Patty’s account of her fishing trip with her husband reads like a fisherman’s fantasy, but she assures me it’s all true:

You keep driving another fifteen minutes, and then turn the wheels to face the surf. “This will do I think?”

“Good!” I smile. It’s only when I climb out and pull open the extended cab to get the chairs and towels that I really realize how alone we are. There are no tire tracks in the sand, suggesting that there are no fishermen or picnickers further up the beach, and I know we are more than two miles from the spot where we saw the last intrepid souls parked. “Nobody’s out this far.”

“That’s the plan.” You tell me with a very evil smile.

Your evil grin immediately wakes the deepest parts of me to the plans you’ve kept to yourself.

“Put the chairs in the surf, get the rods and bait…and strip.”

Ya gotta be careful with all that hedonism, though; it can lead to taking naked pictures amongst the dunes, spanking, and even *gasp* sex.

Since I haven’t gotten everyone in my life trained not to include me on their endless treadmill of stale circulating email jokes, every now and then I get a shaggy dog story that’s actually new to me, and funny. In fact, I think this one would make an excellent short film:

A prosperous old dairy farmer from someplace cold finally sold out to the local agribusiness giant and retired to Florida. Being a farmer, he liked owning lots of land, so he had to buy a big place with a large pond down near the swamp. He fixed up the pond a bit, dumped a few truckloads of sand to make a little beach, and kept a small swimming area cleared of weeds and scum. Nearby he had some picnic tables, horseshoe pits, and a stone barbeque. Shading it all was a mixed grove of fruit trees.

One evening the old farmer decided to go down to the pond to check his fruit trees, so he grabbed a five gallon bucket to bring back some fruit. As he neared the pond, he heard voices shouting and laughing with glee. As he came closer he saw it was a bunch of pretty young women skinny-dipping in his pond.

As soon as they noticed him standing there watching, they all shrieked and went deeper into the pond. One of the women shouted to him, “We’re not coming out until you leave, you dirty old man!”

The old man thought for a moment, and then said “I didn’t come down here to watch you ladies swim naked or to make you get out of the pond naked.” Holding the bucket up, he said “I’m just here to feed the alligators.”

If you’re anything like me, at some point in your life you’ve wondered “What in the hell is up with all the tranny porn? What’s the market for this stuff, anyway?”

Now, “tranny porn” in this sense is a politically incorrect marketing label, roughly synonymous with the more descriptive if no more euphonious “chicks with dicks”. And it’s a big porn genre in its own right, not (apparently, and judging by the shelving arrangements at your average video store) some odd little subgenre in the gay porn section. We’re not talking about something you can only buy under a rainbow flag in the Casto District. No, you’ll find plenty of this stuff in the plywood building with no windows, the one that’s two blocks down County 99 past the travel plaza, just before you get to the grain elevators.

So who’s watching it?

Can’t say. In all my life, I never yet came across anybody who admitted to watching the stuff or being attracted to pretty women with “the meat between the legs”. Until now: Yeah, I like transsexuals, what are you gonna do about it?

I don’t quote often from Naked Loft Party, entertaining though it often is. As sex blogs go, it’s always struck me as rather surreal. I don’t disbelieve what I read there (well, no more than I disbelieve anything I read on the Internet) but the urban, stylish, clubbing, partying, multipartnered lifestyle too far outside my experience for easy self-identification. However, any good sex blog will have moments of recognizable truth, like this one:

When we finally stumble into our apartment Les and I are too drunk to screw. I sit bolt upright in my office chair until the world stops spinning and then join Leslie in bed. When our hangovers finally subside early Sunday evening we have supremely lazy, sweaty sex — sweaty only because I hadn’t bothered to install the air conditioner. We started halfway through Crossing Jordan and now we’re both craning our necks to catch the dramatic conclusion. It’s the kind of sex that only someone who loves you lets you get away with.

Love that last line! Who hasn’t been there?

Have you ever wondered how all those guys in the old stories had sex with mermaids? Deadprogrammer has the answer — namely, there was once supposed to be a bawdy two-tailed mermaid called a melusine:

If she looks familiar, it’s because you’ve seen her thousands of times before. She’s in the Starbucks logo, although over time she’s been sanitized, sterilized, covered up, de-belly-buttoned, liposuctioned, and (the ultimate indignity) ruthlessly cropped.

Although I think Robert here may be lacking in sympathy for men who didn’t choose quite so wisely as he did in the marital sweepstakes, the man does have something of point:

I had lunch and a couple of drinks with some guys from work yesterday. We usually just talk about work. But one guy starts talking about his wife saying he never gets any now that they have kids. By the time his wife gets home from work and takes care of the kids she’s too tired. The other guy says yeah me too and he only has one teenage kid. Then the one guy starts talking about his latest video game and staying up all night playing it. The other guy talks about the computer gambling he’s into and the car he’s rebuilding. I’m thinking these guys don’t deserve to get any. They’re too stupid.

You’ve got to read the whole thing — especially the part where he says “Women are easy.“

In case you thought tentacle sex was a modern Japanese kink, this vintage shunga image ought to disabuse you:

The artist is the famous Katsushika Hokusai, who died in 1849. What’s more, there’s a link at Tentacle Porn to a putative translation of the script surrounding the image. No warranties, express or implied:

OCTOPUS MAXIMUS: My wish comes true at last, this day of days; finally I
have you in my grasp! Your “bobo” is ripe and full, how wonderful! Superior
to all others! To suck and suck and suck some more. After we do ot
masterfully, I’ll guide yo to the Dragon Palace of the Sea God and envelope
you. “Zuu sufu sufu chyu chyu chyu tsu zuu fufufuuu…”

MAIDEN: You hateful octopus! Your sucking at the mouth of my womb makes me
gasp for breath! Aah! yes… it’s… There.!!! With the sucker, the
sucker!! inside, squiggle, squiggle, Oooh! Oooh, good, Oooh good! There,
there! Theeeeere! Goood! Whew! Aah! Good, good, Aaaaaaaaaah! Not yet!
Until now it was I that men called an octopus! An octopus! Ooh! Whew! How
are you able…!? Ooh! “yoyoyooh, Saa… Hicha hicha gucha gucha, yuchyuu
chyu guzu guzu suu suuu….”

OCTOPUS MAXIMUS: All eigth legs (arms?) to interwine with!! How do you like
it htis way? Ah, look! The inside has swollen, moistened by the warm waters
of lust. “Nura nura doku doku doku…”

MAIDEN: Yes, it tingles now; soon there will be no sensation at all left my
hips. Ooooooh! Boundaries and borders gone! I ‘ve Vanished….!!!!!!

OCTOPUS MINIMUM: After daddy finishes, I too want to rub and rub my suckers
at the ridge of your furry place until you disappear and then I’ll suck
some more, “chyu chyu..”