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The Sex Blog Of Record
January 8th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
There’s a risk this will reinforce some of the negative memes that were in that yucky Atlantic article, but I’m going to post it anyway, because it strikes me as honest and unfiltered, and because it illuminates something about men that many women don’t act as if they are aware of. A lot of us men have sexual narratives like this running in our heads a lot of the time, not necessarily narratives as aggressive or as self-possessed as this, but running nonetheless:
99% of most days I wake up with an insanely raging hard on, something my new girlfriend rarely understands or helps relieve. She always has to run to work, and I watch her most mornings get dressed in heels and a dark skirt, toying with me.
I often fantasize about jumping her as she’s leaving, pulling her back by her hair and dragging her to the couch, ripping off her clothes and fucking her, bent over the table, forcefully, never letting go of her hair. After a little while, I’d pull out, force her to her knees and then cum all over her face and blouse.
She’d obviously have to take another shower.
But I mean, she’d only be a little late, right?
From Don’t Move.
January 7th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
And speaking, as I just was, of how things were done before the invention of the internet:
THIS is how they used to take a photograph of a pussy:
I’m not saying it was better, exactly. I’m not one of those living-in-the-past “in my day, sonny” people, oh no. Far be it from me to denigrate the dramatic progress of the pornographic arts and sciences.
But it sure was different.
Sonny, you know what they used to call a picture like that? “Split beaver”, I shit you not. I don’t miss that one little bit. Pornographic rodent metaphors, happily, are as dead as 8-track players.
January 7th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
Always Aroused Girl has posted a horrifying exchange she had with a guy on a dating site. His scintillating 20-character initial contact greeting?
“show me u can squirt”
It doesn’t get any better from there.
I left a comment musing on the possible merits of this “cheap as sperm” contact strategy. You know, it might work (depending on how you define “work”) if he sends it to enough women…
While I was posting that, I remembered a probably-apocryphal story I heard when I was a kid, still too young, in theory, to be worrying about picking up girls.
In those days, short term sex hookups (which weren’t called that) were mostly arranged in bars, the web not having been invented yet. Pickup lines were much discussed and mocked, and guys paid some attention to optimal strategies for arranging “one night stands”.
I kept hearing (“friend of a friend” style) persistent rumors about a guy who couldn’t be bothered with pickup lines and buying drinks for the ladies. Supposedly his schtick was to just walk up and ask “Wanna fuck?” Usually, he’d get a cold stare; sometimes (this being before the days when minor, provoked personal violence was considered a matter for police and courts) he’d get a slap in the face.
Which he would take in stride, before going up to the next prospect: “Wanna fuck?” Rinse, lather, repeat.
Supposedly, he never slept alone.
Urban legend? Very possibly.
January 6th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
Just by its hastily-drawn pulp qualities, this lubricious drawing looks like it might have been an illustration in one of those cheap swinger-contact magazines that proliferated before the internet ate their lunches. The interracial angle would suggest it was one of the specialized ones, if so:
From Kinky Delight.
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January 6th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
Arguably, model Dylan Deap was having a complicated day already, when the folks at Bound In Public were walking him in full puppy gear down the streets of San Francisco. And then, just to complicate things more, he met a little dog who was ever so happy to see him! Everything about the little dog’s body language is excited friendly interest…he wants to greet Dylan properly and sniff butts and circle about and hopefully even play a little:
Picture is from this shoot.
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January 5th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
There’s a very strange article about sex and porn in The Atlantic, which I cannot decide quite how to respond to. On the one hand it strikes me as wrongheaded and sad, especially in author Natasha Vargas-Cooper’s apparent opinion that male sexuality is essentially brutal and violent and, in her word, “extreme”. On the other hand, she has a clearer-than-usual view that men and women are different, and that the modern batch of anti-porn crusaders seem to want a “pygmy race of sexually neutered males” that is not achievable and wouldn’t be “all that enticing” even if it were. It would be easy to pull paragraphs and sentences out of this article and mock them, but on balance, I think I shan’t. Instead, it’s thoughtful enough — and such an intricate piece of interlocking arguments, each needing to be considered with the buttresses of its supporting paragraphs — that I shall simply point you there, with fair warning that it may piss you off if you don’t already have a somewhat negative view of male sexuality.
However, there was an amusing personal anecdote from the article that stands easily on its own while also, I think, serving quite handily to illustrate why I think Vargas-Cooper has somewhat bizarre ideas about male sexuality:
At the heart of human sexuality, at least human sexuality involving men, lies what Freud identified in Totem and Taboo as “emotional ambivalence”–the simultaneous love and hate of the object of one’s sexual affection. From that ambivalence springs the aggressive, hostile, and humiliating components of male sexual arousal.
Never was this made plainer to me than during a one-night stand with a man I had actually known for quite a while. A polite, educated fellow with a beautiful Lower East Side apartment invited me to a perfunctory dinner right after his long-term girlfriend had left him. We quickly progressed to his bed, and things did not go well. He couldn’t stay aroused. Over the course of the tryst, I trotted out every parlor trick and sexual persona I knew. I was coquettish then submissive, vocal then silent, aggressive then downright commandeering; in a moment of exasperation, he asked if we could have anal sex. I asked why, seeing as how any straight man who has had experience with anal sex knows that it’s a big production and usually has a lot of false starts and abrupt stops. He answered, almost without thought, “Because that’s the only thing that will make you uncomfortable.” This was, perhaps, the greatest moment of sexual honesty I’ve ever experienced–and without hesitation, I complied. This encounter proves an unpleasant fact that does not fit the feminist script on sexuality: pleasure and displeasure wrap around each other like two snakes.
And as for our “honest” man, I think he’d have saved himself a deal of trouble and psychodrama by investing in a good pair of nipple clamps.
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January 3rd, 2011 -- by Bacchus
I suspect I’d trust Violet Blue’s advice on the subject rather further, but one Hugh Morris made a stab in 1936 in The Art of Kissing:
Then, with a series of little nips, bring your lips around from the nape of her neck to the curving swerve of her jaw, close to the ear. Gently kiss the lobe of her ear. But be sure to return to the tender softness of her jaw. From then on, the way should be clear to you. Nuzzle your lips along the soft, downy expanse until you reach the corner of her lips. You will know when this happens because, suddenly, you will feel a strange stiffening of her shoulders under your arm. Kiss her! Kiss her as though, at that moment, nothing else exists in the world. Kiss her as though your entire life is wrapped up into the period of the kiss. Kiss her!
From Variorum of Classic Tracts and Pamphlets.
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