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The Sex Blog Of Record
July 11th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Hey, don’t give me that skeptical look, I’m just passing along fun accounts I found on the internets.
Found Always Aroused Girl, to be precise:
In twenty-one hours, my friend came eight times. Yes, eight times. And he’s a decade-plus older than your humble narrator.
I came some very large multiple of eight times, although I could not tell you whether it was closer to 48 times or 968 times. I’m very very hoarse, extremely sore, and decidedly shaky. And for once, I do not feel even the slightest desire for more sex.
This account came complete with a logistical plan:
Want to organize such a day for yourselves? Follow the below rules and perhaps you’ll have great results too.
1. Choose a low-end hotel. Fancy is nice, but all you really need is a largish bed (or two) and a working bathroom. Anything else would be a distraction.
2. Don’t bother packing much. The clothes you wear upon arrival can also be worn for departure, as you won’t be wearing them while you are there. Furthermore, books, laptops, magazines, makeup and other assorted sundries will not be useful. Sex toys and condoms, however, will be needed in large quantities. Pack accordingly.
3. Ask for extra towels immediately upon check-in. Do your best to keep your eyes from going all shifty-like when you tell the clerk that you are “very sweatyâ€? and will be taking “extra showersâ€? overnight.
4. Discard clothing immediately upon entering the room. Waste no time on clothed polite chit-chat. Naked polite chit-chat is far nicer.
The rules continue through #20.
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July 7th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Ok, so that first get-together with the new internet prospect can be real awkward. We know this. But there are clues:
The constant signing of emails with master so-and-so was a huge fucking clue.
The request to call him sir after three email exchanges and one phone conversation was a clue.
The ridiculous comment that “even though I haven’t met you, I miss you — do you miss me?” was the motherfucking clue of clues.
Showing up to meet her in a public place with a fucking parrot (yes, a parrot…did I fucking stutter or something?) on his shoulder was a clue.
The couple sitting next to her who were gossiping…”
Stop! Whoa! All ahead stern! Screech! Stop the music! Nobody move!
Did she really say “parrot”?
Parrot? As in, like this?
In all the ink (real and virtual) that’s been devoted to “what not to do on the first date”, I don’t think anybody ever considered the need to write “Wait until the second date to introduce her to your parrot. Do not under any circumstances take take your bird when you go to meet a woman for the first time.”
Consider it written now.
Don’t get me wrong, I actually quite like the feathery little bastards. I bought one for a girlfriend once. I don’t miss her, but I sorta do miss that bird. And, like any pet, they can be pretty good company when you’re lonely.
Remind me, why were we going on that first date again? Oh, yeah, to find another freaking human to bond with / fuck / enslave / spend time with / preen my feathers. Which of these things is not like the others?
Why do pirates take their parrots everywhere? Because they don’t have any secure place they can leave the bird without it flying away or following them. Which is the same reason they carry all their doubloons in their underwear, or bury them in a sea chest on a moonless night (not such a good option for parrot housing).
If, like a pirate, you suffer from lack of a permanent place to park your parrot, it’s best you try to conceal this factoid from your new prospective internet submissive for as long as possible.
That is all.
Well, almost all. If your internet date brings a parrot to your first meeting, you know it’s going to wind up like this:
Yarrrr!
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July 7th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
No, wait, she is a picture postcard:
From alt. binaries. pictures. erotica. vintage.
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July 5th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Some fetishes are out there, more common than you think, but you don’t hear much about them because there aren’t very many enthusiasts who are ready and willing to “own” the fetish when it comes to public declarations. The terrible beauty of the internet is that you don’t need “very many”, you only need one. In this case, Bitchy Jones:
I really don’t like the term piss play. Or anything ‘play’, really. Sometimes the infantilisation of kink makes me feel slightly bilious.
…
But, face facts — “piss playâ€? is a whole lot nicer than any of the other terms we could dredge up and puke over. This post will not be talking about anything *golden*, anything *nectar*, or frankly anything that makes it sound *nice*. It is not nice. That is the point. It is dirtybadwrong.
Which is nice in a way. But the other kind of nice, not the nectar kind of nice.
I love piss.
Just the thing. In and of itself. The hot, the salt, the colour, the smell. God, I love the smell. I love the way it works like perfume and the scent of it changes as it dries on your skin. The way it kaleidoscopes through different notes. It starts off light and nothing, then fruit, green apples I’d say if I was so inclined — and then it just gets darker and harder and nastier until it’s just dirty back streets and bad, bad things.
Everywhere you shouldn’t go. Everything you shouldn’t say. Everyone your mother warned you about.
And that’s just the apéritif.
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July 3rd, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Just doing what I’m told, here. I found this graphic over at Renegade Evolution with the caption: “Say Hello To Postfeminism.”
