline of sex in modern marriage. (Alina is owed thanks for the link.) This phenomenon is of interest to Bacchus, who (though never married) once spent more than half a decade sharing a household with a woman he loved who nonetheless somehow usually managed to reject all his sexual advances, or else efficiently deter the making thereof, for up to three or four months at a time. (The article calls this “launching a sex strike of an intensity and a duration that would have impressed Aristophanes.”)

Although interesting, the article is fairly unsatisfactory inasmuch as it whiffs of nostalgia for better days gone by, on the thinnest of evidence that they were in fact better:

In the old days, of course, there was the wifely duty. A housewife understood that in addition to ironing her husband’s shirts and cooking the Sunday roast, she was with some regularity going to have relations with the man of the house. Perhaps, as some feminists would have us believe, these were grimly efficient interludes during which the poor humped-upon wife stared at the ceiling and silently composed the grocery list. Or perhaps not. Maybe, as Davis and her “new” findings suggest, once you get the canoe out in the water, everybody starts happily paddling.

Or maybe not. Thank you for playing.

This much, at least, rings true:

Under these conditions, pity the poor married man hoping to get a bit of comfort from the wife at day’s end. He must somehow seduce a woman who is economically independent of him, bone tired, philosophically disinclined to have sex unless she is jolly well in the mood, numbingly familiar with his every sexual maneuver, and still doing a slow burn over his failure to wipe down the countertops and fold the dish towel after cooking the kids’ dinner. He can hardly be blamed for opting instead to check his e-mail, catch a few minutes of SportsCenter, and call it a night.

Alina’s take on this (scroll waaaay down) is perhaps more encouraging than the author of the Atlantic article:

Marriage without hot sex is like prison, add the mortage payments. A couples’ sex life also matters for the development of their children’s emotional and sexual maturity. I want my kids to see me kiss my husband in ways that indicate there is more between us than a shared mutual affection. Kids who grow up around affectionate, passionate parents tend to be more comfortable and less repressed with in their own adult sexual lives.

Marriage, in this young ladies’ opinion, is about tying your fate and your dreams to those of another, binding yourselves together knowing that sometimes the temptation to cut loose will be agonizing, but that your union is more important than your individual recklessness. Don’t blame marriage for a bad sex life– if you must blame anything at all, blame the notorious Wittle Wabbit. Boys, you’ve got competition. All the more reason to lobby your government for that classic French right to a 2-hour lunch break…

Quick, boys, somebody marry her before she gets away!