“Google Suggest” Ignores Adult Search Preference Cookies

Google, as all sex blog readers probably know, filters porn (they call it “explicit sexual content”) out of your search results by default. They call this “Safe Search”, and you can turn if off by letting Google set a cookie in your browser. (Most ErosBlog readers have, presumably, done this.) No worries, it’s been like this for years. We’re used to it, and in many contexts it’s useful to have the filtered option.

Recently, however, Google introduced a dynamic on-the-fly search suggestion feature called Google Suggest. When you type Britney Spears into the search box, a drop-down appears with what Google calls “relevant suggested search terms” in real time:

Nerd response: Cool!

Sex blogger response: Hey, wait a minute! Isn’t something missing from that search box? Wouldn’t you expect to see “Britney Spears nude” on that list?

Let’s check. The list changes with every character you type, so let’s go “britney spears nu” and see if it fills in the suggestion:

Suspicious, but maybe all those “number one” sites are just crowding it out? Let’s make this impossible to miss, let’s try “britney spears nud”:

Whoa! Is that the sound of crickets I’m hearing? “Mom, Google Suggest won’t come out and play with me any more!”

At this point I hit the “Preferences” link and went to check my Safe Search setting; it forgets the “Do not filter my search results” setting every time I clean out all my cookies, and resetting it is the first thing I do after that. Nope, “Do not filter my search results” is checked! That’s not the problem.

And make no mistake, this is a problem, and not just for feelthy perverts like me. This is the sort of thing that sets mild-mannered eyeglasses-wearing librarians sputtering with rage, because once you start filtering out words, like “nude”, that do double duty as erotic signifiers and, you know, plain old information tags, you begin to muck up basic research of the sort that any high school civics class might legitimately be doing. Allow me to illustrate.

Does anybody remember John Ashcroft, and his infamous prudery that had him covering up fine art at the Department of Justice because the bare breasts offended him? Imagine you were trying to write a high school essay about public art and needed to reference that incident. If you actually Google John Ashcroft nude (shudder) you’ll get 39,000-ish results. But start typing that request into Google, and you’ll learn that while John Ashcroft singing “Let The Eagle Soar” might be relevant to your search request (with 10,500 results), “John Ashcroft nude” could not possibly be, even though there are four times as many potential results out there:

Again, we need to check to make sure it didn’t just get choked by having to select between too many potentially relevant suggestions. We can do that by typing more letters; “john ashcroft n” gets me “john ashcroft news” as the sole suggestion, and with “john ashcroft nu” we’re back to the sound of crickets. Sorry, seeker after knowledge, nothing with “nude” in it could possibly be relevant to your search, EVER.

That’s search engine prudery right there, and it’s as stupid and mindless as automated mechanical prudery always is.

Of course, I’m not dealing with search results filtering, what I’m complaining about is search suggestions filtering. But that’s a distinction without a difference, a nit only a lawyer could enjoy picking. Google already has a cookie on my computer telling them that I don’t want them to protect me from the pollution of my vital essences that is the adult internet; what earthly reason could they have for ignoring that preference in determining which searches to show me in the suggestion box?

Just to show the full ridiculousness that is Mrs Grundy as played by The Mechanical Turk, let’s search for dear old Jenna, once said to be the most-searched woman on the internet:

That settles it. The Mechanical Turk “knows” damned well who I’m searching for, knows when I’m two characters into her last name, but it can’t mechanically imagine that “jenna jameson nude” (with nearly half a million search results out there) might be at least as relevant as “jenna jameson neck tattoo”? Sorry my friends, but inside the amazing Mechanical Turk there sits a very human prude.

Again, it’s easy to imagine lots of good business reasons why Google might want to filter even the mildest adult topics out of its search suggestion tool. That’s not my point.

My point is that for many people, Google is only useful if they can get the unfiltered version. Google knows this. Google makes it easy to set the “don’t filter me” button. But what good is that, if they then silently ignore the setting?

OK, now let’s have some fun looking at all the things Google Suggest refuses to suggest.

How about a good spanking? That’s only about as kinky as six inches of your average garden hose these days, plus there’s the whole universe of information out there about why you shouldn’t do it to your kids. Surely Google Suggest has something for the spanking searcher?

Google Suggest says: No spankings for you!

How about porn? If I type “por” into my search bar, you think maybe “porn” might be a relevant search to suggest?

Duh, no, silly me.

