ErosBlog, being a sex blog and not a tech blog, is studiously neutral in the technology advocacy wars. But I’m gonna post this cartoon anyway, because I think it’s funny:

Here, courtesy of Bondage Blog, is a photo of Christina Aguilera in a good old-fashioned bondage pose, handcuffed in a closet no less:

Not being a celebrity watcher, I’m not sure whether the stoned look in her eyes is part of her image, an unfortunate reality the camera could not hide, or a fluke of lighting and makeup.

Bacchus may think he’s satisfied reader requests for penis pix with his gingerbread bukkake, but he didn’t satisfy me so I’ll take matters into my own hands. And mouth, and cunt…..

The only thing wrong with this picture is we can’t see his tummy.

Lots more goodies at The Penis.

Sometimes commentary is genuinely superfluous:

Hot frosting facial, anybody?

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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.

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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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.