Brand new blog. All of three posts up. One of them is this:

A woman probably in her mid thirties sat next to me on the bus today. She had blonde hair, body was that of someone’s mom. She probably has one or two kids. She had that look in her eyes like she needed something in her life, something to complete it. Ever meet a total stranger and feel some sort of chemistry? I sort of got that feeling from her. I should have at least struck some dumb conversation with her. What would I say? “Hey, are you busy later?” I don’t think so.

Think so. Think so. I’ve spent my life going “She wouldn’t want to talk to me” — and being lonely. Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she would. You never know. But I do know this: In the last six months I’ve “struck some dumb conversation” more times than probably in all my life previous. And it’s been fun.

So, I do think so.

One of the best things that comes with the job of being Bacchus is the close association with a fine assortment of woodland nymphs. What’s not to like about lovely women whose favorite pastime is frolicking nude in the forest, and who are (by virtue of their assigned role in the extremely traditional mythos) properly observant of the prerogatives of the god of wine and wild partying?

Ok, daydream over, everybody get back on your heads.

2012 Update: I now have tools for sourcing images that weren’t available back in 2003. It turns out this one comes from Met Art, so I’ve linked the old 320-pixel thumb to a larger view. And here are some more of these nymphs:

Darling at Pussy Ranch writes:

If I ever design a bra, I will call it “The Yum-Yum Holster” and it will have a charming center panel that says “Your Dick Here” in helpful embroidery.

Speaking on behalf of most of the men on the planet, this woman really needs to be a lingerie designer.

You’ve got to love any story that ends like this:

“The old guy died a few weeks later. And I never washed the truncheon. I wonder if he got to smell that wonder smell of female cum before he died? I hope so.”

[Later:] The link went very dead, so here’s the whole story:

So I worked for this old guy, he was about 86, and in his bedroom he had a truncheon. Hehe… I’d been eyeing it up for some time. This particular day I was feeling extra horny, and thought “fuck it.”

I went in to the bathroom, slipped off my pants, and sat on the edge of the bath. I was soo wet at the thought of this, so it slipped into my tight cunt nice and easy. I tell you the wooden hardness of it felt fucking amazing. I was fucking myself nice and hard with it and rubbing my clit with my other hand. It didn’t take long before I was ready for a screaming come, and then… I hear footsteps coming up the stairs! “Fuck it,” I thought, “he is deaf, he won’t hear me.” LOL… Well that was it. The thought of getting caught, blew me the fuck away and I think I made more noise than I ever have in my life. Pulls pants back on quick and he is just reaching the top of the stairs. Phew! I didn’t even lock the door.

The old guy died a few weeks later. And I never washed the truncheon. I wonder if he got to smell that wonder smell of female cum before he died? I hope so.

Awwwwwwww fuck… I should have stole that truncheon!

From another of the summer’s crop of hot new sex blogs, Bloggin’ Bitch [now defunct], comes this anecdote of supportive male conversation:

I just had a conversation with my man about swingers parties. Well I just had to ask. I really really want to go to one. Especially after reading some of the things over at Naked Loft Party. The reply: You really are a nympho little bitch aren’t you?

Yah baby, that’s the way to encourage your woman to share her fantasies with you!

Oh yes you are, or you would be if you got chained to a stone wall and given this sort of special attention:

[Cue sound of evil laughter]

Via alt. binaries. pictures. erotica. anime.

From Teresa at Making Light:

“I’m of the school that thinks that someone else’s gender preferences are only your business if you’re thinking of making a pass at them. If not, not.”