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The Sex Blog Of Record
July 16th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
It seems she does.
Following up on Rosario Dawson’s sexually suggestive licking gesture, now we have this picture:
(No link credit for this picture, because the celebrity photo blog I found it on was a hellish nightmare of popups, interstitials, flying whack-a-mole flash ads, and other user-hostile crud. Besides, they didn’t say where they got it either.)
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July 15th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Remember my post arguing that making sure your porn is ethically produced is no harder than doing the same thing for your salad dressing or your cheap manufactured goods? (You’d think this was obvious, but as I documented in that post, some in the rabid anti-porn crowd dispute it.)
Anyway, Evil Porn Werewolf Enslavers Debunked remains one of my favorite pieces on this blog. In support of my argument, I chose some of the scariest Eastern European spanking porn I could find and then did some basic consumer research, quoting spanking model Niki Flynn at length on the professional conditions at a Lupus Pictures porn shoot.
 
Well, now from Spanking Blog comes a link to spanking model Adele Haze writing on the same topic: Why I Modelled For Lupus Pictures.
This was serious business — you can see her welts here — but she had her reasons:
I don’t process pain as pleasure. I knew my caning would hurt a great deal, possibly more than any of my previous experiences. I did briefly wonder whether, caught up in the moment, I would find pleasure in my real-life flogging in a way I couldn’t enjoy some other girl’s filmed experience — and, pre-empting an upcoming post on the topic, no, I didn’t get any enjoyment out of the pain until it was all over — but, on the whole, I was prepared for a thoroughly uncomfortable several minutes over the famous bench.
And that was OK, because I knew – from studying the films, and from talking to Niki Flynn, who’d gone to that scary place before — that the rest of the shoot would give me the sort of pleasures that would make a few minutes of acute pain worth going through. For somebody who has a separate fetish for artistic suffering, working with a production on the scale of Lupus’s would be worth every stroke.
I had never before worked to a script, and I’d get that. I had never had somebody else think through the costume and make-up for me — I’d get that too, and in the end even the hideous pieces of reformatory wardrobe would turn out charming in their appropriateness. I had never before taken detailed direction, or shot completely — and confusingly — out of sequence, or acted in sets built for the purpose in every small detail; in short, I had never been a part of a spanking shoot run on such a professional level — and I knew that all of these experiences were mine for the taking.
Thanks, Adele, for the eye-opening account!
July 13th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
You’d be surprised at the amount of completely contextless drive-by abuse people try to leave in the ErosBlog comments. I delete these things so you don’t have to see ’em, and that’s why first time commenters go into moderation by default. Normally the garbage comments are just boring, but sometimes they make me laugh. As in the case of this bizarre complaint about this post:
ya dumbasses you cant even see her fuckin face-dueshbags
Ah, sir, perhaps you meant “douchebags”? All three times your attempted comment was thwarted by automatic moderation?
Post title says it all…
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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