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The Sex Blog Of Record
November 11th, 2017 -- by Bacchus
The time has come for another Share Our Shit Saturday:
- Very practical and useful advice from Miss Jezzebella: How I Learnt To Orgasm Every Time During Sex With A Man
- This post about kinky keychains spoke to me — I’ve had a leather paddle-shaped key fob on my key chains for about twenty years. Near as I can tell, no one has ever noticed. I ordered it from — can I remember? — The Stockroom, maybe, or perhaps it was Good Vibrations, or maybe Blowfish. One of the pioneers, back in the Nineties, when paper catalogs where still a thing. The edge stitching has held up, but if the miniature leather paddle was ever embossed with a logo — which my memory suggests it may have been — that’s long gone.
- We can all use a little sexting help, so here are Three Major Tips For Sexting from A Couple Of Kinks.
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November 10th, 2017 -- by Bacchus
This is another one of those images that usually floats around without attribution:
I got tired of seeing it loose in the wild with no collar on, so I tracked it down to the cover of National Lampoon’s 1964 High School Yearbook Parody, which credits it to photographer Vince Alosa. Sometimes I feel like my job is to wander the cyberwilds with a dart gun, stalking feral imagery and tagging it with metadata…
Looking a second time at the image, I wonder at the “K” letters on the cheer sweaters. Is the “K-K-K” a coincidence, or a Klan reference? Perhaps there’s additional content in the magazine that sheds some light; if so, no doubt an ErosBlog reader who has seen the mag will chime in and enlighten us.
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November 9th, 2017 -- by Bacchus
A very long time ago I posted about some leather sheets from an online vendor, more because my imagination was captured by the sensuous possibilities than because I imagined that anybody would buy the rather-expensive bedding via my links. (So far as I know, nobody ever did.) I wrote:
Just the feel would be sensuous enough. But as you and yours get all hot and sweaty and those sheets start to moisten and warm up, the room would fill with that lovely leather smell, and it would get all over the both of you, too. You’d be buried in the scent of leather.
But maybe you can’t afford to wrap your whole bed in leather, or you find the maintenance daunting. Perhaps it would be sufficient to wrap your face? If so, the Folded Leather Blindfold may be for you:
Before I had any BDSM experience, I always thought a blindfold was primarily to alter the experience of the submissive: to limit one of their senses, make it easier to surprise them with a new sensation, heighten their suspense, stuff like that. Something I had to learn for myself is that it can be as much a tool for the comfort of the dominant. In a play session, especially at first, there can be a surprising amount of performance anxiety, the sense that the other party is watching and judging or even laughing behind the gag as you fumble with your ropes or smack yourself with the wrong end of the flogger. A good blindfold makes all that go away. Well, in truth, a bad blindfold probably does too, but a good one is more fun for everybody! Here’s the sales copy on this one:
A handmade blindfold that offers complete darkness, but fashionable like a masquerade piece. The tough vegetable tanned leather is molded and smoothed for a contoured fit, then lined in a velvety suede that gives luxurious comfort while further blocking the light. More than just a pretty piece, the shaping also allows for reduced pressure on the eyes and temples. The two natural suede straps meet in the back for an easy tie. No more fumbling with a sash or a piece of flat leather that builds pressure throughout the scene.
This leather blindfold is made for long wear, so much that it will continue to form with use. Every time you wear it, it will yield a little more to your specific contours and hold that shape in anticipation for the next time.
