February 12th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
Burt Reynold’s Bare Ass, 1972
You know you have been looking for this:
It’s from the back cover of a book called Burt Reynolds Hotline: The Letters I Get … And Write!
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February 11th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
Electric Breast Toning
This looks like something I’d expect to find over at Dr. Faustus’s chambers of Erotic Mad Science, but according to Flying Cat where I actually found it, it’s an illustration from a 1925 French magazine:
I’ve got know way of knowing how fanciful it might be, but it looks very much like a full luxury salon treatment in progress. I wonder if miracle electric breast toning zap treatments were actually being sold to the finest Parisian ladies in 1925?
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February 11th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
Sanity Returns
This comes from Mouffette Fatale, where it has a caption:
Slowly, sanity returned to Grace and she drew herself erect and started straightening up her clothes.
Darn that sanity!
February 9th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
Please Disturb, Again
Obviously this is the sort of jest that comes up over and over once you’re looking out for it. Here’s the drawn version, from a (1960s?) men’s magazine, Mood Vol. 1 No. 1.:
February 8th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
Porn Needs More Leg Warmers
I suppose it’s going to piss off too many people of my generation and older if I start referring to 1980s porn as “vintage” — but I confess it’s been rather a long time since I saw any porn stars wearing leg warmers:
From Lust #17, precise date unknown.
February 7th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
When Porn Stars Fight
One thing about vintage porn. Nobody claims porn ever had much plot, but there was a time when it had sometimes had a little bit.
For instance, I just stumbled over this French title from 1980 (Jolies Petites Garces) in which the scene change from one actress to the other is mediated by a little jealous catfight:
Do you suppose they had their rabies shots?
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February 5th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
The Happy Sadist Dance
Here’s another post in the sex blog genre I think of as “people telling us how it feels to like what they like.”
Mistress Matisse is a professional dominatrix. But, you know that sort of perpetually bored sneer that so many dominatrices seem to display in their advertising? I’ve never gotten any whiff of that boredom in her prolific internet writings.
Indeed, it would be a mistake to imagine that hurting her clients bores her:
A little electricity runs up my spine, down my arms, and into my hands. My vision changes — the outside edges get dim and blurry, but whatever I’m focused on gets very sharp. My voice changes too, sliding back into a bit of a Georgia twang. I walk differently – bouncing a little on the balls of my feet – because the adrenaline that’s singing in my blood lifts me up off the ground slightly.
When I feel like that, I am not going to bother much with weaving subtle threads together, or going for a long build-up of psychological tension in my play partner. I admire that sort of thing, but in that space, my elegant sophistication and my carefully-learned feminine graces fall away from me like unzipped clothing, and I am a roughneck with a pretty face. I’m going to pick up something that’ll hurt you and just start hitting you with it. If I lack a tool, I’ll use my hands, or my feet, or my teeth, or any other part of my body I think would be effective. I’ll try to ramp it up at a speed you can handle, but try is the best I can promise, because there is something in me that wants to come out, and it wants out right nownowNOW.
I am not cool and calm about it, either. I take a great deal of sadistic glee in what I’m doing. There is a certain way I laugh when I’m really being mean — I don’t laugh that way at any other time. At particularly satisfying moments, I also tend to do what my friends call “the happy sadist dance” which involves wiggling my hips, clapping my hands, and sometimes hopping from foot to foot.
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