ErosBlog

The Sex Blog Of Record
 
 
May 9th, 2013 -- by Bacchus

Mother’s Improvised Treatment Protocol: Monique The Call Girl

From My Brother, My Mother, and a Call Girl Named Monique:

My brother Danny lost his virginity at age 25. To a call girl named Monique. Hired by our mother.

She deserves a Mother of the Year Award.

 
May 9th, 2013 -- by Bacchus

Homofaecesphobia?

I’ve noticed for years that there’s a particular strain of anti-gay nonsense out there that appears to be focused on shit. Who can forget Nancy Elliot’s concern about gay men “wriggling it around in excrement”? Or Dan Savage’s ignorance-busting response?

What’s interesting is that the people who suffer from the whole “you touch an anus that sometimes touches poo” theory of contagion seem to assume that their own extreme level of hysterical disgust at poop is universal. And so it leads them down the false path of thinking they can use poop to construct effective anti-gay insults. And that results in this:

Similar Sex Blogging:

 
May 8th, 2013 -- by Bacchus

Virtual Reality Bondage Sex

preparing for her bondage sex virtual reality game

prepping for BDSM VR game

This may look like the setup for a Mad Hypnotist fantasy, but it’s actually from last week’s update at Sex And Submission. Here’s the pitch:

In the not so distant future, there will be virtual reality games that allow the player to explore their fantasies in a simulated environment. Rilynn Rae plays her first game…

In her mind, it’s going like this:

her fantasy of being ravished in a holding cell while tied up

Want more?

Similar Sex Blogging:

 
May 6th, 2013 -- by Bacchus

Google Glass: No Fuck For You!

Imagine if Google programmed its servers to go through all the emails you send via Gmail and replace all the cuss words with asterisks. You’d be mad, right? Well, that’s pretty much what the voice recognition engine that powers Google Glass does:

In order to write emails or text messages with Google Glass, you dictate words. The device is pleasantly reliable at transcribing things you say … unless you happen to have a foul mouth. In that case, it’ll make what you say “safe for work,” even if you don’t want to be censored.

Geek.com’s Russell Holly was among the first to notice that the voice-to-text feature on Google Glass, much like that on Android, cleans up naughty words. If you drop an f-bomb, Glass will transcribe it as “f***.” That favorite four-letter word for “excrement” becomes “s***.” A female canine becomes “b****.” There doesn’t appear to be a way to circumvent this censorship.

No big deal, you’re probably thinking. A default setting in the voice recognition engine which they were probably using for something else first, something bland and corporate where censorship was a sensible default. They’ll change it. Sure. No doubt they will.

More interesting is what this tells us about the future, a future in which everything we perceive and everything we express is transmitted through many layers of data processing, layers that are owned by entities that do not work for us and do not have our best interests at heart.

Google already routinely tweaks its search algorithm so that some things just don’t show up so well in the results. Sometimes this is for searcher benefit (nobody wants to see more machine-generated nonsense keyword pages) but sometimes it’s in response to outside legal pressure, as when they started reducing the page rank of search results from torrent sites.

What’s it going to be like, living in a world where everything you say passes through filters you can’t see and don’t control? Where, when you search for something you can’t find, you don’t know if it doesn’t exist or if it was silently filtered from your search results? When someone says something to you, did they actually say that? Or were their words edited on the fly?

I have a friend who told me at length about the absurdly reductionist version of this he encountered in a MMORPG for children. Playing with his own children, he learned that the game was “defended” from profanity by not having a chat feature of any kind. Instead, all communication was selected from menus of pre-written possible dialog. Of course these did not include any cussing. The strongest disapprobation one could express was a stiff “You stink!” But of course there were many things the players wished to communicate that were not on the menus. Like prisoners of war, they quickly evolved visual codes for communicating arbitrary sentiments; I’ve forgotten the details, but at least one approach was the old “spell out words on the ground by dropping small pieces of loot” routine.

As Violet Blue put it in her Sex Tech roundup that led me to this Google Glass story, “if we wanted to be treated like children all our lives, this would be great.”

Going the other way into dystopian horror, Charlie Stross wrote a novel called Glasshouse (the title being a British slang reference to a specific Victorian Panopticon-style prison) that features a back story in which much memory of human history has been lost because it was edited out during something called the Censorship Wars. It seems that travel and commerce had come to rely on nanotech “Assembler Gates” that disassembled you at one location, transmitted you and your data over interstellar distances, and reassembled you at your destination. During the censorship wars, sophisticated worms were used to attack this A-gate network. Corrupted gates began editing people and their data, including their memories. The result? A history with big empty holes in it.

We already live in a world where grownups understand the risks they are taking whenever they use hardware and software that isn’t open source. If it’s proprietary, you can’t see what it’s doing and you can’t force it to behave properly (work for you instead of for your adversaries). Unfortunately, when it comes to communications and social networks, closed and proprietary commercial systems are currently in dramatic ascendency. The best you can do is decide which systems you mistrust the least — or retire from the game and hide in your cave.

I do believe we’ll eventually evolve a world where we communicate and network and search via systems that are open and subject to comprehensive infosec audits (although the complexity of actually doing those audits will be so high, most of us will instead rely on deciding which set of auditors we mistrust least). Of course, that world won’t look much like this one, commercially or politically or economically. And we won’t get there until we have endured such “a long train of abuses and usurpations” that the cost of doing things any other way is universally understood to be unbearably high. Getting there? It’s going to really suck.

Similar Sex Blogging:

 
May 5th, 2013 -- by Bacchus

Get Hydrated, Ladies!

I have pinpointed one aspect of the awful glory of the internet, and it is this. Somewhere right now a young and optimistic man is reading today’s Oglaf comic. Upon seeing this first panel, he’s thinking “Hmmm. That could work!”

