Since Aimee asked, an update. The Nymph gets here tonight. As far as I’m concerned, today is Valentine’s Day, not yesterday.

And now, if you will excuse me, I need to go excavate a closet for her, and do what I can to sweep away the more uncivilized bits of evidence of my erstwhile bachelor existence. Like, you know, anything that involves live mold colonies.

Life is good. And getting better.

Sasha responds in her Love Bites column to a question about playing with hot wax. After some quick practical advice (no beeswax, best to use small white candles you can get a precise grip on, that sort of thing), she begins to get creative:

I was also curious about the wax people use to do their bikini lines and legs. Hmmm… how would that feel dribbled on the ass cheeks and other delicate areas, then ripped off? Kind of a reverse spanking. Delicious! So I got out the Test Buttocks and the Andrea Warm Wax Kit and experimented to see what happens.

Three hours later: OK, seriously you guys, BEST GAME EVER. I don’t like to quantify things this way, but I am going to put this in my top 10 sex experiences of all time. Not only is the hot-wax-dripping part of this exciting (you get excellent control with the small spatulas provided, and the wax is a beautiful teal green that goes pearly when it dries), but the tearing is apparently, for those who like this kind of pain, perfection. Tips: put the pot of hot wax on a plate to avoid a mess, hold the plate above the victim and start the dripping from a high level to establish thresholds. The wax can also be reused, but you may find certain impressions it makes lovely mementoes.

You’ve just got to love a sex advice columnist who keeps a set of “Test Buttocks” handy.

Naw, that’s putting it too gently. Redwhore is probably dreaming. She writes:

Together, B and K make this enticing pair. In public, I am convinced that others look at us and assume they’re partners, because it’s rare to have such male beauty (booty) in the same place.

I’m trying to convince them both that it’s ok for me to rub their cocks at the same time and perhaps let the cocks touch for a quick pic…seriously…my TONGUE will be in it, for God’s sake! But they each just laugh at this and say (in the same, Alpha-male way): “Umm, NOT happenin’!”

I contend that if I sign a non-publish disclaimer and demand it as what I want, what I need!…they might give it up. I’m hopeful. The contrast of black and pink cock is just too sweet.

It’s that Alpha-male thing, Red. You know, that thing you like about them? I’m not saying you can’t make it happen, but that would be the way to bet. In any case, your (doubtless considerable) powers of persuasion are in for a workout.

This delicious confection is by artist Raul Fernandez, who captions it “Carmela completes another of her cream-filled concoctions….”

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Despite its title, the article “Why I Can’t Rape My Wife” is pretty damned funny:

I’ve always wanted to be the High Lord of Depravity, but being fundamentally lazy and naive, I’ve come to realize that frankly, kinky sex is just too much work.

I broke up laughing at this:

Here’s the secret of cheap bondage: Your partner’s faking it. That ad-libbed knot at the right bedpost slipped twenty minutes ago, and he’s been working overtime to keep his hand in place. That blindfold-cum-scarf? She’s been peeking out from under since you started. Unless you’re some kind of sadistic boy scout, your trivial attempts at impromptu bondage are doomed to failure. You need the professional equipment, pal.

Long but worth it.

There’s a great collection of printable Valentines cards at You, Yes You. (A donation to the artist’s beer fund is requested. Sez the artist: “Fuck Hallmark.”)

Anyway, this one is in honor of Jen’s “puppy style” improvement to the sexual lexicon:

Sniff! (And thanks to Eden for the link.)

I know that in the current politically correct environment, a nursing woman’s breast is supposed to be devoid of all sexual connotation, and hence off-topic for a sex blog.

Screw that.

This breast of an Iraqi mother is prettier than Janet Jackson’s boob ever hoped to be.

From photographer Stephanie Sinclair.