I’ve commented before (most notably in the comments to this post about the production of spanking porn) that I don’t have much time for so-called feminists who can’t respect a woman’s sexual decisions. When feminists stop standing up for the choices women make, I stop recognizing them as feminists, it’s that simple.

Thus there’s some interest to be found in this Spanking and Feminism thread over at Spanking Blog. The post itself chides kinky men who won’t take ownership of their kinkiness, who can’t admit they want to spank and dominate for the fun of it, so they instead pretend (to themselves and to the world) that the women they are spanking are weak inferior creatures who would be lost without the “guidance and discipline” these ever-so-benevolent dudes are offering.

As discussion simmered in the comments, ranging wider and wider as discussions of BDSM and feminism tend to do, along came someone claiming to “respect individual choices” while simultaneously arguing that “it’s really hard to seperate out cultural expectations and personal choices.” Which, translated, means something like “You say you chose to do that, but I don’t believe you, and thus I’m free to condemn your choice.” I enjoyed the response:

No, it’s really not hard to separate out personal choices from cultural expectations. When someone says “This is my choice” you respect that, absolutely, or you just became part of the problem. If you retain niggling reservations, if you’re willing to question the individual’s self report of her choice, then you are failing to respect her personal choice and you are claiming, in effect, that you know better than the individual. Viewed charitably, the claim is still a version of “Your society has made it impossible for you to act as as a self-actualized individual adult human; you’re so messed up that you can’t even correctly determine or report what you want.” That’s an infantilizing, disempowering, patronizing claim and although it’s often made by folks who claim the badge of feminism, it’s no part of a true feminism that I could respect.

Just so.

Sometimes I have to link to an article (like this one on playing with anal toys) as much for the post title as for the content. How can you not read an article entitled A Spy In The House Of Ass?

My girl’s eyes grow wide as I remove the fatter butt plug from its packaging and brandish it before her. “You wanna put that in me?”

“C’mon, it’s not that big. I had mine in for like half an hour.”

She relents. I watch, fascinated, as her little asshole expands to accommodate the plug at its widest cross-section and then collapses around the narrow neck above the base, locking the toy into position. Leslie sighs. I pull her to the edge of the mattress, push her legs against her chest and plunge into her cunt. “Now you have both holes filled, you little slut!”

And when she comes the butt plug shoots out of her, bouncing off the wooden floor like a rubber ball. We both giggle. I switch holes — if the butt plug won’t keep her rear-end occupied I will — and it’s not long before I burst inside her, my knees threatening to buckle.

After the body buffet of foreplay is over and it’s down to making the beast with two backs, what’s more delicious than the telltale swelling of his cock right before he comes? For me nothing’s better than that tease.

And even though I enjoyed that just a little bit ago, I’m getting all warm and tingly again just thinking about it.

Judging by the hair and the beads and the vintage tones of the color photography, this happy scene from Usenet might date all the way back to the original Summer Of Love. No matter, it’s clearly a summer of love:

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Good Morning, Sunshine
• Suddenly Watermelons
• Naked Hippie On A White Horse
• Naked Hippie Women
• Wild Naked Dinner Party

No, not quite what you think:

We went back to my apartment, and sat on my bed talking for hours. I’m great at getting girls onto my bed, but notoriously chicken about making the first move. We talked about sex to the point that I was squirming. I gave her a tour of my sex-toy drawer. It was obvious to me that we both wanted to do something but I just couldn’t.

By 5 am, we were naked in the dark, tucked under the covers in my big, soft, bed; still chaste, but so hot. The phone rang, and it was my boyfriend, calling me after his date, wanting to know about mine. I asked him all the questions I usually ask him after a playdate: Did you have fun? Did you fuck her? Did she suck your cock? Is she prettier than I am? And I answered his questions: Yes, it’s been a fun night. No, we haven’t kissed yet. Yes, she’s completely adorable and I really, really want to.

I felt her hand slide across my belly and up onto my breast. Her fingertips grazed my nipple and pulled. I arched up into her, smiled, and sighed with relief and pent up lust. “Nothing’s happened so far, but she just tweaked my nipple, so I’m taking that as a very good sign,” I told him. He and I talked for about 5 more minutes, with her hands roaming freely over my body. I guess she didn’t really know if it was okay for us to play until she heard exactly how okay it was with my lover, or maybe she just thought it was hot to distract me as I was talking. At any rate, she made the impossible first move and I was so happy that she did. I told him I loved him, hung up the phone, and we practically leaped on each other.

We kissed, touched, and squirmed, with our legs intertwined and hands everywhere. Neither of us vied for dominance; it was a sweet, exploratory makeout. She reached for my pussy and touched me tenatively, gently, and intuitively. I gasped to feel how wet I was. I knew that I would be, but that initial moment of discovery– the moment of finding just how swollen, slick and sensitive my cunt was, literally took my breath away.

From Suburban Sexpot.

I have nothing to say about this perfectly innocent picture except that I found it at Tuckle Rori.

From clean to dirty, a natural progression:

The naked man is “Enrico” from the October 1988 issue of Stallion magazine, courtesy of BJ.