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November 8th, 2017 -- by Bacchus
Apparently this moment of public humiliation was so high-larious that it got sent out over the wire for national distribution; although it happened in Belfast, Maine, I picked it up on the front page of the Mayesville, Kentucky Evening Bulletin for October 19, 1882 under the headline “Infernal Machine”:
A rather sad affair took place on one of our streets the other day. A young lady with her arms full of bundles emerged from a dry goods store when one of them fell on the sidewalk without her noticing it. Just behind her was a young man – a Belfast young man who is not polite is not anything – and he quickly stepped forward to pick it up. Now a bundle done up in a piece of paper with a dry-goods advertisement on it is apparently as harmless as a mother’s spanking; and there it lay as guileless as an angleworm, on a sidewalk after a rain. Just as he stooped to pick it up there was a rustling of paper, the twist began to come out of the ends and in another instant a bright red thing – a sort of a cross between a balloon and a devil fish – flew into the air before his eyes, and a No. 10, thirty-six-inch, double-jointed, duplex, elliptic, steel-bowed, bustle-attachment, dollar-and-a-half, red-headed hoopskirt waltzed around and gyrated and opened and shut up and fell on the walk as flat and thin as a restuarant pie; and the young man straightened himself up, looking as if he wished the tail of comet No. 2 would sweep him from this fair land, and the young lady came back with a face that resembled a sunset on a 50 cent chromo, and she picked up the wire contrivance and then she went toward the east and he went toward the west and the sun ducked his head behind a cloud to hide a smile, and three or four looked on, laid down and laughed and doubled themselves up in a manner that would have made a mess of green apples hang their heads in shame.
And that, my friends, is what they used to mean when they would say it was a “slow news day”.
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November 7th, 2017 -- by Bacchus
Something like this is perhaps the Platonic ideal of the fierce and fabulous topless wrestling matches that sites like Ultimate Surrender (for all their manifest charms) perhaps do not routinely achieve:
From the cover of Erotik Story #4.
November 6th, 2017 -- by Bacchus
I am not a regular reader of the semi-paywalled New York Times, where I seem to have perpetually exhausted my ten “free” articles with blind links from Twitter that I never knew were going to land there; so it took a nudge from my friend Dr. Faustus to clue me in to the news (which no one else seems to have reported in any detail) that Nancy Friday passed away yesterday.
Nancy Friday, the author whose books about gender politics helped redefine American women’s sexuality and social identity in the late 20th century, died on Sunday at her home in Manhattan. She was 84.
The cause was complications of Alzheimer’s disease, her friend Eric Krebs said.
In 1973, when the author Caroline Seebohm reviewed Ms. Friday’s first book, “My Secret Garden: Women’s Sexual Fantasies,” for The New York Times, she joked about just what kind of “dirty book” it was and playfully reassured readers that despite the author’s findings, “men are still indispensable.”
The book’s shocking premise was that women had erotic thoughts. Ms. Friday, however, who based the book on hundreds of interviews, said those thoughts were accompanied by considerable guilt and secrecy.
The book was an immediate best seller.
By the time I reached adolescence, Nancy Friday had published a whole string of pop-sexuality best-sellers to the same formula as My Secret Garden; they each consisted of some high-minded essaying, the premise of which would be supported in detail by a lengthy compendium of what purported to be sexual fantasies collected by interviews or letters. These readily could, and did, serve as masturbatory literature in much the same way as the Penthouse Forum and many similar “letters” magazines of the time, but were written or edited to a much higher standard and unique in their focus (except in one of Friday’s later books that shifted to men) on the fantasies of women. I wondered (then and now) about the extent to which the fantasies were “collected” as Friday claimed, given the clear analogies to the parallel and purely fictional porn genre that then existed. But whether she was committing acts of sociology or literature, they were revolutionary either way; there weren’t any other voices focusing so directly on the pleasure of women at that time. Not, at least, that you could find on the paperback book rack in front of the B. Dalton’s at any mall in America!
All this, of course, is but a narrow slice of an interesting literary life; the tiny piece that impinged on a callow young man (not her target audience!) in a small town a very long time ago. The New York Times obituary does a much better job of capturing the whole, or at least that polite snapshot that we accept (in lieu of impossibility) whenever a person dies and a good writer is asked to sum up a life in a few thousand words.
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November 5th, 2017 -- by Bacchus
I am speculating that this might be a brothel scene because I’m hard-pressed to imagine where else the risque artwork on the wall behind makes any kind of sense:
However, given that the artist is clearly Georges Pichard, whose erotic scenes are often quite surreal, reaching for a sensible context may indeed be a complete waste of effort.
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