That wacky king of Swaziland is at it again. He says:

The Bible says curse be unto a woman who wears pants, and those who wear their husband’s clothes. That is why the world is in such a state today.

Hereditary monarchy may not be the best form of government, but it certainly has greater potential to be entertaining than most of the other kinds.

Here’s a little bit of tasty toe porn:

Ticklish feet, whipped cream, and an active tongue, what could be sweeter than that?

Sasha, the sex columnist who writes Love Bites, is an unflappable non-judgmental sort, whose level-headed advice is surely a comfort to her readers and question-askers alike. But I guess I’ve become addicted to Dan Savage’s willingness to pass judgment, especially in cases where the seeker-after-wisdom is sorely in need of a swift kick-in-the-pants reality check.

An example. Someone asks Sasha a question that starts like this:

My girlfriend of three years has all the signs of vaginismus. Needless to say, there hasn’t been much funky lovin’ going on, and though I sure wouldn’t mind some, it’s not my primary concern — sex has been ruled out for other health-related reasons.

Ooh, sympathy begins to set in. Vaginismus and some other unspecified-but-surely-vile health problems that are none of our business. What, paralysis below the waist? Fibroids the size of grapefruits? Rampaging uncontrollable full-body yeast infections? We’ll never know, but it must be true love if it’s lasted three years nonetheless.

The question goes on:

It does concern me, though, that she’s never seen a gynecologist.

Well…yah. That’s putting it mildly.

So much for true love. This woman claims to love you, but she’s got health problems so severe she won’t-or-can’t make love to you, and she won’t even go to see a doctor?

Yeah, right. Sorry, buster, but you are being strung along. There’s just no other reasonable explanation.

The questioner goes on to request info on finding a doctor who knows about vaginismus, which info Sasha provides deadpan. She never even raises a metaphorical eyebrow to suggest that there might be some problem with this relationship beyond the purely medical. She just accepts this deeply implausible situation at face value.

Dan Savage would never have been so gentle.

Here’s just about the nicest endorsement a sex blog can hope to get, from over at Naughty Secrets:

I’ve noticed that when T reads naughty blogs, she gets all randy. She usually starts with Eros Blog, and hits all the links that he has on there. That usually gets her engine running and that ends usually ends up with ‘naked snuggles’. Lucky me.

So, this is a thank you to Bacchus and everyone on the list to the left. Thanks for helpin’ me get some.

You are most welcome!

This looks to be from a tent city in a hot place:

Thou shalt not strangle chickens, tenderize meat, or chastise monkeys. Not between noon and midnight. Or something like that.

I’m not entirely up on my anime, but I think this is Sailor Moon after some unfortunate enlargement surgery:

Whoa! When did they start building the little anti-grav units into the implants? Plastic, it’s such a forgiving medium.

So we were out grocery shopping today, looking for the goodies needed to help her feel at home in my our kitchen. Suddenly she’s holding up a Dawn Power Dish Brush and saying “Hey, this will help me get those glasses clean that I can’t fit my hand into….”

I take one look at this buzzing rotating pile of bristles (“a battery-powered, rotating bristle tool that redefines the way you do dishes”) and raise an eyebrow. “If we take that home, you think it’s ever going to make it to the kitchen?” She thought about it for a second, and laughed… and put it into the cart anyway. There’s a reason I love this woman.

Hey now, who am I to give her a second warning?

Fast forward an hour: after a quick wrestle, she’s face down on the bed, and I’m sitting on the edge with a calf clamped firmly in my right armpit and the sole of a bare foot imprisoned in front of me. Boy, do those rotating brushes get a good reaction! All three free limbs thumping the bedding, and a muffled “please oh please stop” coming from behind me somewhere. Or something like that, it’s hard to tell between all the laughing.

Eventually she found a way to distract me from my evil fun. Eight dollars well spent!