Hmmm, looking at the picture, a person has to wonder. Does Janet Jackson use one of these handy devices for keeping nipples popped up and ready for hanging hardware on?

“Easy to use: Pick your pump, slide your ring of choice on to pump applicator, squeeze the bulb to suck the nipple and slide the ring on.”

Sounds a little ouchie, but it oughta work!

So I was reading this entertaining and erudite discussion of literary rejection slips and the joys of slushpile reading, when a fellow with experience reading the slushpile for an an erotic fiction publisher recalled coming over this appalling gem of bad dirty prose:

“Then he parted the twin nodes of her clitoris…”

Ouchies.

Time to start February off right with a friendly Japanese CG image. I’m not one to use crude slang a lot, but I must confess that a phrase including the word “munching” inescapably interjects itself into my internal speech centers while viewing this image.

Thanks to Bondage Blog for finding the link.

It’s just like they say, confidence is always sexy. “If there was one thing that Mrs. Smith was sure of…”

What? It’s just an old TV commercial. Don’t have such a dirty mind.

Halley Suit reviews a new wonder drug: Levitra Proves Disappointing. Caustic fluids warning: don’t be drinking them while reading this.

From Write Only Media comes one of those widely-circulated email funnies; in this case, a not-so-funny list of things British women supposedly have written in the “Father’s Details” section of child support agency forms. A few items from the list:

02. I am unsure as to the identity of the father of my child as I was being sick out of a window when taken unexpectedly from behind. I can provide you with a list of names of men that I think were at the party if this helps.

07. I do not know who the father of my child was as all squaddies look the same to me. I can confirm that he was a Royal Green Jacket.

11. I am unsure as to the identity of the father of my baby; after all when you eat a can of beans you can’t be sure which one made you fart.

What a lovely metaphor. Not.

Isn’t it an amazing feeling when you click random blog links and stumble onto a post that feels like the author was eavesdropping in your brain? I’ll tell you what I mean:

I’m a hands-on sort of guy. I love to touch and be touched. But I’ve never been very good at it. The lady I used to be with a few years ago was the sort who always managed to shrug my hand off her arm, or turn away just as I was reaching for her. Always so innocent and seemingly random or accidental, it took me years to catch on to the fact that she just didn’t like to touch. Even early in that relationship, I often wished she’d touch me more. I’m not talking about sex, here, although I could. I’m just talking about a friendly gesture as we would pass in a hallway. A hand touching a wrist, that sort of thing.

The Nymph does not have this not-touching issue. Quite the contrary. She warned me on the phone, seemed concerned even, that she’s “hands-y”. I said “Sounds yummy to me!” and meant it from the bottom of my heart.

Hands-y? She is, too. And I love it. I never want her to let go. But she keeps making comments that make it clear, she’s worried I’ll grow to think she’s clingy. The woman actually jokes (the “ha ha, only serious” kind of jokes) that I’ll get tired of her “hanging on me” all the time.

That’s so not going to happen. Have I mentioned I love it when she touches me? Or, that I’m touching her just as much, and feel like I can’t stop?

It’s like Dan wrote about his Amber (links long gone):

When we first got together, I came to understand how starved Amber was for this kind of attention. She was actually afraid that I was going to get *tired* of touching her. What I realized was that I’d been starved for years for someone *to* touch, and she’d been starved for years for someone to touch *her*.

A perfect match!

We now return you to your regularly-scheduled (i.e., non-sappy) sex blogging.