\"Get hydrated, ladies! You\'re about to lose a whole lot of moisture through your pussies...\"

And so, before the next sunrise, somewhere in this grand old world of ours that young man will haven taken up a pitcher and a tray of glasses and he will have approached a group of ladies to try out this opening.

I hope somebody who is there sends us a postcard and lets us know how it worked out for him.

Similar Sex Blogging:

 
May 4th, 2013 -- by Bacchus

Extreme Throat-Fucking

There’s a certain modern style of serious blowjobs in gonzo porn that goes far beyond the these-days-it-seems-so-gentle 1970s Deep Throat “position her head just so, give her time to adjust her gag reflex, and slide your cock smoothly down her throat” model of throat fucking. It’s a style that’s all about speed and forcefulness and a reckless disregard for inevitable vomit.

And so, dear readers, it’s Not For Me. Vomit and blood and scat are my unholy trinity; I do not like them in my porn and I do not want to encounter them sexually. No judgment on them as may disagree, just (very much) not my thing.

But it’s ErosBlog’s enduring mission to find and share all manner of accounts of sexual pleasure, with special attention to non-standard modes of pleasure not often described elsewhere. Somebody describing the sex thing they do and explaining why it’s hot for them, that’s the ErosBlog beat if there ever was one. And in that spirit, here’s Rain DeGrey in a blog post called Vomit At Christmas:

I am one of those rare girls that could get off from someone sucking my strap-on, but I had rather specific desires. Strapped between my legs, a cock became a weapon of destruction. I didn’t want someone to daintily slurp on my dick, I wanted to own the back of their throat.

I wanted to make people choke and gasp and flail about, eyes streaming, made even better if they were wearing massive amounts of eyeliner so that they ended up looking like a sad-eyed panda on the end of my dick. I wanted to shove my cock so deeply down someone’s mouth hole that every molecule of oxygen in their lungs was only there because I permitted it to be so. I wanted to face fuck someone until they vomited and then use their puke as lube to continue the face fucking. I wanted to destroy people with my dick, unraveling them to the very core of their being until they were an undone puddle of flesh at my feet.

With needs like this, it was not often that I met someone that could take it at the level I liked to dish it out at. This all changed when I met Juliette…

We rejoin Rain and Juliette on a stage at a kinky Christmas party in San Francisco:

When it was our turn to go on, I placed out some towels in a “splash circle” over the rubber mats that covered most of the wooden floor, then led Juliette onto the center of the towels. Turning to the sea of upturned faces, I announced “This is going to be a demonstration of edge play. Everything you are about to see is completely consensual. If vomit or breath play makes you uncomfortable, you are are free to leave.” Nobody made a motion to stir. “Alrighty then.” I said.

I pounced. There was no warm-up, no grace period. My strap-on was abruptly and forcefully sheathed to the hilt down Juliette’s cranked open mouth. She struggled and gasped, her thin limbs thrashing about uselessly. Her eyes watered and her makeup slowly shifted from “pretty party princess” to “mental disturbed with epilepsy hands”. Whenever makeup runs into cock, cock wins every single time. The drool flowed and thick viscous back of the throat slime ran down off her chin, coating her breasts. Whenever she would slide limply off my dick and onto the floor I would haul her back up by her increasingly disheveled hair and pop her back onto my cock. She looked like she had been hit by a truck. The cock truck.

Then the vomit started…

Lest you think this is some unique thing: it’s not. “She looked like she had been hit by a cock truck” is — if you judge by even the most cursory survey of the clips on your local tube site — is a destination on the erotic map that lots of people enjoy visiting, in their porn if perhaps (who knows?) not quite so often in their actual bedrooms. It’s really easy to see something “extreme” (by your own personal standards) on a porn tube and think “Damn, she’s only doing that because some creepy pornographer paid her a lot of money, nobody does that for fun.” What I’ve learned over the years — and it’s an important lesson for the many people out there with minority fetishes — is that “nobody does that for fun” almost always turns out to be wrong.

Similar Sex Blogging:

 
May 3rd, 2013 -- by Bacchus

Story Development In Erotic Romance

This link is to a literary rant called:

Why I Now Hate Erotic Romance

I do so enjoy a well-executed rant! Here’s a choice quote, for flavor:

Those who wish to write literature at least value the English language in all its unruly glory and recognize that it takes time to craft a novel. One would not suppose this to be the case for certain writers of erotic romance who seem to be under the mistaken impression that merely putting periods after words constitutes narrative progression and that the development of a love story can be totally reduced to declarations of “I love you” around a mouthful of cock. Based upon this sloppy and ugly use of language, I can only suspect their desire is less about art and more about cashing in on a lucrative publishing trend.

I did not always loathe erotic romance with this level of contempt or even at all, but persistent crimes against narrative have taught me not just cynicism, but hatred. There are, of course, exceptions. There are always exceptions. But if the ability to speak the English language has convinced some that it is easy to write it, then erotic romance is a genre that suffers the additional handicap of people thinking that just because they have fucked, that they can write convincingly about fucking. Let me be very clear: It Does Not. The overwhelming amount of badly written, narratively perfunctory, ethically problematic drivel being produced under the heading of “erotic romance” is as numberless as the sands of the Sahara. If I were a writer of erotic romance, I would be enraged by the crapulence daily glutting my genre and obscuring my own work.

There’s actually much in this particular rant I quite disagree with. In particular, the ugly slam at the end about “adolescent sexualities grafted onto the bodies of middle aged women” is neither supported nor justifiable. So, as always, linkage does not equal endorsement. But it’s fun to watch an author get up a good head of steam and then write it out. That happens here.

Similar Sex Blogging:

 
 
cupid