Here’s another old magazine advertisement to fire your weekend’s fantasies:

One thing I like about writing a sex blog, in this era of increasing porn saturation, is that as the competition heats up, and production values increase, I’m seeing more and more porn that looks like art, especially from the high-quality porn producers like Kink.com or (for your non-kinky examples) Femjoy or Domai.

It used to be that a shot like this one, of Candice Nicole enjoying an enforced contemplative post-ejaculatory moment during a Sex And Submission shoot, would have come only from the studio of one of the “arty” guys like Craig Morey or Richard Kern:

My problem with erotic art photography is that, historically, it has tended to strike me as self-conscious and defensive, and in its defensiveness, it often grew boring. In its worst form, we get that endless flood of semi-abstract nudes that congest web galleries and college sophomore life photography classes. You know what I’m talking about: the curve of a buttock or breast, usually upside down or at an odd angle, often pressed against some random implausible texture like old roofing tin, presented in black and white with funky lighting so as to make the whole project safely non-sexual.)

Luckily, as the standards and technology of porn photography get better, I’m seeing a best-of-both-worlds convergence, with your favorite subscription porn shack pumping out art-quality photos of a volume and diversity and unapologetic lustful sexuality that even the best “erotic art” photographers never seemed to manage. And I love it!

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Some time back, whilst discussing The Great Craigslist Sex Personals Massacre Of 2006 (don’t forget to pronounce it “mass-uh-cree” like Arlo Guthrie Jr. does) I wrote:

Speaking to all men, let me say this: Mailing a potential female sex partner an unsolicited picture of your dick is not appropriate, it’s not smart, it doesn’t work, it brands you as a vulgar idiot, and it makes all men look bad by gender association with your fucked-up self. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. I repeat, don’t do it. Man law, got it?

Now, via Viviane, here’s a link to Junkbuzzed, a sharp-tongued blog named after this dumb-assed behavior and devoted to exposing “the grime, grit, humiliation, and degradation that goes into trying to find someone to fuck you online.” They have a LOLcat:

And they have stuff to say:

Yes, on to the man-junk. Look. We know you like the sex. The sex is the bomb. We understand this. I myself am a big fan of it. But a little discretion goes a long way. Put the man-junk away unless it is specifically asked for. Pictures of man-junk are like Vienna sausages at a 4-star restaurant: it only gets served on special request.

Then this very same Junkbuzzed post moves quickly along to another vital bit of advice, which can be summarized briefly as “write like a human being, you moron!”

I have, In The Name Of Science, dutifully read through many a day’s postings from the men to the women. After the first 10 or so posts, it all starts to read like LOLcats….

“o hai! lick mai taint plz i gots 12in srsly 420 kewlâ€?

This is not the phrase one employs in the pursuit of True Love (or To Blave). It is not the phrase one employs even if one is trying to get one’s taint licked (South Carolina, I’m looking at you).

Having a sense of humor helps. Displaying a sense of humor is even better. And not in a “I broke my last girlfriend’s jaw cuz she was a bitch lolâ€? sort of way, either. The ladies, they don’t go for that sort of thing. Just trust me on this one. Ain’t gonna play.

Lots of fun, and that post is #3 in a series.

This astonished nude is from the cover of an old album called “Good Buddies”, as seen in the book Cover Story:

Thanks to a commenter, I realized that the last post was a quite unfortunate thing to have at the top of the page on Mother’s Day. So I quickly cast around for something to put up, and I chanced upon this old magazine illustration, which does a much better job of illustrating how you should be treating the mother of your children, today and probably every day:

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My first thought on seeing this photo (via Lunatico) was that the flower selling dude is an idiot:

My second thought, however, was that maybe he knows stuff we don’t know about the demographic, attitudes, and inclinations of his target market among the men in his neighborhood.

Is he a marketing idiot or a marketing genius? We’ll never know.

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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.