I’ve commented before that anything can be a fetish, and that one of the things I like best about sex blogging is reading people try to explain why certain things turn them on, that we’d not usually expect would do so. Needless to say, this ring fingering thing from Chelsea at Pretty Dumb Things made my day:

Marriage is a contract that I may never make, and yet I like being fingered by men with wedding rings. It’s not that I can feel the ring. Wedding rings tend toward the slim and the flat. I’ve never had the experienced the interior wriggling of a finger with a ring rococo as Liberace’s , a skull bauble thick as Keith Richard’s, a chunk of metal clunky as Robert Lee Morris’s Superman. The rings that have been inside me have been modest, prudent, utilitarian bands signaling commitment.

There have been three of them in reality and one in my imagination.

…

Clearly, when the finger is diddling me, I can’t see the ring. I can’t even feel the ring. So the pleasure of the ring comes neither from the visual nor from the sensual. It’s a purely imaginative power. It’s a pleasure that rests in the seat of all pleasure–my pinky-grey and corrugated brain.

It’s difficult for me to put my finger on the exact spot of that imaginary pleasure. I would be remiss if I didn’t admit that part is powered by the shock of the illicit thrill, if indeed the finger belonging to the man fingering me is infidel. Like almost every other human, I do feel pleasure in transgression, and crossing this boundary, like all the strange others that for one reason or another give me the good down-low tingle, nudges whatever purely physical pleasure there is into electrically-charged territory. But the illicitness isn’t it in and of itself.

I know that it’s not because the man, the imagined man, the one without the ring, the one whose ring I imagined and in imagining it found great delight, was Donny, my now-X and then erstwhile fiancé. It was his imagined not-ring that prodded me to gyrate indecorously one sunny August afternoon, his naked fingers twisting and turning inside me. My mind furnished his finger with a ring. It bedighted his third finger on his left hand with a ring, and though neither the ring nor even possibly that exact finger was rubbing the walls of my pussy like a magic lamp, it was real enough to me, and I came from the concept as much as from the reality.

Which all leads me to believe it’s not the cheating that I like. It’s the abstract concept of commitment. It’s the symbolism of the ring, this piece of metal that our culture uses to denote those of us who have made a pact with another human from those of us who haven’t. It doesn’t matter whether the man has committed to me–though clearly my fetishization of the ring in general and my somatic response to Donny’s fictive ring in specific suggests that a commitment to me would be ideal–it’s that this man has committed, for good, bad, or ugly to someone.

It’s all very strange, though. Just as a gentlemen is advised to remove his socks before sexual congress with a woman, wouldn’t the usual rules of etiquette demand that he remove his wedding ring before fingering a woman not his wife? I’m not sure Emily Post ever covered that nuance.

…and some days, you’re the one wearing the bananas, that’s just how it goes:

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• Oooh, You Kinky Monkey!
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Here are a few photos (of the lovely Angel Woods) that are (almost) like being a hidden camera in the girl’s gym. You know, that secret gym where the young ladies go when they want to exercise naked:

Sadly, fellows, I think membership in that gym costs extra.

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Long ago, when dinosaurs walked the earth, cell phones were bigger than popsicles, and P2P file sharing had just been invented, I was testing out the original Napster, or maybe it was an early version of Gnutella, and this balloon swallowing video (.flv format) was one of the first video files I downloaded.

I was reminded of this when I found yet another vintage photo that had to be shared. There’s just something about those balloons:

A great cartoon, and the title on the original reads, “Oh, I think this word might mean ‘Crisco’!” I don’t know if the author of XKCD takes requests, but he can treat this as my vote for more sex cartoons.

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Reader KingTaco writes in with some choice sex spam. I didn’t want it in the comment thread where KingTaco put it, but I fully concur with the urge to share it with the broader world. KingTaco says:

I’ve just received what I consider to be the holy grail of porn spam. It’s easily the most impressive piece of all-text advertising I’ve ever seen. I hope it’s not in bad taste of me to post it in it’s near entirety here (near in the sense that I’ve removed the linked porn site because it’s not my intention to try and advertise for them using the Eros Blog comments as a free ride):

“You could be thinking to yourself, how did an exotic Oriental fetish such as bukkake could become so widespread. It’s pretty simple, really. It’s all about traditional, conservative values. And what can be more accepted or conservative than openly humiliating women who cheat on their husbands by dragging them into the public square, binding them tightly with ropes and having every able-bodied male in town shoot hot loads of thick, burbling man-sap into the offending wenches’ pleading, upturned faces?

Nowadays, bukkake isn’t a punishment… it’s a way of life! Modern, liberated young women of all races, colors and creed have awoken to the sexual potentials of this practice, and today, you cannot swing a dead cat without hitting a gal who loves it right up on the face, or right down the throat, or in the eyes, or all over their heads, whatever way they can get it, really.

If you desire your models charming, your content exclusive and your facials hardcore, then (link removed) is certainly what you have been looking for.”

Such a prose poem to the glories of facial spooge almost cries out for a picture, so I went and found one for you:

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Susie Bright writes:

Deborah Jeane Palfrey, the “DC Madam” whose call-girl service got busted in the cross-hairs of partisan payback, has committed suicide. She hung herself at her mother’s home in Tarpon Springs, Florida.

Jeane, I am so sorry. I know you swore to me that you’d never serve another term in prison for prostitution, or anything else. You almost lost your eyesight the first time. I’m sure you asked your lawyers if there was any hope for your sentencing, and I guess it must have looked bleak.

…

Was Jeane suicidal, in the first place? Yes, but I’d describe that carefully. She wasn’t irrational to think she wouldn’t survive another round in a penitentiary; her health was poor. And she was brittle, the kind of person who is aware of her considerable intellect and education, but who finds herself in unlucky and vulnerable situations over and over again.

When I first heard this news, I had a resentful nutbar conspiracy theorist moment. This woman had a little black book and she tried to use it in her defense, for all the good it did her. How skeptical, I wondered, should I be of the “suicide” story? How could we ever know if two hard men came over her mother’s back fence in the dark of night, with a rope?

To that limited extent, Susie’s closer view is marginally comforting. But it’s still a sordid tale; as a matter of social policy, we-the-people have driven a woman to her death for facilitating the pleasures of powerful men. I’m not seeing why it was important to do so.