It may be true, as I’ve said before, that rich men buy boats, and we know why they do it. But the bold man invites a pretty lady for a row around the lake, and then he makes her do all the actual rowing while he enjoys the view:

Artwork is by Bielegrafics.

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I think old voyeurism art that was intended to be comical will always look at least a little bit creepy to modern eyes. But the two lines of poetry aren’t helping here. I mean, every woman is a daughter, but that truism aside, why stretch in that direction for a rhyme here?

Honestly I thought the couplet must have been excerpted from a larger poem, which perhaps it was. But Google will not admit to knowing these words except in the context of this same Curt Teich postcard.

Via Kinky Delight.

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What’s the best way to cool down while snowboarding on a warm sunny day? Aiden Ashley and her lesbian friends seem to have figured out a unique method that combines snow and nipple licking!

Photos are from an event on Playboy TV.

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Gender policing in sport has been popping up all over my social media timeline, recently. Given the discourses of the day and the upcoming Olympics, I guess it’s not surprising. I have taken my cues from a distant observation of the discourse, and noticed that pretty much every cis white dude with Strong Opinions About Gender And Sports seems to be some sort of homophobe/transphobe, or else is just drunk on TERF memes. So me, I’m mostly resolved to shut up and stay that way.

But I do think it’s interesting and worthy of note to point out that there’s nothing at all new about these gender-policing conversations. In evidence, I offer the following full-page spread of three stories from the February 1937 issue of Look magazine, headlined “When Is A Woman Actually A Woman?” For the times, the language is not especially brutal (you can click the image or this link for a larger version to read the fine print), but the policing is brisk nonetheless:

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It dawns on me that some of my readers may be too young to recall the days in which obscene phone calls were a thing. The world was full of anonymous pay phones, and caller ID didn’t exist, or it was a premium service with an extra monthly charge that many people didn’t pay. Go far enough back, and “tracing the call” was something that had to be done by a live human “operator” at the phone company while the call was in progress. That pretty much meant that an obscene caller faced no repercussions whatsoever, unless they were foolish enough to harass the same party repeatedly, to the point where the police became involved.

I’m not actually old enough to remember when obscene phone calling was still the favorite activity of boundary-pushing perverts, but when I was a younger person, it was still a vivid part of the cultural history and memory of all the adults I knew. It was so common, people made comedy about it.

Thus it is no surprise that a stroke book from the 1970s opens with a description of a fictitious obscene call:

“Damn it! If you don’t tell me who’s calling I’m going to hang up!”

Harry Appleton smiled obscenely as he listened to the irritated female voice at the other end of the telephone. He was sprawled in an old overstuffed chair, the telephone cradled between his check and shoulder, one long leg hooked over the chair’s dirt-encrusted arm. In his left hand he held a tattered copy of a magazine that was open at the centerfold. His avid eyes scanned the glossy color photograph of a naked girl kneeling on the floor, her heavy breasts pressed flat against the carpet while her fingers reached around her body to pull her pendulous buttocks apart and expose her puckered little anal opening. His other hand lovingly massaged the swollen cock that jutted out from his unzipped jeans.

“”George, is that you?” the woman on the telephone asked, a note of fright creeping into her voice and replacing the previous irritation. “Is this another one of your jokes, George?”

Harry smiled again and cleared his throat. He could tell that the nervous woman was about to hang up on him and he didn’t want to loose the connection.

“Is this Miss Watkins? Sarah Watkins?” he asked, pitching his voice low. There was almost no chance that she would recognize his voice from their one brief meeting, he knew, but he was going to take no chances.

“Yes, this is Sarah Watkins,” the woman answered, a little puzzled now. “Who’s calling, please?”

“You don’t know me, Sarah,” Harry said quietly, without a trace of emotion even though his heart was thudding wildly in his chest. “No, you don’t know me at all.”

“What is it you want then?”

He choked down a lewd laugh as he stared at the photograph of the obscenely posed girl in the magazine. When he let his mind roam freely, as he often did, he could almost imagine that the girl was here in the room with him, moving her luscious ass around in provocative circles while she begged him to shove his lust-hardened cock up into her tightly-puckered asshole. His fingers grasped his penis in a vice grip as the woman on the telephone interrupted his obscene reveries by speaking again this time more urgently.

“If you don’t tell my what you want right now, I’m going to hang up!”

Harry threw the magazine onto the floor and sat up straight, a fierce glow in his eyes. He licked his dry lips with his tongue as he cleared his throat again.

“I want to fuck your asshole, baby!” he almost screamed into the telephone. “I want to shove my cock up into that tight little hole and make you scream for fucking mercy! And I’m going to! Just you wait and see!”

From Anal Rampage by Paul Stone (certainly a pseudonym), published by Blackpool Library (BL-119, 1970s).

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I’m pretty sure the iconography of the US flag is not supposed to be used like this, but, hey, fuckit, I do not care:

Happy patriotic holiday, hope there will be well-filled bikinis in yours!

Artwork is by “A1”.

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Overheard: “She’s sitting on a treasure, and she knows it! Turns out, she’s also got a whole lot of gold, too…”

Fantasy pirates are always glamorous. You know why? Because some really bad things happen to pirates who fail. So a pirate, by definition, is pretty much always on the top of his/her game: a good ship, a taut crew, plenty of loot, pretty captives to torment or ransom, lots of time for drinking and screwing around.

The biggest problem of a really successful pirate is burying all your treasure without the crew knowing where you put it. This isn’t made a whole lot easier when you insist on bringing along an artist to make portraiture of your triumphant glamour poses, but what’s the use of wealth and beauty if history doesn’t remember any of it?

This kind of behavior created enduring legends about treasure maps and buried doubloons. The legends are so persistent, they’ve become cultural building blocks, available to be grabbed and used for all kinds of projects. Thus ThePornMap.com — a site that strives to find and link the best porn sites — uses a glamorous lady pirate with a spyglass in its logo. That’s universal shorthand in action: “Use our pirate map to find the porn treasure you are looking for.”

People need to understand, though, that being a successful lady pirate wasn’t an endless routine of standing around in dramatic poses, looking smug with no panties on:

On quiet nights in the captain’s cabin, there’s plenty of time to grab one of the nice young noblemen from the brig where the ransom clients are kept, and give him some “exercise”:

Then, too, even the most successful lady pirates can have a bad day. “Row me ashore on Kraken Island”, she demanded. “But what about the Kraken?” “He’s a myth, you timorous fool!” The bad news is, it turns out the Kraken’s a very horny myth, with a lot of inquisitive tentacles. Oopsie!

Image credits, top to bottom: Smug pirate showing off her treasure-pussy is by Personalami. The drunken femdom pirate orgy is by Iron-Dullahan. The plumed-hat treasure-burying topless pirate is by ZaftigBunny. The pirate woman who just had a happy wank in her own loaded treasure chest is by R Ex. The pirate dominatrix putting a tied captive through his sexual paces is by Felox08. And the intrepid but unfortunate pirate getting tentacle sexed by a Kraken after losing a longboat full of rowers is by an artist who is apparently not known to the internet.