This just in from the New York Times:

Gov. Eliot Spitzer has been caught on a federal wiretap arranging to meet with a high-priced prostitute at a Washington hotel last month, according to a person briefed on the federal investigation.

The wiretap recording, made during an investigation of a prostitution ring called Emperors Club VIP, captured a man identified as Client 9 on a telephone call confirming plans to have a woman travel from New York to Washington, where he had reserved a room. The person briefed on the case identified Mr. Spitzer as Client 9.

…

The man described as Client 9 in court papers arranged to meet with a prostitute who was part of the ring, Emperors Club VIP, on the night of Feb. 13. Mr. Spitzer traveled to Washington that evening, according to a person told of his travel arrangements.

Classy guy, screwing around on his wife the night before Valentine’s day, eh?

Here’s a nice photo of the family man with his wife and three daughters:

(I found that photo on an adult webmaster board along with the cruel-but-funny caption: “Daddy’s been banging some prostitutes, girls, so let’s all go to church!”)

I’ll leave the detailed analysis to Susie Bright, who really enjoys tearing into the sexual hypocrisy of conservative old white male politicians (into which camp Spitzer, though a Democrat, surely falls, thanks to his reputation as an aggressive, even rabid, law-and-order prosecutor). I’ll just say there surely must be a special circle in hell for prosecutors who enjoy a particular vice while denouncing that same vice and sending people to jail for it:

Mr. Spitzer gained national attention when he served as attorney general with his relentless pursuit of Wall Street wrongdoing. As attorney general, he also had prosecuted at least two prostitution rings as head of the state’s organized crime task force.

In one such case in 2004, Mr. Spitzer spoke with revulsion and anger after announcing the arrest of 16 people for operating a high-end prostitution ring out of Staten Island.

“This was a sophisticated and lucrative operation with a multitiered management structure,” Mr. Spitzer said at the time. â€?It was, however, nothing more than a prostitution ring.â€?

Update, courtesy Jay Leno: “In the governor’s defense, he was bringing prostitution to its knees… one woman at a time.”

Second update: Susie’s take, as anticipated.

I cannot begin to explain my recent interest in the non-explicit photographs found in explicit porn galleries. But explain it or not, here are some before and after portraits of model Samantha Sin:

In between these pictures, Samantha gets tied up and quite roughly used in this bondage sex shoot for Sex and Submission.

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Just in case you missed it, Violet Blue did a talk at the big Etech 2008 shindig, a talk that ranges widely across the big topic of sexual identity online and how we construct it, shape it, and especially, defend it (and ourselves, where there’s a difference) from online trolls, stalkers, and haters of all sorts. Here’s Violet Blue about her talk, here’s the transcript.

It’s juicy chewy idea-rich media, the sort of thing that makes me worry about the decline in printed magazines, because I like to buy printed magazines with this sort of info-dense article in them (Wired used to do a lot of this) to read when I’m traveling and have a lot of time to read and think. Just pulling out a random useful and true paragraph:

I’ve been a blogger and occasional full-time editor at Fleshbot.com almost since its inception, a job when full time requires me to scour the internets for explicit sexual content of reasonable quality. We endeavor to cover a wide range of sexual expression and all genders and orientations; one of our regular features is the Sex Blog Roundup. When I did it weekly, I had upwards of 300 text-only sex blogs written by individuals worldwide in my RSS reader — outside the 50 or so usual suspects of variety sex blogs, mainstream media news, linkdumps and sex news blogs. Every week I’d have to cull for new blogs to add to my feeds because invariably a handful of sex bloggers who were blogging “anonymously” had to quit blogging — meaning they were for one reason or another, no longer anonymous. It was such a regular occurrence I developed a snarky attitude toward the anonymous sex blogger, even though they often offered up the juiciest and most explicit posts about sex. Time and again, they are a sure bet for being outed or discovered, have the shortest life span, and are the least reliable for following as a human narrative.

(That paragraph is also nostalgic for me, because I compiled the first of Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundups, and immensely enjoyed doing them until I ran out of time to keep up with the extra work. Sadly, I don’t think I understood the full power of RSS back then, or I might be doing them yet.)

One thing that struck me about Violet’s talk, however, was that it describes a dangerous-sounding online world for sex bloggers, full of hatred and weird jealousies and stalker trolls and malevolent creeps, so much so that she’s got an entire array of procedures and tactics for defending herself and returning the fight to her attackers. And that’s bizarre to me; in more the five years of blogging, the worst I’ve seen from that list is ranting commenters who are deeply threatened by a world — the world I advocate — in which no sexuality is condemned or forcibly closeted or judged by any standard other than who gets hurt. Death threats she gets? It’s been months since I so much as got one of those “you’re going to burn in hell” invitations to attend church services.

