Have you seen it?

No, gentlemen, it cannot be done without rubbing dicks.

If you’re still worrying about that, you ain’t tall enough for this ride anyway.

Marigolds? Not what you probably think.

Stiff-standing Dildoes did they make
and put in Earthen-Pots;
With other things, a shame to speak
made by these foolish sots;
Which when they shamelessly had done,
they threw them o’re the Wall,
Their honest Neighbour to torment,
and vex her therewithall.

The marigolds? A euphemism for little female genitalia made of cloth, which would be the “other things, a shame to speak” mentioned in the poem.

It’s complicated. Fortunately, it’s all explained at the The Hairpin.

For a picture in which nothing less innocent than an ankle measurement is taking place, I feel like there’s an awful lot of fetish fuel and barely-repressed perversion going on here:

This is from my file of vintage postcard scans, so unless somebody can recognize that scribbled signature, I’m totally without a provenance to provide for this artwork.

I’ve seen some sophisticated and persuasive socio-psychological arguments for why feminism benefits men as well as women, but I was entertained by Figleaf’s far more pragmatic formulation, which I am ripping mercilessly from its somewhat ranty context:

I had more sex, more often back when I was an always-hungry, homeless, long-haired, unemployable, usually-needing-a-shower high-school dropout — with a Gomer Pyle hillbilly accent no less — that at any other time in my life. Back then every woman was “high-status” compared to me, but… none of them seemed to mind. Including a statewide “Junior Miss” pageant winner, a diplomat’s daughter, girls from lower, middle, and upper-class families.

You know what they almost all had in common though? (Besides bad taste in men I mean?) They all had the idea that they’d be able to live independently some day and so they generally weren’t as fretful about picking the “wrong” guy who might not turn out to be on the “right” track to support them.

Oh yeah, and since they had ambitions of independence and partnering with the men of their choice instead of the wallets of their choice, they weren’t worried so much about their “reputations” and so they tended to be a lot wilder in bed. More experimental. More up for new stuff. More willing to say what they liked, and more willing to try it again if they did.

I think she got taken for a ride:

It’s cover art, as you’d know already if you had clicked the image, from an old Lancaster Press stroke book called The Wicked and The Whipped (LCP108).

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…at first person shooters.

In fact, I mostly don’t play them, because I suck at them so bad. My situational awareness is bad and my reflexes are distinctly middle aged.

But I did spend a lot of time as an engineer in Battlefield II a few years back, because I had a tank-driving buddy who needed me to ride up top, spot helicopters, plink at them with the .50, wrench on the treads from time to time, and clear tricky flags with the shotgun.

I sucked at it. I died and died and died and died. But my tanker buddy died less, I guess, than when he didn’t have a gunner/engineer.

When you die in a first person shooter, less-mature opponents may come and caper or crouch upon your corpse, offering your dying point-of-view a close-up vision of their genital-region polygons. This practice, by analogy to the real-world equivalent, is called tea-bagging.

All this is to explain why the gaming sensation in Holly’s simile here is so familiar to me:

My friend was fucking his girlfriend doggy-style. I was underneath them, licking her pussy, and every few strokes he would pull out and I would suck his dick. As he thrusted away, with my tongue on the girl’s clit, my face was right under his balls, feeling them gently slap at me over and over and over again.

“How was that for you, baby?”

“…Kind of like getting killed in Halo.”

Now isn’t that a perverted thing for a fetchingly pretty girl like Tiffany Diamond to be doing with a garden hose?

Found on Usenet.

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