So it seems Tara and Jeff were setting up furniture last night for their enhanced bondage convenience. And of course they considered, as one must, what might happen if somebody notices their arrangements. Jeff’s got the ultimate answer to that one. Says Tara:

Apparently if anyone asks why there’s rope strung around the legs of our bed my answer is to be “we have sex in there.” That Jeff, he’s always thinking!

Remember, folks, never ask a question unless you’re sure you really want to know the answer!

Here’s a cute tattoo. (Well, I suppose it could be a one-off gimmick done with a Magic Marker.) If she ever decides to go bare, she’ll have to add another stick figure man in a lower quadrant, relaxing in a hammock with lemonade in hand:

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• Celebrate This!

Well, folks, it’s Protection From Pornography Week. I think Protection From Pleasure Week is scheduled for February, and Protection From Freedom Week starts shortly thereafter. That one’s gonna be a long week.

Anyway, I’m doing my bit by linking to this picture of two ladies at their bath. At least one of them, I can assure you, is very clean. And pink enough to make Larry Flynt proud.

Daze has a flippant idea for a self-help book. Or is it so flippant? I think it’s actually pretty clever.

The title: “All I Really Need to Know About Picking Up Girls I Learned from Jane Eyre.”

Of course, there’s context you should read.

Anybody up for a game of naked twister?

Update: The link went dead, but I found a better one.

Bunni asks a very good question in the comments to a post about being good in bed:

Generally my experience is that men who brag about sex are god awful. If they are that good at it, why are they talking to me? Shouldn’t they be somewhere trying to revive some poor ravished girl with light slaps and gatorade?

Would you believe it? An annual smurf orgy. Because after all, Smurfette is the only female smurf in the smurf village. It goes like this:

Cradling his head to her crotch, Smurfette’s hips begin to slowly grind and twitch, for Papa Smurf’s tongue has unerringly found her S-spot, and Smurfette begins the slow, hot, agonizing rise to ecstasy.

“Oh, make me smurf, baby, make me smurf!” she pants, each stroke of his tongue causing her to throb and clutch.

As Smurfette’s moans and cries rise in pitch higher and higher, the crowd gazes in amazement at the mighty mound of meat struggling to escape from Papa Smurf’s pants. This, then, is the legendary Trouser Titan….

Hey, I didn’t say it was a well written smurf orgy.

Update: I am informed that Smurfs have become a valuable industrial input.