So, why the difference? I trust Violet innately — as far as I’m concerned, she’s one of the most honest voices on the Internet — so she’s not exaggerating or being oversensitive or doing anything else from the “there there, little lady, don’t be hysterical” laundry list of excuses for men to ignore surprising and unwelcome female narratives. Of course, she is a woman and I’m not. And equally of course, she’s got ten thousand times more skin in the game, literally and figuratively. She doesn’t use a pseudonym, she’s active in print and broadcast media, she lives and works visibly in a vital and media-connected city, she talks about her real and actual life, she gives people handles by which to grab for her, and she bares experiences online that actually matter to her, stuff her enemies can use against her.

Whereas, I sit in my undisclosed location in Red-State America and upload an endless stream of pointers to, and scanty commentary on, sexually entertaining stuff that’s happening somewhere else in the vast internet information ecology. When I started this blog, I didn’t even have a personal sex life to blog about. I was temporarily unemployed and sitting in a studio apartment sharing badly microwaved nachos with an unsympathetic parrot who perched on my shoulder and chewed holes in my undershirt while I blogged. (I know that sounds sad, but I was actually enjoying life quite a lot, apart from the “no girlfriend” thing.) By the time I fell in with The Nymph, I was comfortable with my pattern; sex blogging is something I do about other people, using information they’ve already made public. It makes things much safer and more comfortable, and (combined with the male versus female thing) explains a great deal of the difference between Violet’s and my experiences of the sex-blogging life.

So, that’s a lot of the explanation, but is it all of it? While pondering the matter, and reading reactions to Violet’s talk, I found Ethan Zuckerman’s blog and especially, his notes from his own Etech talk on The Cute Cat Theory Of Digital Activism. He was apparently at Tripod back in those dark ages where most folks needed a service like Tripod in order to “have a web page”, and he formulated the theory that

Any sufficiently advanced read/write technology will get used for two purposes: pornography and activism. Porn is a weak test for the success of participatory media – it’s like tapping a mike and asking, “Is it on?” If you’re not getting porn in your system, it doesn’t work. Activism is a stronger test – if activists are using your tools, it’s a pretty good indication that your tools are useful and usable.

Reading that paragraph was an “ah-ha!” moment for me. Because another huge difference between Violet and me is that, although we are both sex bloggers by any reasonable definition, I’m more of a pornographer and she’s more of an activist.

We both do stuff that blurs the lines, of course; sometimes I make posts that have at least a whiff of activist sentiment in them, and often she links to pretty pr0n pictures. But at any given blogging moment, my first thought is “will this amuse, entertain, or turn somebody on?” And, while I can’t speak for what happens in Violet’s thoughts, she’s clearly got causes — like sex education, to name just one — that animate and drive her blogging, her published writing, her public appearances, whole swathes of her professional life.

Perversely, I think her activism makes her sex blogging even more interesting and entertaining than my detached approach, so it’s not like there’s a sharp division between entertainer and activist. It’s just that — and this is the not-very-startling hypothesis you’ve waded through many long paragraphs to hear about — activists are more threatening than entertainers. They upset more apple carts, gore more oxen, get more done, make more enemies because they threat more status quos. Activists piss people off. Their fans and enemies alike are more animated and engaged.

And that, maybe, is why Violet Blue needs police contacts at the SFPD, while I make do with a lightly tweaked comment moderation plugin for my WordPress install.

If I ran the zoo:

Forget buckets, she HAZ A TUBZ!

From Usenet.

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You don’t see too many fictional accounts of rimming, and this is the first I’ve ever seen that has a little funny twist at the end. It’s from this story by Vinnie Tesla:

Impulsively, I bury my face in an armpit, and drink in her sharp animal smell. She’s moaning and laughing at once as my beard tickles her delicate skin. I lick along the line of her shoulder blade, the muscles there flexing as she struggles playfully. I throw her tee-shirt to the ground, and push her against one of the basement’s grimy cinderblock walls. I pin her arms above her head, and give the other armpit a more thorough treatment.

She starts out laughing and twitching, but this gives way to quiet moans, that get louder when I bite. I release her arms and run my lips over the pale, freckled flesh above her bra. Impatiently I pull the bra up over her tits, and fix my mouth over one of her nipples, crinkled tight in the basement’s chill air. My hands find the catch of her bra, and it joins her tee shirt on the floor. Once again she grabs my head and holds it tightly as I worry and suck at her fat little bud. I hold her other breast in my hand. The flesh is breathtakingly soft, and fever-hot. I pull the nipple roughly, stretching the crinkles smooth. “Yeah,” she whispers in my ear, her hot breath sending shivers down my spine, “yeah.”

Still cradling my head with one hand, her other strokes the front of my jeans, and cups my cock with her open palm. “Mmm, nice,” she purrs.