I think, as captioned, that this is a snarky attack on post-feminism from a traditional anti-porn feminist perspective. But what do I know? It could be a straightforward celebration of a post-feminism that doesn’t automatically equate a little friendly facial cum-shot / bukkake action with subservience and degradation.
Well, it could be. And running with that theory, this young lady could be exploring personal empowerment through post-modern alternatives in beverage dispensing:
Or, for reasons known only to herself, she could be symbolically trying to suck the dick of a man who is (symbolically) busy trying to pee on her face. Yeah, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, so maybe she’s just thirsty? Er, but she’s got a sealed beverage in her left hand.
Oh, hell, let’s go all the way and zoom in on that shot, just to celebrate the the triumph of branding that Miller Light has achieved by giving away free pitchers at this particular beach party:
Update: My bad. After reading a little more Renegade Evolution, I’m now leaning toward the “straightforward celebration” theory.
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July 2nd, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Fans of the leading edge porn from San Francisco’s Kink.com have been looking forward for weeks to today’s grand opening of the new “reality BDSM” site, The Training of O. According to the promo material, The Training of O documents real, gritty, multi-day training sessions with submissive models, who “earn their stripes in erotic servitude” and “prove their determination to train by enduring grueling tasks of initiation.”
“Grueling tasks”, indeed! I am delighted and amused to see an old BDSM print-fiction trope come alive: namely, the huge and pointless dirty job for the naked slavegirl to perform, an endless round of weary nude labor with no earthly hope of completion in time to avoid punishment. This is grit you would not be seeing in your typical San Fernando Valley “omigawd, I might break a fingernail” posed-and-phoney BDSM porn. Here’s the glamor shot (from this introductory shoot) of a poor naked girl who’s been handed a shovel and pointed at a very large pile of dirt somewhere in the bowels of the awesome Armory shooting location:
Indeed, I was so entertained by this earthmoving project that I grabbed a few screen captures from the video. Those white heels and frilly sock-stockings are never gonna make it through this day:
Adding insult to injury, our unfortunate submissive is being made to haul that dirt quite a ways, which is real work when you do it with a shovel, as any former day laborer knows:
But the life of a slave can always get worse! Now the poor thing has lost her shovel privileges (my guess would be for excessive whining):
Does she look sufficiently put-upon yet?
Try not to look so abject, m’dear. Cheer up, we haven’t even gotten to the chaining-and-caning part, starring about eighty pounds of steel chain and your pretty bottom! But let’s not get ahead of ourselves; a girl who gets that dirty has to be very thoroughly washed.
A detailed story at Xbiz.com sets out the new site concept in even greater detail:
“It’s a startling site,” director James Mogul told XBIZ. “It’s ‘reality BDSM’ so that elicits a lot of reactions, and I think the content is super-strong. I would say it’s realistic in terms of what you might expect to see in an actual BDSM exchange.”
The basic premise of the site involves models videotaped over a weeklong course in submission training. “I’ve actually developed a training program,” Mogul said. “We take applicants and interview them and develop a curriculum based on their experience. Some girls we worked with are very experienced and some girls are brand new and I think we’re hitting a wide range of the scope. We are going to mix it up. The plan is to go with about 75 percent fresh talent and about 25 percent of the content will be experienced, known talent that we can kind of push boundaries with a little bit.”
Shot at the company’s new production facility, the massive San Francisco Armory building, Mogul is able to utilize several different sets to create a gritty, authentic atmosphere.
The spaces are beautiful. The decay is beautiful. It’s like walking onto a movie set all made for you,” Mogul said. “There’s really nothing that needs to be done in terms of the aesthetics, but there is a lot that needs to be done in terms of making production practical and that’s coming together very, very quickly.”
As always, it’s the aesthetics of the production that will set The Training of O apart from what’s been done before. Just one more example: Here’s Sarah Jane Ceylon in the handiest-ever slavegirl head box, complete with portable glory hole and cork:
Just the thing for punishments or blowjobs, or even for providing the peace and quiet a weary slave needs after a hard day’s training.
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July 1st, 2007 -- by Bacchus
I have a question for my readers. Namely, what is the significance and/or common cultural context of this sexually suggestive gesture-and-maneuver where a woman wags her tongue between her spread fingers?
I, myself, have only seen this done “in the wild” on one occasion, when it was directed at me by a street-walking prostitute outside the entrance to the Sputnik Hotel in Moscow in the late 1980s. In that context, it appeared to be a sexual come-on designed to transcend language barriers. But I’ve been told that it is also used, in certain times and places, as a rude gesture, like the almost universal “middle finger” or the old Roman fig.
It seems to suggest pussy licking, which strikes me as equally odd for a prostitute or for the deliverer of an insult. Unless, as in insult, it is supposed to suggest “you lick pussy” and stems from times or cultures where that might be considered an insult to a man’s virility?
I’d google it, but I don’t know what to call it. So, what’s the verdict? What does it mean to you, and why?
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