December 29th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
You Spin Me
Music marketing used to be so much more interesting:
From alt. binaries. pictures. erotica. vintage.
Similar Sex Blogging:
The Sex Blog Of Record
December 28th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
Fast Forward Through The Lame Parts
This advice columnist reminds me a lot of Dan Savage, as he straightens out a confused guy who can’t quite accept that kinky and crazy are two different things:
Dear Sexorcist:
I’ve come to realize I have a thing for dominant women, though I haven’t acted on it. I can’t help but think that women into BDSM or dominance have serious psychological problems and do I really want to go there? I mean, are these women to be avoided at all costs or do normal, sane dominant women exist?
– Skeptical in Suwannee
Dear Skeptical:
So the guys who want to be dominated are sane but the women who want to dominate are not? “Hello, Pot? This is Kettle. You’re black.”
I’d beat you with a cane if I didn’t think you’d get hard. But then again, I should be nicer to a guy who’s just coming out about his sexual desires. Your predicament is remarkably similar to closeted gay guys: horrified at your own feelings and attacking the people who share them. Then, drunk on the feeling of superiority (“I’m not like them“), you’re certain that “they” are morally wrong or psychologically impaired.
Christ, you’re not a submissive; you’re a Republican!
Like closeted gay guys, you’ll convince yourself it’s just a phase and hook up with different women. For gays, it’s about turning straight. For you, about staying vanilla. Just like the gay guy who’ll try to make it work with women (“Honey, why don’t you turn over on your stomach?“), you’ll try to make it work with yours (“Honey, my wrists aren’t going to handcuff themselves to the bedposts.“).
Next comes ritual self-delusion. The gay guy convinces himself that he’s bi; you convince yourself that you’re conventional. Over time, desire (always the design flaw) breaks the chains and you experiment with the real thing. You’ll never go back. And later, much later, you’ll give your sexual proclivities the significance they deserve – right up there with what you had for breakfast.
Now that I’ve laid out the next two years of your life, wouldn’t it be easier to fast-forward to the good parts? Like getting dominated by hot women on a regular basis? … Trust me, she’s out there. And for the record, she’s not psychologically imbalanced. Bitchy, maybe; disturbed, no.
December 28th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
Best Uniforms Ever
December 27th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
She Tried To Make It Better With Sex
This post comes with a paragraph of disclaimer. It’s such a downer, I waited until after Christmas to post it. And I want to be clear: I’m posting this for what it says about the ways we use sex in surviving (or not) the human condition. Not everything on ErosBlog is posted with the intent to arouse. This certainly is not. I apologize, a little, to anybody who comes here looking only for arousal. I apologize, a little more, to anybody whose emotional equilibrium is upset by reading this. But I was enormously affected by this tragic picture of the last moments of a wife and mother, a woman who surely knew her husband was in a bad mental place. Sex was the tool she was using to try and fix it, to fix him, to placate him. It didn’t work.
The setting is a long article in the January Esquire magazine about a man on death row who is there because he came home from work one day and murdered his wife and children. In the tradition of such journalism, the reporter invests a lot of effort into getting close to the convict, and ultimately gets a detailed confession out of him, from which the following excerpt is taken. Whether to believe the story is, ultimately, up to you; there’s certainly nothing inherently reliable about such accounts.
“How long before that final night did you know you were going to kill your family?” I asked.
He said it was only a few hours before, while at work, that he came to a decision. He said he couldn’t see any other solution. He couldn’t call his father and ask for money — he was too ashamed. He couldn’t kill himself — he was too weak. He was a failure, he told me, “and I didn’t want to leave any witnesses to my failure.” He said he didn’t know how, exactly, he was going to do it, but that he’d made up his mind. “I knew before I came home that night I was going to kill my family. I was locked on that thought.”
When he came home from work, though it was quite late, MaryJane initiated lovemaking, he said, and soon he was naked and she was naked and they were in the small one-bedroom condo — a nice place overlooking Yaquina Bay, on the Oregon coast, with his two older kids asleep in the living room on a pullout couch and little Madison in their bedroom, on a sleeping bag on the floor. It was past midnight. He was making love to his wife. She was on top. He told me this in a clear, steady voice, but he would not make eye contact. He was staring at the visiting-booth floor, at the worn industrial carpeting.
And it hit him, he said, it dawned on him right then, that this was the opportunity. This was the time. As they were having sex. And he reached up and took her throat. Longo said that he didn’t see any surprise in her face. He grasped his wife by the throat, grabbed with both hands. He said she didn’t resist at all. It’s possible, he said, that she thought it was a little sudden, sexual kinkiness.
But he never let go. He squeezed and didn’t stop squeezing. Longo told me that if he’d had a gun, he would’ve used it, but then immediately he changed his mind. Too messy, he said. He didn’t want to make a mess. He said MJ — that’s how he always refers to his wife — didn’t really struggle, didn’t kick or claw at his hands or make any noise at all. He said it was silent. “She seemed to relax into it. She never looked at me. Her eyes were closed. She didn’t fight me, she didn’t seem terrorized.” The TV was on, softly. Longo couldn’t recall what was playing, but he remembered the flickering blueness across the room, across his naked body and hers; he was still on the bottom, he was reaching up, grabbing his wife’s neck with both hands, grabbing so hard his fingers dug deep, forming the scars that would be found when the divers opened the suitcase.
It takes quite a long time to kill someone by strangulation. Like five minutes. Longo said it was long enough for him to think, during the act, that maybe he ought to stop. But then he figured he’d already begun, and if he stopped and MJ survived –then what? His wife would leave him and he’d still be in trouble.
December 25th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
Christmas In Hawaii
There’s a family legend that a great-grandfather of mine relocated his family from Pennsylvania to California during the snowy month of January in a pair of brand new 1926 Hudson automobiles. And what a long cold drive that must have been!
Supposedly, he made a snap decision to move after listening to the radio announcers describing the warm California weather during the Rose Bowl parade. Or, at least that’s what he told his young daughter; you’ve got to figure he had a better reason to get out of town in a hurry. But let’s take the story as a parable for the inspirational power of warm weather on a cold winter’s day, and let that be the theme of this year’s Merry Christmas message:
Here’s hoping the big Christmas snowstorm of 2009 hasn’t messed up your holiday plans. If you’re shoveling snow today, try to keep in a Hawaii frame of mind. And Merry Christmas to all!
Similar Sex Blogging:
December 23rd, 2009 -- by Bacchus
Good Advice
I wish somebody had told me this sometime during puberty:
“That woman was sexy…Out of your league? Son. Let women figure out why they won’t screw you, don’t do it for them.”
December 23rd, 2009 -- by Bacchus
Enjoy Two Teens
I always thought A&W was in the root beer and burger business, but apparently I was wrong:
I like the amazingly precise instructions, too. Don’t just come in them, make sure you enjoy them while you’re at it!
Image from here.
