It’s true that the drapes are finally off the Spirit of Justice’s perky aluminum boobies, but Homeland Security is still busily spending its budget to protect you and me from the pernicious effects of — wait for it — Naked Jen. Here she is in front of the Capitol — three cheers for good old fashioned American anti-authoritarianism — but she says the climate for nudity in D.C. ain’t what it used to be:

That picture I’ve shared is 100% genuine. I really wanted to take pictures with all the national monuments while I was in DC (especially the White House), but let me tell you that DC is a whole new place since 9/11. Gah. I have never seen so many special police officers in all my life. And the Washington Monument is “under renovation” and I couldn’t even get near it. Boo. I felt kind of sacrilegious taking a naked picture at the Lincoln Memorial as well as any of the War Veterans Memorials, but the Capitol. No problem, obviously. Although, as soon as we took this photo we noticed that the special police for the Capitol had taken notice of us and we abandoned our thoughts that taking a picture on the actual steps of the Capitol would be a good idea.

Funny thing, I can still remember living in an America that used to revile the sort of countries where a mischievous citizen had to worry about being noticed by the “special police”.

The Girl With The One Track Mind has been oh so busy lately. Not only has she been flirting with cops (when she’s usually a “what’s a penny made of?” sort of girl), but she’s also been getting fingered in public, and liking it:

So, we’re standing on Holloway road, kissing like two drunken teenagers on a night out; snogging away, oblivious to the people milling around us trying to get the last tube home. The warm summery air is making us both frisky: our hands explored each other eagerly as our mouths moved in synch. We stood there and kissed, and the world revolved around us. Magical.

I was it is fair to say, very turned on. And from the feel of him pressed up hard against my thigh, he was too. The heat between us was intense, the passion fired up. So when he asked me, if he could “feel” me, I didn’t question what he meant: it felt only natural to go with the flow (so to speak).

Even when he slid his hand underneath my jeans and pushed two fingers inside me.

As we stood on Holloway road.

With people walking all around us.

My, oh, my.

In concluding a funny post about cooking, drinking, and anal sex, Brett from Panties Panties Panties Panties Panties Panties Panties writes:

Then we came home, cooked, and committed a venal sin with relish. Sodomy is a venal sin, isn’t it?

And all I can think is “Relish? Seems like that would be lumpy. And sting.”

I don’t normally swoon over stars. But Tasty Trixie dialed me in with her comments on Ed Harris:

Oh . . . FUCK me, Ed Harris!! I recently read that most men would rather be impotent than be bald. STUPID. Bald is beautiful. Ed. Harris. I don’t usually think of blue-eyed blondes as my “type”, but Ed Harris moves me to panty-wetting excitement.

Oh yes, bald IS beautiful. For anyone getting moist at the thought of Ed Harris, Trixie’s entry includes a very sexy photo, in which his mouth looks so kissable that I think I might swoon if I think about it too much. And Trixie, I agree, Ed wins over Viggo by miles. (I’m also in the Sean-Astin-as-sex-stud-of-LOTR camp.)

I know the lusts of the ErosBlog female readers haven’t been slaked with naked guy pictures lately, so here’s an attempt to make up for that. I’m not really qualified to judge male attractiveness, but these guys look pretty well put together:

From Usenet.

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.”