From all the buzz about Fleshbot lately, one would think it was a revolutionary new thing. They describe themselves as “a frequently updated web magazine” that “showcases all the porn that digital technology and distribution has made possible.”

In fact, it appears to be a sort of stylish cross between the ancient and venerable linksite and an illustrated sex blog like this one – except, of course, that unlike ErosBlog, Fleshbot was clearly put together by someone who knows how to design websites (as opposed to sticking them together with cargo cult HTML, voodoo CSS, stale bubblegum, and cussing, the way ErosBlog was built). With Fleshbot’s high volume of quality links (15 so far today – obviously this is a business venture and no mere hobby), keen eye for quality porn, and intelligent text descriptions, the site’s bound to be a smashing runaway success. Good work, please keep it up!

Let the record reflect that the fully charged battery in the handset of a vtech 8L55 cordless phone – one purchased expressly for the purpose of facilitating phone calls with The Nymph – lasts no more than approximately seven hours.

Obviously I should have bought the model with dual handsets.

On the bright side, flat rate unmetered long distance calling plans are A Good Thing.

ThatGirl asks: Sexy or Slutty?

Recently, on a date, I made a move that I still can’t believe.
…
I interrupted him and excused myself for a trip to the ladies’ room. I didn’t need to use it I had ulterior motives. Gone was the resolve to behave. I wanted him. I needed an unmistakable invitation. (I like to be a little more creative than just blurting out “Let’s go to my place and fuck!” although that does have its own unique charm )

Once in the stall, I pushed my pants and panties down to my knees, bent over slightly, and slipped my index finger into my cunt all the way. A few thrusts later, I pulled it out and slowly drew it up over my clit. I rearranged my clothes and returned to the bar.

Wordlessly, I slid onto the barstool and grinned slyly at him. I reached up and placed my finger against his lips.

“Taste.” Was all I said.

Just had one of those odd little conversations with strangers where you learn more than you expected. A new face behind the deli counter – a personable and well-spoken young man – made a polite inquiry about the weather as he handed over my egg rolls. I replied, and from there our conversation went something like this:

Him: “They warned me when I moved to this town a month ago that the weather would be like this.”

Me: “What brought you to town?”

Him: “My girlfriend.” No noticeable enthusiasm on his face or in his voice.

Me: “I hope she’s worth it.”

Him, sounding glum: “Yeah, I hope so too.”

Ouchies!

I don’tknow what event this lovely body paint is in honor of, but isn’t it pretty?

Of course, looking at that photograph you pretty much have to wonder what kind of paint job the girl on the right has under her toga.

Topological improbabilities aside, I was thinking about The Nymph today as I drove around doing errands. We were on the phone until late last night and continued our pattern of having an increasingly hard time hanging up on each other.

I realized today that some time ago I passed without conscious decision through that stage of imagining-with-trepidation our first meeting, and have now moved squarely into the stage of unreservedly wanting it to happen, the sooner the better.

That’s the more emotional side of my personality talking, and for the time being it’s got the microphone in an iron grip. The intellectual side still squawks and yammers from stage right, hissing and blubbering in a bad Smeagol voice about great folly and about silly masters who fool themselves and about the bad ends to which romantic adventurers are prone. The intellectual side of me has been very handy for projects like organizing my economic life and keeping body and soul together, but “intellectual me” has a terrible record of being as useful as a eunuch at an orgy when it comes to making decisions about matters of the heart. Resolved: ignore that timorous bastard for the duration.

Here’s an amusing item that’s supposed to be a ca. 17th-century “impressing rare and antique wax anatomical model representing the external feminine genital organ.”

Thanks to Boing Boing for the link.