October 23rd, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Gingerbread Bukkake
Sometimes commentary is genuinely superfluous:
Hot frosting facial, anybody?
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October 20th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Big Fake Boobs
If it’s possible to talk about big fake boobs without condemning anybody’s choices or tastes, I’ll kick off by admitting that I do not like them, Sam I am. I’ve said this before here on my humble little sex blog.
It’s rather a strong preference. I don’t like the way they look in naked pictures, I don’t like the way they sometimes jut out in bad directions and look like lost sports equipment buried under overtaxed skin, and I imagine I wouldn’t like the way they feel, though I reserve the right to change my mind if I ever actually get my hands on any (not very likely, given predictable objections The Nymph might have). They are, simply put, not to my taste.
But more than that, I don’t like the opportunity cost they represent. Wrapped around every fake boob is the residual flesh of — it seemeth to me — a mutilated boob, one that I, or somebody else, might have liked, but will never get to see.
Of course, it’s important to remember: they weren’t, they aren’t, my boobs. Nothing “lost” that I had any say about, none of my business, et cetera. One man’s mutilation is another woman’s joyful body modification, and of course it’s her body. Body modification, however extreme, is clearly well within the self-ownership rights of every free being, no matter how much it may squick me. And so forth.
None of which prevents me from feeling, in a visceral way, bewildered every time I see them. “What was she thinking?” I wonder. “How could she?” “Why, o great but diminished gods of Olympus, why?”
Pretty Dumb Things to the rescue! Chelsea Girl says why:
I am for myself a fan of the big breasts. However, that preference is merely for my own; I find other women’s breasts beautiful in all sizes and shapes. I have found myself equally attracted to women who burgeoned with double-scooped sundaes of breasts and to whose who were flat as a grey-glass sea. I am an equal-opportunity bisexual when it comes to other women’s breasts. But for myself, I’ve always liked myself best as a big-breasted chick.
Always. Even when I was somewhere in between an A and a B cup, the size that my genetics gave me. My breasts grew suddenly, one night when I was twelve. It felt as if one day I had those telltale puffy areolas of nascent pubescence and the next morning I had a gently cupped palm full of breast. Which would have been fine, except that in addition to growing my fresh spanky shiny boobs, I had also grown blighted bright red stretch marks that emanated out from my mallowmar areolas like ugly stringy weedy flowers.
That night when I was twelve and finally grew my boobs, when I woke that morning to find them, like stingy treats from a cranky titfairy, I felt severely cheated. From having grown up with fresh-air loving, naked-in-the-rain-dancing hippie parents and grown up around my mother’s brothers and their 60s and 70s-era Playboy and Penthouse magazines, I knew full fucking well what boobs were supposed to look like, and I knew these striped things on my chest weren’t it.
Moreover, I had, from the time I was very young, known that great big American breasts were my birthright. When I played grown up with my little friends, and we all shoved socks into our tanktops or bathing suits, I always stuck three or four pairs against each flat brown nipple, stretching my top out to tent-strained excess, and then I would stand back and admire my body. Growing up, I thought Raquel Welch, Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield owned the body that I myself would grow to inhabit.
My own breasts, the ones my DNA gave me, were a mystifying disappointment.
Of course she’s just getting going when I stop quoting, there’s much more. Enlightening and useful, even if, at the end of the day, we must fall back upon the ancient wisdom: de gustibus non disputandem.
October 19th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Sex By The Sea Wall
When you take your date and the BIG bottle of wine down below the seawall for a quick bit of broad daylight public sex, it’s important to remember that, although the people strolling the street above you can’t easily see you, the people cruising the shoreline in small boats have a much better vantage:
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October 17th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
OMG, A Book With Sex!
Over at Making Light, there’s a complete roundup of the tale of one Fred Head (D – Texas). With a name like the hero of an Ogden Nash comic ballad, he decided to live up to the name, attacking his Republican opponent for having once written “pornography”, aka a tame romance novel. Tame, I tell you:
Ross gave a quick tug and her pajama bottoms slid away with a quiet rustle. Suddenly she was bare. He thrust his leg between hers, and a deep heaviness throbbed in her belly. He was hard, pressing against her, and she moaned.
She needed him to fill the aching void at her center.
With devastating slowness, his hand cupped her completely before he slowly slid a finger into her warmth…
Oooh, suddenly she was bare! Bare, I tell you!
It gets better — once this escapade started hitting the blogs, someone sounding a lot like Fred went around posting comments in support of himself, referring in the process to “Absence Only” sex education policy when he (presumably) meant “Abstinence Only”.
Needless to say, the righteously justified ridicule continues to accrue.
October 17th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
A Grand Day Out
That’s the problem with keeping puppygirls, you have to take them for walkies even on snowy days:
October 16th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Flashing From A Window
I wish I knew the story of this pretty photograph; that looks like the window embrasure for one of those ancient bombproof stone office buildings. No Mardi Gras beads in evidence:
Postscript that ate the post: Just a few words to the wise about feedback on photographs. Lately I’ve been getting more niggardly about allowing certain sorts of comments through moderation when I post pictures. Specifically, the one sentence “Heh heh heh, I’d like to wash her windows” gestures of lewd appreciation are making it less and less often. Though I do appreciate hearing positive feedback on the photos I post, there’s a classy way to do it — and then there are the other ways.
Hearing that you think a photographic subject is pretty or beautiful or desireable is great; I probably think the same, and it’s always nice to be agreed with. But there’s a line that’s crossed when men (and it’s almost always men) personalize their connection to an attractive photographic subject, and begin to state sexual intentions — however whimsical — in connection with that photographic subject. It’s the same sort of line that’s crossed when construction workers shout lewd proposals to women passing on the street, really. Stating sexual desires, publicly, in connection with a woman who hasn’t invited anything from you, is a sexually aggressive act, and one that displays a certain unconcern for whether your sexual advances are welcome. That unconcern can create real fear on the street, and the karmic echoes of that fear make it unpleasant online, even though it’s technically harmless here. And that unpleasantness, in turn, gets in the way of my goal of having ErosBlog feel like a safe and friendly place to everyone.
I haven’t been consistent about this, and I probably never will be. Some of these comments get through, especially the longer or more witty ones. Shorter and cruder get nuked quicker. Ones from established commenters get more leeway (Hi, Karl.) But overall, my feeling is that I’ve been too liberal, and allowed too many of these lately. Please make my job easier, gentlemen, by acting like gentlemen! Thank you.
October 15th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Pretty Nude Protester
The previously-moribund Naked Protesters site appears to be rising from the dead; they’ve begun posting some of the recent crop of nude activist photos, such as this one:
