Remember my post about the finger V with licking guesture? Well, apropos of nothing, here’s an animated .gif of it that I stumbled across:

Here’s a bit of artwork that looks like it might once have graced the cover of a BDSM strokebook. It came to me with the filename “Punished Wife”:

From Usenet.

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How to choose, how to choose?

Or maybe: pray they haven’t all come for you at once. The one on the left looks pissed…

Via Alex Mizell.

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What do you do with all the “extra” one dollar bills? Hobo Stripper has suggestions:

You know how it is: the end of the night, a huge wad of ones, and the bartender won’t cash them in for you. You use them to tip out, you use them for your stage fee, and you’ve still got a stack thicker than your thumb. You kept shoving them in your purse, and now your purse is overflowing with them and you can’t find anything. Don’t worry, you’re about to know what to do with all those ones.

#1. Take them to the bank. They’ve got dollar counting machines just for these kinds of situations. When the manager shows up to ask you if the dollars are real and what happened to them just be honest. Tell them the green stuff is blacklight paint that you rubbed all over yourself before making boob prints on a t-shirt for the bachelor last night, the sticky white stuff is whipped cream from your candy girl show, and the slippery white stuff is your special combination of lotion, water, and dish detergent that looks just like semen.

She’s also got a warning:

Whatever you do, do not save up a thousand of them and try to use them to buy new tires. The last time I did that they called the police and I almost got arrested.

Actually, what strikes me hardest is the bartender that won’t cash them in. Yeah, everybody who pays attention knows that strip clubs managers don’t tend to give a shit about strippers. But the clubs are making cash deposits every night, they’ve got an infrastructure in place to get the cash safely to the bank, and they know the girls tend to have chaotic lives full of vulnerability. Plus, a consumer-grade bill-bundling machine costs about ninety seconds of operating revenue for the average club. The decent thing to do (yeah, I know, not a phrase often heard in the stripping trade) would be to instruct the bartender to exchange the damned bills.

Sex tourism in the modern world takes three forms. The first is a sort of legitimate jurisdictional arbitrage — traveling to a place where something (usually prostitution) is legal, from somewhere it isn’t. Amsterdam and rural Nevada are just two of the places that see this sort of sex tourism.

The second sort you could call “illegitimate jurisdictional arbitrage” — seeking out jurisdictions where illegal behavior is more likely to be overlooked. There’s some disgusting and terrible stuff in this category.

Third, and by far the most common, simply involves taking advantage of the fact that “money talks” in the game of sexual competition, by means of travel to jurisdictions that are relative poorer than one’s own. Many a prosperous young man traveling in Eastern Europe has had a babushka ask him if he needs a wife, or had a devushka in a club make a similar but more immediate proposition. Certain places in Central America are notorious among Norteamericano “players” — who’ve learned that, if they show up for a winter vacation flush and ready to party, it’s not hard to attract a stunning and friendly girlfriend for as many days as the party lasts. And so on. Friendly local girls coming out of the woodwork wherever a (relatively) wealthy traveler goes are, frankly, as old as travel itself.

Normally, however, one thinks of sexual tourists as being men. Which brings us to this Reuters report on women traveling to Kenya to enjoy the company of younger men:

MOMBASA, Kenya (Reuters) – Bethan, 56, lives in southern England on the same street as best friend Allie, 64.

They are on their first holiday to Kenya, a country they say is “just full of big young boys who like us older girls”.

Hard figures are difficult to come by, but local people on the coast estimate that as many as one in five single women visiting from rich countries are in search of sex.

Allie and Bethan — who both declined to give their full names — said they planned to spend a whole month touring Kenya’s palm-fringed beaches.

…

The white beaches of the Indian Ocean coast stretched before the friends as they both walked arm-in-arm with young African men, Allie resting her white haired-head on the shoulder of her companion, a six-foot-four 23-year-old from the Maasai tribe.

He wore new sunglasses he said were a gift from her.

“We both get something we want — where’s the negative?” Allie asked in a bar later, nursing a strong, golden cocktail.

She was still wearing her bikini top, having just pulled on a pair of jeans and a necklace of traditional African beads.

Bethan sipped the same local drink: a powerful mix of honey, fresh limes and vodka known locally as “Dawa”, or “medicine”.

She kept one eye on her date — a 20-year-old playing pool, a red bandana tying back dreadlocks and new-looking sports shoes on his feet.

He looked up and came to join her at the table, kissing her, then collecting more coins for the pool game.

…

Obvious in the bars and on the sand once the sun goes down are thousands of elderly white women hoping for romantic, and legal, encounters with much younger Kenyan men.

They go dining at fine restaurants, then dancing, and back to expensive hotel rooms overlooking the coast.

…

Many of the visitors are on the lookout for men like Joseph.

Flashing a dazzling smile and built like an Olympic basketball star, the 22-year-old said he has slept with more than 100 white women, most of them 30 years his senior.

“When I go into the clubs, those are the only women I look for now,” he told Reuters. “I get to live like the rich mzungus (white people) who come here from rich countries, staying in the best hotels and just having my fun.”

At one club, a group of about 25 dancing men — most of them Joseph look-alikes — edge closer and closer to a crowd of more than a dozen white women, all in their autumn years.

“It’s not love, obviously. I didn’t come here looking for a husband,” Bethan said over a pounding beat from the speakers.

“It’s a social arrangement. I buy him a nice shirt and we go out for dinner. For as long as he stays with me he doesn’t pay for anything, and I get what I want — a good time. How is that different from a man buying a young girl dinner?”

A sunny lawn, a smooth surface, a bottle of oil, two naked ladies, a wrestling match — does summer fun get any more sublime than this?

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As quoted by Luis Bunuel here:

Connoisseurs who like their martinis very dry suggest simply allowing a ray of sunlight to shine through a bottle of Noilly Prat before it hits the bottle of gin. At a certain period in America it was said that the making of a dry martini should resemble the Immaculate Conception, for, as Saint Thomas Aquinas once noted, the generative powers of the Holy Ghost pierced the virgin’s hymen “like a ray of sunlight through a window—-leaving it unbroken.”