Ok, would you like to look at some fine rubber nipples? Or, you know, buy some, for your baby’s bottle or for your plumbing supply store? Sorry, you’re shit outta luck — Google Suggest can offer you “nippleplay” (presumably because the guy writing the filter didn’t get warned against it), but the Mechanical Prude has never heard of a nipple that was relevant to anybody:

That’s enough for now, although readers are invited to find other, especially laughable “never relevant” stop words that choke Google Suggest. Have fun teasing the Mechanical Prude!

I found this florid description of mutual oral sex in Sadopaideia, so called because most of the 1907 book involves whipping and spanking. (The subtitle is “Being the experiences of Cecil Prendergast, undergraduate of the University of Oxford, shewing how he was led through the pleasant paths of Masochism to the supreme joys of Sadism.”) But, for that sort of thing, you often need an initial seduction, and in this passage that’s going swimmingly:

I felt her right arm round my waist and her left hand began to unbutton my fly from the top. Before she had time to undo the last button John Thomas leapt forth ready and eager, but she slapped it and pushed it in again and undid the last button and fumbled for my balls and gently drew them out. I drew back a little from her and lifted her petticoat right up, disclosing the daintiest of black silk openwork stockings with pale green satin garters, and above them filmy lawn drawers with beautiful lace and insertion, through which the fair satin skin of her thighs gleamed most provokingly. At the top there appeared just between the opening of the drawers the most fascinating brown curls imaginable.

I feasted my eyes on this lovely sight, undoing my braces and slipping my trousers down. Her hand immediately left my balls and began to fondle my bottom, stroking and pinching the cheeks while she murmured, “You darling boy, oh, what a lovely bottom.”

I was eager to be in her, but the brown curls fascinated me so much that I could not resist the temptation to stoop down and kiss them. I was rather shy of doing this, as I had never done it before, and though I knew it was usual with tarts, I was not sure if it would be welcome here. Judge of my surprise, then, when I felt Mrs. Harcourt’s hand on my head gently pressing it down and heard her saying, “How did you guess I wanted that?”

She opened her legs wider, disclosing the most adorable pussy, with pouting lips just slightly opening and showing the bright coral inner lips, which seemed to ask for my kisses. I buried my head in the soft curls, and with eager tongue explored every part of her mossy grot. She squirmed and wriggled with pleasure, opening her legs quite wide and twisting them round me. I followed all her movements, backing away on my knees as she slipped off the chair, until at last, when she drenched my lips with love, she slipped on the hearth rug. Then, as I could scarcely reach her with my tongue in that position, and didn’t wish to lose a drop of the maddening juice, I disengaged my legs from hers and knelt down to one side so that my head could dive right between her legs. This naturally presented my naked bottom and thighs to her gaze.

“You rude naughty boy,” she said, smacking me gently, “to show me this bare bottom. I’m shocked at you.”

Her hands again fondled my balls and bottom, and I had all I could do to prevent John Thomas from showing conclusively what he had in store for her.

I had no intention of wasting good material, however, and was just about to change my position so that I could arrive at the desired summit of joy when I felt her trying to pull my right leg towards her. I let myself go and she eventually succeeded in lifting it right over, so that I was straddling right across her, and we were in the position I knew quite well from photographs, known as sixty-nine.

My heart beat high. Was it possible I was to experience this supreme pleasure of which I had heard so much? I buried my head between her thighs, my tongue redoubled its efforts, searching out every corner and nook it could find, and just as it was rewarded by another flow of warm life I felt round my own weapon, not the fondling of her hand, but something softer, more clinging, and then unmistakably the tip of a velvet tongue from the top right down to the balls and back again, and then I felt the lips close round it and the gentle nip of teeth. This was too much, John Thomas could restrain himself no longer, and as I seized her bottom with both hands and sucked the whole of her pussy into my mouth, he spurted forth with convulsive jerks his hidden treasure. When the spasm was over I collapsed limply on her, my lips still straining her life.

Link via Spanking Blog.

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This could be coincidence, or I could be seeing similarities where none were intended. But I think one of Kink.com’s photographers remembers his art classes, and is laughing his ass off about getting this picture into a photoset (spotted at Spanking Blog) for the The Training Of O slave-training website:

Maya Matthews and Mona Lisa, separated at birth?

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As any woodworker can tell you, it’s always important to keep a firm grasp on your work. This vintage photograph (which I found on alt. binaries. pictures. erotica. spanking) demonstrates the principle in the context of private education:

Declining educational standards are everywhere, I tell you! Surely Paris Hilton and Britney Spears didn’t have tutors who were this enthusiastic and involved?

