As the letters flow in, it becomes increasingly clear that I have for too long allowed my own fascination with the female form to obscure the longstanding ErosBlog editorial policy of inclusiveness. A subset of my male “readers” have apparently come to expect the nekkid wimmin and nothing but the nekkid wimmin. Some of the efforts to distract me from the parade of penii (note to commenters of a pedantic bent: the use of bogus latinate pluralii for humorous effect has a long and venerable pedigree) have now descended to the level of attempted bribery, as witnessed by this email I just got:

Dude.. enough with the penises,,,,heres a pic of my girlfriend taken last nite with a verizon phone

The pic itself is a grainy-but-attractive close-up of a bare pussy, and I ain’t talkin’ feline here. Nice try! But (even leaving aside the unresolved question about whether my comma-loving friend saw fit to tell his girlfriend about his public generosity with her pubic lips, and notwithstanding the fact that Verizon must die, this is National Penis Month, and I shall not be distracted until the crusade of rectification is at an end. There’s supposed to be something for everyone here at ErosBlog, and it would appear that I’ve been neglecting pictures of penises for too long.

Don’t worry, boys, this too shall pass. But meanwhile, a ghost penis spotted at Wisarts and sent in by an enthusiastic and supportive female friend:

No, really:

Found at Bondage Blog.

And speaking of bondage, Mistress Matisse sent me a picture for National Penis Month. She took it herself, and it’s guaranteed to make your average man gasp and clutch at his crotch. I was going to post it, but when I told The Nymph about it she begged and pleaded for me not to, because she doesn’t want to see it. (She doesn’t like needles, you see.) We eventually compromised: if you want to see it, click this link. You have been warned. Thanks, Mistress Matisse — I think.

I made The Nymph blush this morning.

We were snuggling as she was waking up, and she seemed to be biting my elbow. I asked “What are you doing, dear?”

She said “I’m measuring your elbow.”

I said: “Huh?” (I’m not at my witty best in the morning.)

Her: “I’m measuring it. I’m trying to see how much of it I can get in my mouth, it’s the only way I have to measure anything right now.”

I think about this for a moment. “I’ve got something else you can measure if you like….”

National Penis Month continues. But I figure, hey, if we’re worshiping dick anyway, let’s show it being done right:

The artist is Loic Dubigeon.

I found this over at Smitten, which I haven’t read in far too long:

Me: Do you love me?
Alex: Yes.
Me: How much?
Alex: (Spreads arms) This much.
Me: Prove it.
Alex: How?
Me: Two carats worth?
Alex: You want hummus with those, right?

The man doesn’t want to live, but he’ll die well.

Ok, it’s officially National Penis Month here at ErosBlog. National Penis Month will continue until the guys who can’t stand to see dick stop whining about it, or until I get bored, or until it’s July, whichever comes first. Hint: the more you whine, the longer it will take me to get bored.

I stole this particularly fat-and-healthy-looking cock specimen from Spanking Blog.

And since ThatGirl started it: “Penis penis penis penis penis!”

Rupert unwittingly allowed himself to be rooked into a family shopping outing that included a stop for his wife to pick up some underwear. At, it turned out, Victoria’s Secret. He learned some things, including:

Men: Never take your daughter to Victoria’s Secret.

She might ask what is the difference between briefs, bikinis, low-rider bikinis and “boy-cut” panties (which, apparently, Victoria’s Secret calls “hot pants”). To illustrate her quandry, she might hold up one of each garment so labeled. There is no difference immediately apparent to a Mere Mortal, which is to say, to a man. And because my mind works the way it does, I automatically use every ounce of topological imagination I have to picture my daughter wearing them in sufficient detail to be able to describe how they hug her body differently.

My gorgeous sixteen-year-old daughter. In Victoria’s Secret underwear. Yikes!

I am unable to avoid this mental picture once the question is asked, even if it wasn’t asked of me (which it was not). Even if my daughter were not, well, a Babe (which she is).

At which point there is really no choice. I must either leave the store or gouge my eyes out. Possibly both. Oh, look, a B Dalton’s.