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The Sex Blog Of Record
August 15th, 2007 -- by Aphrodite
Aphrodite blogs:
I ask because it’s ready for you:
This beautiful rod is part of an annual Japanese celebration known as the Festival of the Steel Phallus. (You can ask, beg, even try to bribe me if you want, but I am NOT telling you how I came across it.)
That short Wikipedia article doesn’t have nearly enough information about an event that I am now lusting to attend, so here’s a 2 Camels account and a Japanese newspaper article about it.
Not enough? You want more pictures? Clicky these linkies.
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August 15th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
I don’t point y’all very often at the free promo galleries for glamor nude photographers. Partly this is because after awhile, all those nineteen year old blondes start to look the same. And partly it’s because there are so darned many — enough to populate a thousand “babe blogs” with automated scripts that post hundreds of free sample photos every day. How can he compete, an old-fashioned meatware blogger like myself, who rivets each post together by hand using nothing but a cold chisel, a rock, Microsoft Notepad, and a bucket of hot tar?
And yet, unlike a scripted babe log robot, I am human, and I am male. Which means that sometimes a random blonde in the firm hands of a capable photographer can make me catch my breath and think “Hmmm. Have that one bathed and sent to my tent.” Or, in this case: “Maybe I should reconsider that whole not-being-a-farmer career decision.”
Meet Lia. You know you’d like to:
She’s a model for FemJoy. You can see quite a lot more of her for free in this sample gallery.
I’ll give you one more look here. I’m thinking an ambitious young man with a spare sweater and a bottle of insect repellent cream (not spray, ye daft bugger!) could make a wonderful new friend:
Pictures courtesy of FemJoy.
August 13th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Gentlemen, if you’ve got a modicum of self-confidence about your skillz with teh butt secks and you’re pretty sure you’re not hurtin’ the lady or anything, yet she still seems unduly and persistently reluctant, it may help to remember that women, or at least Always Aroused Girl, sometimes worry about odd things at odd times:
For all the apparent confidence I might seem to have about buttsex, there have been times that it has completely terrified me.
Not because of the pain aspect. It’s never felt painful. Instead, I worry about poo.
Rationally, I know my bottom is simply confused. It’s so conditioned to interpreting that particular sensation as needing to use the facilities that I get panicky when I’m first entered. I worry that poo will make an appearance, even though I know there’s none there. I worry even though I know that my partner would still like me even if we had a minor poo-tastrophe.
I know those things, and yet I do more than my share of panicking. However, the longer I have successful buttsex, the more my confidence grows.
Not directly related to the above point, but I’m going to quote from later in the same post just for fun:
I gushed, and then I came in earnest. It was one of those orgasms that froze me in place and clenched every muscle in my pelvis. Apparently it felt pretty good to my friend too, because he wrapped his hand around my throat, clamped his teeth on my earlobe and moaned hard.
I nearly lost an earlobe and an eardrum but I didn’t care.
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August 12th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Meet Chad Rock. Chad is horny and bored.
Then Chad meets Jesse. Jesse comes on to him. Chad starts thinking with the little head, and momentarily forgets his momma’s advice about not talking to strangers in bad neighborhoods. Hello, Jesse:
Events transpire. Time passes. Slowly — too slowly — Chad begins to realize that Jesse is one of the people his mama was warning him about:
Uh oh. Chad’s helpless and in trouble. What vile perversions is Jesse going to subject him to?
Ohnoes! It’s worse than Chad could ever have feared! He’s all tied up and getting a big sticky wet willie!
Sadly for Chad, and to his rueful surprise, it is not an accident that the word “willie” has suddenly appeared in this conversation.
Guess what? Willie wants to play, too.
Nobody asks Chad. Bondage can be handy like that.
Now Willie has Chad’s full attention.
As they used to say in those Victorian novels, perhaps it’s time to draw the curtain on this tender scene…
August 11th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
A good girl in trouble, from the cover of some detective fiction, courtesy of Bondage Blog:
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August 10th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Let me just repeat that title for a minute while you take a mental vacation and savor the images it evokes: “Dan Savage, Violet Blue, and A Strap-On.”
OK, break’s over. Sadly, what I’ve got for you is not quote that entertaining. But it’s pretty close: Dan’s latest column, entitled Peg, Pegging, Pegged and featuring Dan and Violet offering pegging advice.
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August 9th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
I really don’t know what I could say that would improve on this excerpt from a cheesy novel from another age. Politically correct clucking aside, what’s to say? But I think it will amuse you all:
Lars put his hand behind her head and drew her toward him. They touched lips. He thought of Terry and how ridiculous it was to prefer anyone to this gorgeous acre of femininity. She pressed her lips to his. ‘You tough little bastard.’
It didn’t bother him. It was a kick for her and a kick for him. The mismatch of the century. He took her in his arms, bending over her as she stuck her legs straight out and slouched lower. He kissed her hard, slid his lips down her neck to her breasts. She wiggled her legs and said ‘Ummm, baby.’ He found a zipper near her armpit and worked it. The dress loosened, and he drew it down from her shoulders. He found the hook in back. ‘Introducing,’ he murmured, and took off her brassiere. Big, all right. A feast, and not only for the eyes. He feasted.
After a while she led him to her bedroom and stripped, turning and posing for his pleasure. She stopped him from undressing. She wanted to do it herself. She undressed him as if he were a baby, cooing over him and doing everything but carry him to the bed. She even tried that, but couldn’t make it. He laughed and it was still a kick and he was ready. But she wasn’t. She kept stalling, kept playing.
An hour passed, a full hour, and he grew tired and testy. ‘Be a big girl,’ he said, and pushed her down and pulled at her legs. She rolled over onto her stomach, but her backward glance was melting. He realized this was what she wanted. She wouldn’t ask for it because asking adulterated true toughness, but she wanted a hard man, a mean man, the man who had kicked Sommy in the nuts. He smacked her big rear end. She said, ‘No, I won’t!’ He smacked it again, the sound ringing out in the silent house. He thought of Terry. Was she next door, listening to them, jealous and sexually excited?
He smacked Mona’s rear five times, his hand stinging from the force of the blows, the sound loud enough to waken anyone in the house. Mona whimpered and rolled onto her side. ‘You hurt me.’ Her eyes blinked back tears. He grabbed her shoulders and shoved her flat on her back. She tried to draw up her legs. He slapped her face. She said, ‘Not that.’ He slapped her again and jammed his knee between her thighs. ‘Not that,’ he mocked. ‘You want me to pat the famous fanny all night. Not that. You want Lars to perform by the script.’
She wept, pressing her legs together. ‘I’ve changed my mind. Go away. You’re not –‘
He grabbed a breast. ‘If you don’t open –‘
She cried out. Her legs opened. He stroked her face and kissed her. He told her how beautiful, how desirable she was, and she wept softly and called him a rat and rapist and hugged him and bit his shoulder.
It went very well. As soon as it ended her eyes closed and she began to doze, mumbling that she hadn’t slept well all week and please phone her soon.
From The Movie Maker by Herbert Kastle (1968).
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