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Holly from The Pervocracy writes:

I have to stop reading radical feminist writing. … I go nuts when I read stuff like this:

“In a patriarchy, the cornerstone of which is a paradigm of male dominance and female submission, women do not enjoy the same degree of personal sovereignty that men do. This oppressed condition obtains a priori to all other conditions, and nullifies any presumption of fully human status on the part of women. A woman, therefore, cannot freely “consent,â€? because her will is obviated by her status as a subhuman.”

I don’t know what kind of women-in-chains Gor crazyworld this author is coming from, but I’m pretty damn sure that no means no, yes means yes, and throwing up your hands and screaming “we’re so oppressed we can’t even make decisions!” is not actually advancing the cause of female strength and independence.

In fact, it’s an example of something I’ve seen a few times in radfem thought–going so far that they actually come full circle. You see statements like “women aren’t able to give consent” and “women just want love, but men exploit it for sex,” and you might as well be on the Abstinence Warriors forum–it’s the same stereotyping of both men and women and unreasonable fear of sex.

Amen, sister!

I’ve always been surprised to hear so-called “feminist” arguments that are founded in claims of female incapacity or inability to consent, or to discover and to know their own best interest.

(I say “so called”, and use scare quotes, because I’m on record: when feminists stop standing up for the choices women make, I stop recognizing them as feminists.)

Holly may wonder what sort of “women-in-chains Gor crazyworld” these arguments are coming from, but I’m more concerned with the people-in-chains world these arguments are aimed at creating. I’ve said it before in a post defending the, uh, “fully human status” of porn performers, and I’m sure I’ll say it again: once you stop respecting people’s choices, you’ve embraced the ideology of enslavement:

Built right into the postulate that people can’t know what’s good for themselves is the idea that somebody else knows better, and should therefore have the right to control the poor people who can’t tell their own good. A nasty and foul rhetorical trick to justify political power over others, and I reject it categorically.

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Greta Christina has a good essay up on the Blowfish Blog on sexual perspective and the reasons we aren’t very accepting as a culture of other people’s sexual tastes:

So unless you’re pathologically stubborn, you eventually learn perspective. You figure out that, as much as you may personally dislike broccoli or blue cheese, Wagner or Western Swing, people who eat it/ listen to it are not mentally deranged. (Or the reverse: that as much as you may personally enjoy these delights, people who don’t like them are not pathologically cut off from the one true source of pleasure and meaning.) People still do sometimes make personal judgments about others based on their tastes in food and music; but those judgments don’t usually result in people being sent to the county jail or the loony bin.

But when it comes to sex, most of us don’t get that kind of training. People don’t come back to work on Mondays and chat about how they tried spanking over the weekend, they way they’ll chat about how they tried a new Moroccan restaurant or went to see a German funk band their brother told them about. They don’t go to parties and share a funny story about the new buttplug they just bought, the way they’ll tell a funny story about trying to make a salmon souffle for their in-laws or the weird harpist who opened for Radiohead. (Well, they sometimes do at my parties . . . but you know what I mean.) Most of us haven’t been regaled with myriad and varied stories about exactly what kinds of sex other people like, and why exactly they like it.

It’s better now than it once was, by a long shot. The amount of sexual information that’s easily available today far surpasses anything I had when I was young. But most of us still don’t get exposed to a widely varied range of sexual tastes . . . not the way we get exposed to a barrage of different tastes in music and food, simply as part of everyday life.

And I think that casual barrage is exactly what we need to break through the intensely personal, intensely visceral nature of our sensual experience and give us perspective on it. It’s what we need to teach us that other people really and truly feel differently about sex than we do.

I have to agree with this as a matter of personal anecdote. Although I considered myself a fairly free-thinking and tolerant guy when I started this sex blog more than five years ago, some of the distancing remarks in my old archived posts (like this one, where I was obviously anxious to express my distaste for bukkake) make me wince in embarrassment now, so clear is it to me that I was uncomfortable with the sexual diversity I was reporting on. But the constant barrage of sexual information that I’ve processed in the course of writing this blog has given me much of the perspective Greta is writing about. The most unusual sexual practices now typically strike me as no more problematic than a taste for live grubs or pickled beets — I’d strongly prefer not to have any, thanks, but I’m not disturbed or surprised (ok, still a little surprised, sometimes) that somebody else finds enjoyment there.

