I was just watching a TV show in which an old Eskimo man in Barrow was asked his opinion of global warming. “I like it” he said. The interviewer was aghast, and asked him why. “Because it’s warmer” he said, very slowly, as if explaining things to a four year old.

Almost as amusing is this panty proof of global warming, found at Annie’s Blog:

Wish I could tell you it was a hot mashup of pleasure and pain, but it wasn’t. Just a stupid fight between J and I, helped along by alot of bad information.

J got back from a long business trip on Monday…..a very long trip. So we were both eager to get together and have some fun. He’s barely in the door of my place before his hands are caressing me…..stroking my flanks and gently tugging my t-shirt out of my shorts.

After he does that, his hands beeline for my breasts…..My nips are really sensitive, and he loves to tease me with nipple play. And he’s really good at it, his hands are marvelous. I don’t remember how we got there, but we got to my bed and he pulled up my shirt and started nibbling my nips….alternating between them and using his hands to keep the other nipple happy too. And I came from J’s breast play, a nice uncommon surprise.

Clothes came off, and I straddled J, teasing him with tongue and cunt, spreading my wetness over his cock….then I shifted to rub my clit against his penis and had another orgasm. Not a big one but still alot of fun.

After some more teasing J finally takes me the way I like it best, slow and teasing, and alternating deep and shallow thrusts. It doesn’t take much of that and I’m coming again, a slow motion build and release just before he comes too. He looks happy, I’m sure happy…..and everything seems great for a few minutes.

But then when some blood starts returning to J’s bigger head, he starts complaining that I didn’t “come properly.” I finally figured out that what he meant is that I didn’t have a huge, earth-shaking, When Harry Met Sally-type production. Um, no…..I don’t always have those, mostly because I can’t create them and I don’t always want to try to. Sometimes they happen and sometimes they don’t even though they might be expected to. But I come easily and usually come often, and that keeps me a happy girl.

So I start trying to explain to J that when I have sex I’m all about the coming but I can do that different ways. And he starts saying stuff like the only real orgasm is the Big-O kind, and that other stuff is kind of like faking it. Well, that made me mad, and I guess some of the things I said got him mad too….maybe he thought I was saying he’s less experienced when all I was trying to say is that I’m a woman who knows my body and loves to come, and how can he not like that?

He left and we haven’t talked since then. I haven’t told him about being a sex blogger yet, mostly because I’m not very good at it and a good way to start that talk hasn’t come up. But this might be a good way, because I don’t think I can convince him myself and I know I’m not the only girl out there wired this way. Sisters, can you help me out here?

Talking during sex — given the potential for enormous distraction — doesn’t always result in the smartest-sounding dialog. Even so, this exchange from Submissive Reflections made me smile:

“What are you doing?” I asked rather stupidly, as I was bent over grabbing the back of the couch while Mac’s fingers stole lubrication from my pussy to use on my ass.

“I am going to fuck your ass.” Mac answered in a very matter of fact manner.

“Why?” I asked, apparently unable to say anything smart at all when my panties were around my knees.

“Because I want to.” Mac said and managed not to laugh at me.

“Oh. Ok.” I said and then decided I should just shut up.

First, the yummy illustration:

Now, the mini-rant:

I found this picture in a gallery of vintage erotic illustrations. The artwork is probably French, but was published about a hundred years ago in an erotic book printed in Russian. The art is uncopyrighted and uncopyrightable. It cannot be owned.

Since the gallery was quite handsome and contained many vintage erotic gems, I right-clicked this image with the intent of saving it, blogging about it, and linking to the website where I found it, as per normal. The way most folks reckon such things, such an Erosblog link would be a good thing.

But instead of getting the image, my browser saved something called “spacer.gif”. Huh? So I took a second look.

Turns out the woman who built the website claims copyright on these images, and has taken extraordinary (but ineffective) measures to prevent people from saving or sharing them. When you click an image on that page, a javascript is launched that opens a new window. That window throws up transparent gifs for both image and background, but then calls a .php function that loads the actual image from a protected directory, and defines it as an object background using CSS. The result is that there’s no way, using normal browser tools, to right click and save the image.

Of course, screen capture software works just fine.

So what did this woman accomplish? She annoyed me mildly by interrupting the flow of my blogging, and then she really pissed me off by claiming bogus intellectual property rights she does not have. Worst of all from her perspective, her grabby-fingered effort to maintain possession of this image means that in my mind, she’s not deserving of the usual link courtesy. She went to a lot of effort to shoot herself in the foot.

Here endeth the rant.

It’s official. Sad, but official: In the world inhabited by The Girl, there are no gentlemen, nor even any decent guys. None. Worse, she says there can’t be any. It’s just not possible, sez she. We men are all, apparently, dickheads (though she doesn’t say so in just so many words).

I’m no gentleman, but my momma tried. And she taught me that a gentleman never kisses and tells. It’s a simple extension from that simple rule: if a woman lets me take intimate photos of her, they’re obviously not for public display, unless of course she gives permission.

The Girl says I don’t exist:

If a woman has had erotic photographs taken of her by a sexual partner, these will, at some point appear on the internet — usually without her knowledge.

Just in case you missed the point, she says it again. This is not a precautionary warning; she’s not saying it’s merely likely, or arguing that the risk is too great to take the chance. She says it’s inevitable:

If you do ever break up, then at some point, those pictures will find their way onto the internet, in some shape, manner or form, I guarantee it.

Er, sorry, but no. Not unless the man is a dick. And we aren’t all. He might keep ’em after the breakup, he might even wank to ’em. But post ’em on the internet without permission? A good guy wouldn’t do that.

And there are some of us out here. I’m sorry she hasn’t met any.

Taking pictures of your lover is fun and sexy. The digital camera has been a wondrous invention, greatly facilitating this erotic hobby. And yes, trust is important. No, not all men can be trusted. But, some can. It’s not inevitable that a guy will dick you over, even after you two break up. The Girl is just flat wrong about that. Yeah, it can happen. But I’m kinda pissed she’s guaranteeing it will.

By all means, be discriminating. Breakups happen, breakups hurt, and people sometimes do all sorts of stupid/mean/ugly stuff afterwards. But not all people, and not even all men.

Why am I picking on The Girl? Well, I’m really not. But I purely hate that she’s pretty much advising all women to never allow bedroom photography, based on an ugly stereotype of men that isn’t nearly as universal as she claims it is.

The bondage covers from the old men’s adventure magazines never fail to make me smile. Is it just me, or were imperiled heroines better dressed back in the day?

Via Bondage Blog.

A while back I wrote about a blowjobs-for-errands sexual bargain. Now it’s blowjobs-for-foot-rubs:

I’ve had the following agreement with every boyfriend I’ve had:

Foot rubs for blow jobs.

Am I alone in this?

It’s funny that it’s not blow jobs for muff diving, but it’s not.

I guess for me the height of pleasure receiving is a foot rub.