“You like it?” I ask, my hands kneading her breasts, “soon it’s going to be buried in your cunt.”

She looks me in the eye teasingly. “Just my cunt?”

I open and close my mouth several times like a goldfish. So much for my attempt at the suave dirty-talker.

Molly laughs at my expression and begins struggling to get the legs of her overalls over her boots. Watching her breasts sway as she works, bent over, is irresistible. She tugs the overalls down her thighs, and sits on the floor to pull them off. Then, with a yelp, she’s up off the cold, damp concrete again, rubbing her chilled ass.

“Here, let me help with that,” I volunteer, and squat behind her. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“Molly, you have got an amazing ass.” Broader than I expected, exquisitely round and smooth. Dusted with pale freckles. Flawless, so far as I can see. Groaning, I grab her hips and bury my face in that exquisite butt, licking and biting at the smooth, taut flesh. She presses back against me, and wiggles her hips slowly and sexily, enjoying the attention. Eventually, though: “Weren’t you gonna help me get my clothes off?”

“I got sidetracked,” I admit, and jerk her panties down to her knees before resuming my feast.

She begins skeptically, “That’s not a whole lot of– oooh, that feels good.” I’m kneading her cheeks hard with my hands now, while licking teasingly around the top of her crack.

“Bend over,” I tell her.

“Yes, sir!” she says sarcastically, but does so, resting her hands against the wall, and spreading her legs as much as her bunched clothes will allow. I stroke her ass lightly

“You want me to?”

“Yeah,” she whispers, almost inaudibly.

I pull at one of her cheeks, exposing her hidden parts. The skin of her anus is surprisingly dark, and fringed with wispy reddish hair. Below, the lips of her cunt are fat and swollen. She flinches a little when the wet handiwipe from my pocket touches the sensitive flesh of her asshole. I run it over the surface a few times, and then drop it onto the floor. My hands spread her cheeks, and I begin running my tongue along the skin just above her anus. Then I move down, and lick at her perineum, drawing a gasp from Molly. Finally I bring my tongue to her clenched little orifice, and rub against it with gentle pressure.

She lets a little shriek escape, followed by a low moan. I feel goosepimples rise on her muscular thighs, as she reaches down and cups her cunt in one hand. I’m alternating broad, spiraling licks with tighter, more aggressive ones, loving the feel of her soft flesh against my face. She’s slowly undulating her hips; each breath out is a long quiet moan.

The rocking of her hips accelerates; her voice rises in pitch. I (teasing bastard) rise to my feet and draw her up too. It takes a moment for her eyes to focus again, and then I’m seized in a bruising hug. “Oh, wow,” she says dreamily, “Oh, that was really nice. I haven’t done that before.”

“My *pleasure*,” I say emphatically. “But I’m a little confused. You said you wanted me to rim you, right?”

She grins. “I wanted you to *spank* me, you twit.” Before the blood can stop roaring in my ears, she continues: “Now help me get these off!”

Of course she does eventually get her spanking, which is how (via Spanking Blog) I came upon this story.

This is as posed as any other porn, but it’s at least a couple of decades old and the couple seems (to my eye, at least) do be doing a better-than-usual job of simulating passion:

I can’t shake the sense that these are bigger-name porn stars, so if you recognize them, please chime in!

Via alt. binaries. pictures. erotica. pornstar.

I knew at an intuitive level that there was something lame and false about the recent “scientific” news from Italy, where researchers supposedly determined that some women don’t have G-spots. I said nothing, counting on the fact that Violet Blue, author of The Smart Girl’s Guide to the G-Spot, would be along eventually to set things straight. Which she now has done. It turns out, the Italian dudes were a bit confused, and were using what Violet calls the “two-hands-and-a-flashlight” research method:

News flash to news outlets: The vagina ceased to be a mystery at least 40 years ago. The G-spot is a real, tangible thing, and you can even see it if you have a bio-vagina, or know someone who will let you take a G-peep. It is a real place inside the body, and you don’t need ultrasound to find it. And again, I’ll contradict the reporting and say that yes, some women find it to be incredible for orgasms, while others don’t like the sensation so much. It isn’t a “magic button” for all girls: But that in no way means a woman cannot have, enjoy, or break windows all the way down to Twin Peaks and back screaming in joy from vaginal orgasms.

Myths about the G-spot you’re seeing in these mainstream news sources:

* Not every woman has one.

* Every woman likes G-spot stimulation.

* There’s a test to find it, and only one “right” way to touch it.

* Touching it will make you incontinent, and female ejaculation is urine. (It is not.)

* Any other orgasms are inferior to a G-spot orgasm.

If you’re squeamish about female anatomy, skip the next two paragraphs, but if you want to know what the hell a G-spot is or why anyone wants to find one, read on…