The other night The Nymph and I were watching an episode of Sex in The City (third season I believe) in which Samantha was stressing about menopause until, to her relieved delight, she began to bleed all over the sheets of her penis-of-the-week. The sheets, of course, were some sort of satin ten-thousand thread count jobs made from select hand-combed tufts of fur from angora rabbits fed on milk and honey by consecrated virgins. The owner of the sheets (and the penis) was accordingly quite pissy with Samantha, causing me to wisecrack that a gentleman never bitches about what a lady (or any other woman) might leave on his sheets.

Only apparently it wasn’t a wisecrack. Apparently there are actually men in the world who need to be told this.

Brad from Dirty Questions writes:

One night I was at a party and met a super sweet girl. We hit it off, left the party to go out for drinks, and ended up going back to my place. The next morning I took her to her car and as I was saying goodbye she decided to break some news to me.
…
“I thought I was done with my period last night. I wasn’t. I’m really sorry and I’ll buy you new sheets.”
…
It’s got to be really hard to tell someone you’ve only known for 12 hours that you bled all over their bedding. Of course, she neglected to tell me that not only did she bleed on my sheets, but my featherbed and the cover for it and the sweatpants she borrowed.
…
Should I have made her cough up the $214 for a replacement feather bed from Eddie Bauer (that’s where the original was from)? Or was buying me replacement sheets enough?

Enough? Enough? Arrgggg! This “super sweet girl” graces your bed, and you’re fussing about a $214 article of bedding?

The gracious thing to do would be to minimize the situation and reassure the poor girl. “The sheets? Pshaw! I have a dozen more just like them. Don’t mention it. Anyway, I have a laundryman who’s an absolute wizard. Besides, the exuberant pleasure of your company has made me entirely too happy this morning to worry about mere trifles like bedding. Now, what would you like for breakfast?”

I can no more imagine dunning a lover for the costs of ruined bedding than I can imagine sending her a bill for the wine she drank in my kitchen. Sorry old chap, it’s just not done, eh?

This is not just archaic or sexist courtesy. Gentlemen, this is strategic. Women, Zeus love ’em, emit at various times from their juicier parts an entertaining variety of fluids, smells, and flavors. And they tend to be freaked as hell about it, which means they are always washing, swabbing, denaturalizing, sterilizing, and fumigating themselves with soaps and perfumes strong enough kill an entire flock of peregrine falcons passing three city blocks away. If you like the scent or taste of any of a woman’s natural juices, you’ll be smart and shut the hell up about any you don’t like. “Blood? What blood? I didn’t see any blood.” The last thing you ever want to do is encourage, acknowledge, or reinforce a woman’s self-consciousness. In sticky situations, it’s your solemn duty to make her laugh and then change the subject real quick.

Finally got around to putting up a link to Suburban Sex Blog, which I’ve been meaning to do for awhile. Fair warning: it’s kind of a downer blog, written by one of these guys whose married sex life is unhappy and whose wife’s idea of talking about it is telling him to “get over it“.

This picture is going to have to speak for itself, because I’m nearly speechless:

At least she seems happy, too.

I notice that ErosBlog got a very nice review from Freddy and Eddy. They’ve got a lot of neato sex stuff over there, I don’t know how I had missed seeing them before.

There’s a new book out based on an undercover penetration (er, accidental word choice but I’m leaving it) of modern sorority life. And no, there isn’t an account of naked twister in there; I made that up. But the book does contain reports that the rampant sorority lesbianism (or, if you want to step back from the rough characterizations of male pornography and refer more to practices than orientations, we could call it “hot naked sorority girl-on-girl foolin’ around”) that features so largely in the lustful male imagination is, to an extent, real:

I really hadn’t expected to find the level of “Animal House” campiness that I did in some groups. They had a tradition called boob ranking where pledges had just a limited amount of time to strip off their shirt and bras to examine each other topless so that by the time the clock was up, they were basically lined up in order of chest size in order of the sisters to inspect. Some sororities hold what they call “naked parties,” during which after a few drinks sisters and pledges strip off their clothes and basically run around the house naked, some of them hooking up with each other before they let the boys in.

I must therefore deeply apologize for ever believing that the hard-working photographers who produce the LightSpeed Sorority site were doing anything but the most serious documentary work.

Several of you have emailed with the comment that the blogging here is of a lower quality lately, and I’d cheerfully have to agree. One possible explanation is that frolicking with The Nymph has blunted the keenest part of whatever horny edge I once brought to the sex blogging project. However, for the most part, I blame lack of time. The aforesaid frolicking is certainly a factor, but I’m also engaged in a significant reorganization of what I do to pay my bills. That’s eating a lot of my remaining free time in the short run, but in the long run it should (fingers crossed) free up more time for frolicking, blogging, and general whatnot, while simultaneously (crossing toes now) improving the cash flow picture.

So do please hang in there. I may spend another month or three stuck in this “one desultory link per day” blog mode, but I hope to resume normal service by high summertime.

Violet Blue reveals the martial arts secrets of the sex shop ninja-babe:

To make a highly specialized weapon out of a pocket pussy is a simple feat. But it is a deadly and sure weapon, the weapon of choice for evildoers and one-woman army-types — so you must take care that it doesn’t fall into your opponent’s hands. Remarkably devastating and packed with tacky flair, a blue cyberskin anus or lavender molded softskin pussy harnesses the powers of painful cuffing unlike the world has never seen. Plus, they’re handy and portable. And guys like to fuck them. Should anyone displease you, or try to make you ring up customers while on the clock, grasp the pocket pussy firmly by the base — away from the end you would stick your cock into, if you have one. The fucking end is the dangerous end, the weighty striking end, and you should handle the puckers and folds as if they were made of sensitive and explosive nitroglycerin. With a small degree of skill, grip the soft end and begin to swing the heavy Smurf-orifice in a circle — any technique is fine; overhand, underhand, or wildly over your head like a helicopter. If you have a battle cry, this is a fine time to use it. Advance upon your enemy, brandishing the wild swing of your now-lethal pocket pussy, inching closer to deliver stunning blows. Caution: pay special attention to the swing of your deadly pussy, as it requires slight athletic ability, and you do not want your secret weapon to accidentally take you out with a blow of painfully dense fake pussy or ass to the head.

Ouchies!