You don’t see too many fictional accounts of rimming, and this is the first I’ve ever seen that has a little funny twist at the end. It’s from this story by Vinnie Tesla:

Impulsively, I bury my face in an armpit, and drink in her sharp animal smell. She’s moaning and laughing at once as my beard tickles her delicate skin. I lick along the line of her shoulder blade, the muscles there flexing as she struggles playfully. I throw her tee-shirt to the ground, and push her against one of the basement’s grimy cinderblock walls. I pin her arms above her head, and give the other armpit a more thorough treatment.

She starts out laughing and twitching, but this gives way to quiet moans, that get louder when I bite. I release her arms and run my lips over the pale, freckled flesh above her bra. Impatiently I pull the bra up over her tits, and fix my mouth over one of her nipples, crinkled tight in the basement’s chill air. My hands find the catch of her bra, and it joins her tee shirt on the floor. Once again she grabs my head and holds it tightly as I worry and suck at her fat little bud. I hold her other breast in my hand. The flesh is breathtakingly soft, and fever-hot. I pull the nipple roughly, stretching the crinkles smooth. “Yeah,” she whispers in my ear, her hot breath sending shivers down my spine, “yeah.”

Still cradling my head with one hand, her other strokes the front of my jeans, and cups my cock with her open palm. “Mmm, nice,” she purrs.

“You like it?” I ask, my hands kneading her breasts, “soon it’s going to be buried in your cunt.”

She looks me in the eye teasingly. “Just my cunt?”

I open and close my mouth several times like a goldfish. So much for my attempt at the suave dirty-talker.

Molly laughs at my expression and begins struggling to get the legs of her overalls over her boots. Watching her breasts sway as she works, bent over, is irresistible. She tugs the overalls down her thighs, and sits on the floor to pull them off. Then, with a yelp, she’s up off the cold, damp concrete again, rubbing her chilled ass.

“Here, let me help with that,” I volunteer, and squat behind her. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“Molly, you have got an amazing ass.” Broader than I expected, exquisitely round and smooth. Dusted with pale freckles. Flawless, so far as I can see. Groaning, I grab her hips and bury my face in that exquisite butt, licking and biting at the smooth, taut flesh. She presses back against me, and wiggles her hips slowly and sexily, enjoying the attention. Eventually, though: “Weren’t you gonna help me get my clothes off?”

“I got sidetracked,” I admit, and jerk her panties down to her knees before resuming my feast.

She begins skeptically, “That’s not a whole lot of– oooh, that feels good.” I’m kneading her cheeks hard with my hands now, while licking teasingly around the top of her crack.

“Bend over,” I tell her.

“Yes, sir!” she says sarcastically, but does so, resting her hands against the wall, and spreading her legs as much as her bunched clothes will allow. I stroke her ass lightly

“You want me to?”

“Yeah,” she whispers, almost inaudibly.

I pull at one of her cheeks, exposing her hidden parts. The skin of her anus is surprisingly dark, and fringed with wispy reddish hair. Below, the lips of her cunt are fat and swollen. She flinches a little when the wet handiwipe from my pocket touches the sensitive flesh of her asshole. I run it over the surface a few times, and then drop it onto the floor. My hands spread her cheeks, and I begin running my tongue along the skin just above her anus. Then I move down, and lick at her perineum, drawing a gasp from Molly. Finally I bring my tongue to her clenched little orifice, and rub against it with gentle pressure.

She lets a little shriek escape, followed by a low moan. I feel goosepimples rise on her muscular thighs, as she reaches down and cups her cunt in one hand. I’m alternating broad, spiraling licks with tighter, more aggressive ones, loving the feel of her soft flesh against my face. She’s slowly undulating her hips; each breath out is a long quiet moan.

The rocking of her hips accelerates; her voice rises in pitch. I (teasing bastard) rise to my feet and draw her up too. It takes a moment for her eyes to focus again, and then I’m seized in a bruising hug. “Oh, wow,” she says dreamily, “Oh, that was really nice. I haven’t done that before.”

“My *pleasure*,” I say emphatically. “But I’m a little confused. You said you wanted me to rim you, right?”

She grins. “I wanted you to *spank* me, you twit.” Before the blood can stop roaring in my ears, she continues: “Now help me get these off!”

Of course she does eventually get her spanking, which is how (via Spanking Blog) I came upon this story.