Since I’m obviously not going to be winning the political correctness sweepstakes any time soon, I might as well post this picture of the gun-shaped vibrator:

Now that’s an object fraught with enough symbolism to fuel two whole weeks of heated discussion in a Women’s Studies classroom near you.

Found the picture on this archive page for SF Gate columnist Mark Morford.

National Penis Month is not forgotten. This is from a panel in a French-language comic book found on alt. binaries. pictures. erotica. cartoons:

People who condemn prostitution would do well to remember that there are always women for whom it offers a vastly better life than their next best alternative. I’ll let an Iranian brothel worker speak for herself on this point:

How old are you?

I’m fifteen.

Why did you leave home?

One day I was coming home from school when Abbas started following me, asking for alms. Every day for a week he followed me home, but I ignored him. Then one day I answered, and my brother happened to see me. He went straight to my father. That night my father beat me until my whole body was black and blue. Then he locked me in the cellar. There were rats down there. I screamed and shouted, but no one came to help me. I thought I was going to die from fright. The next day, after my father had gone to work, my sister passed a piece of bread and some cheese to me under the cellar door. For a whole month she did that every day. For a whole month I didn’t wash or change my clothes. There was a pit in the cellar where I went to the bathroom. Finally, I broke a window in the middle of the night and managed to escape into the street. I had no chador, so I stole one from the mosque. I was on my way to the bus terminal when I was picked up by the police. At six o’clock in the morning, they took me back home. I was beaten again. This time my father hung me by my feet from the hook he used to hang slaughtered lambs. That night my sister cut me down. She said, “Go.” I said, “He’s going to kill you.” She said, “You go, I’ll think of something.” She gave me a chador and some money. I went straight to the town square, found a ride, and came to Teheran.

And what do you do now?

I work in a house. The madam I work for pays me and lets me go out for walks.

Do you want to go home?

No. Once I called and spoke to my sister. She said that my father beat her for a week after I left, so she would tell him where I was. And my mother told her that if she sees me she’ll burn me alive.

Why?

My mother says that since I am going to burn in the next life, it is her duty to set fire to me in this one.

Thanks to Daze for the link.

Diablo from Pussy Ranch has been doing working the phone sex lines lately, and she offers trenchant advice:

Note to callers: If you’re sharing an elaborate gay buttfuck fantasy with me, don’t randomly interject “Oh, and while the one guy is fucking me up the ass, I want Jennifer Love Hewitt to suck my dick.” I will bust a gut laughing, so don’t act all wounded about it.

And some etiquette as well, complete with grammar tips:

In an awkward attempt to transition to the action-packed phase of our interaction, I will say, “So, what do you like to do for fun?”

You always — always! — reply, “You.”

Excuse me while I heave with laughter. I’ve never heard anything quite so clever! Except, you know, the last four guys said the exact same thing.

Variations on this reply include “Green-eyed blondes,” “Hot chicks,” or, my personal favorite, “Watch girls suck my cock.”

Allow me to explain something: When I asked you what you like to do, I was using the implied imperfective tense of the verb. As in, “What do you like to do, as an ongoing thing, meaning something you have actually done.” I didn’t say “What would you like to do?” I didn’t say, “In a perfect world, where you look like Heath Ledger and don’t live with your mother, what might you enjoy doing?

If you look at very much internet porn, you cannot possibly have avoided stumbling across an electro-sex site like Wired Pussy. If you ever wondered what e-stim was all about, Dan Savage explains it all. Since it’s Dan, dicks are involved. However, I am reliably informed they don’t have to be. For the ladies, electrically charged huge gleaming steel dildos are not unheard of:

Thanks to Matisse for the link.

Mistress Matisse gets the most hilarious phone calls. The last one started like this:

“I’m calling about your ad, but I’m not a submissive. My name (dramatic pause) is Master Ryker Blackstar.”

Dollars to doughnuts, this is the same guy who wrote “Rules For My Slavegirls“.

Free-Market.Net in its Spotlight on Sexual Freedom quotes libertarian activist and former prostitute Norma Jean Almodovar on one of the many arguments that get raised against a free market in sex:

“If the reason society continues to arrest men and women who engage in prostitution is that it is degrading, then perhaps someone could explain how going to jail, being strip-searched, checked for lice, and asked to undress in front of dozens of insensitive guards and inmates somehow resolves this problem.”

Of course the answer is that cops and prison guards would demand higher pay if they didn’t get free peep shows in the workplace.

Just kidding. The real answer is that society doesn’t criminalize hooking because it’s degrading to the participants. Society criminalizes hooking because too many “respectable” women hate competition. More precisely, they hate the fact that prostitution puts limits on the ancient game of “do what I want or you won’t get any tonight.”