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The Sex Blog Of Record
Friday, May 27th, 2022 -- by Bacchus
The old house down on Dunes Road looks a little weather-beaten. Or, OK, maybe a lot weather-beaten. Certainly it needs some shingles and a coat of paint. But when she saw it, she had to buy it, because it’s really handy to the nude beach:
The shot is by photographer Scott Church.
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Wednesday, May 2nd, 2018 -- by Bacchus
Although I am always leery of attributions like this that I haven’t checked out carefully for myself (and this time, I haven’t), this is said to be a rear view (and what a rear! what a view!) of Brigitte Bardot on the set of Vie Privée, in Rome, in 1961:
This calls for a closer inspection, don’t you think?
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Thursday, November 17th, 2016 -- by Bacchus
Gently but thoroughly, that butt is getting washed both inside and out:
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Friday, August 14th, 2015 -- by Bacchus
I’m sure there must be a stern person among my readership who could be inspired to provide the discipline that is so obviously anticipated in this photograph:
BJ tells us that we’re looking at Colt model Mr. Sutton.
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Thursday, May 28th, 2015 -- by Bacchus
Have you got a latex fetish?
No? Well, maybe this will help:
Pictures are from the most recent shoot at Everything Butt.
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Thursday, March 19th, 2015 -- by Bacchus
Is there a micro-fetish for panties with invitations written on them? Because if there is, I might have it:
Via Kinky Delight.
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Tuesday, March 10th, 2015 -- by Bacchus
This image came to me without any discernible provenance. However, I would not be at all surprised if I were to learn that the photographer was Elmer Batters, the legendary photographer of stockings, legs, and feet.
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Wednesday, June 13th, 2012 -- by Bacchus
What, you didn’t know that the Bottom Inspection Directorate was a uniformed agency? Comrade, the proper inspection of buttocks is a matter of crucial national security!
Picture has been ripped shamelessly from its context (which was some whipping porn from a video series called Russian Discipline.)
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Friday, January 21st, 2011 -- by Bacchus
I’ve got a special kinky edition of the Why Rich Men Buy Boats series for you, courtesy of Kinky Delight:
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Monday, December 13th, 2010 -- by Bacchus
No red-blooded man in America could resist:
That’s Mary Louise Parker as she appeared in the August 2009 issue of Esquire magazine.
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Monday, November 15th, 2010 -- by Bacchus
Behind the following link is an animated .gif that some of you won’t be able to stop watching:
Click here for an endless bottom squeezing!
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Friday, November 5th, 2010 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a novelty for you. When was the last time you saw a bondage model who actually had her some big thick booty and some curve to her?
Meet Kait Snow:
She recently did a shoot for Device Bondage that will thrill fans of the notable booty:
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Wednesday, May 12th, 2010 -- by Bacchus
I ask, because I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a pen-and-ink booty in greater need of being plundered:
From Comically Vintage.
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Monday, July 27th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
In which Jessica Alba swims with the fishes, in a very small bikini:
Screengrabbed from some nature show that went by on TNT.
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Saturday, June 20th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
By now I’ve got something of a history of announcing new sites from Kink.com, so why stop now? The next in the pipeline is an ass-themed site called Everything Butt, which is already “up” with several shoots even though it won’t be formally open and live for a few more days. The site’s marketing copy makes it sound like a full buffet of fetish fun for anybody who enjoys playing with butts:
Everything Butt celebrates ass play in all its forms. Spanking, enemas, fisting, fucking, licking, and sniffing are performed by experienced porn stars and anal virgins too. These beautiful naked women all come to enjoy the smorgasbord of extreme anal antics under the skilled supervision of bondage master Lochai. It’s an exhilarating festival of analingus, Klismaphilia, and no-holds-barred buggery, scientifically designed to induce your expectant salivation. Do you “Yum!” for bum? Then dive in!
In looking over the new site the first thing that struck me was a delightful still photo from the preliminary “model interview” part of one of the shoots:
That’s the lovely and talented Bobbi Starr looking sanguine about those very large implements — and I use the word “talented” in a most considered fashion. (You’ll have to take my word for it unless you join the site or buy the shoot, but it’s true; for now, let me just say…they fit.)
Sadly the usual free sample galleries are not yet live, but I snagged a few pictures of a shower scene to share here. We begin with Aiden Starr and Flower Tucci taking an innocent shower together:
Note the scrunchy-thing! I always thought those were some sort of shower fungus that’s symbiotic with women, because they started accumulating in my bathroom (the scrunchy things, that is, not women) right after The Nymph moved in with me. But apparently, it’s for washing with. Who knew?
Moving on, the ladies decide to put on a little display of soapy bottoms:
And then we move on to the double-enema portion of our program. Apparently if you want to get really clean, showering together just isn’t enough any more:
And here’s the Everything Butt logo:
Nice, eh?
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Friday, June 5th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
Anybody out there who is fond of latex? Because Madison Young is looking shiny and fine in this red and black number:
From this Men In Pain shoot.
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Saturday, December 6th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
So I was reading a modest rant (title: The Horrors of Porn) over at The Twisted Monk and it was going like this:
A common trend in porn would be body art, I know what you are going to say tattoos are as old as civilization so this is not a new development, I agree, but since most porn focuses primarily on the “point of contact”, ie the wet, pink bits, as they thrust away more and more talent are opting to get tattoos on their hips, asses and even genitals in order to retain some level of uniquely identifying marks, lest they get lost in the sea of shaved wangs and oddly tanned taints.
And I thought: “Aha!” For, I knew where this was going.
And I was right:
So when I noticed the female model sporting what at first glance looked to be…ahem… well how shall I put it, a stain on her pink bits? No, more of discolored ring around her asshole. I was naturally taken aback. Surely this site has the budget for some hand-wipes and a videographer with the brains to know that he will soon be shooting this girls bottom in hi-def so it would be in his best interest to make sure that he has a, shall we say tidy pallet from which to paint his jizz stained masterpiece.
No, no on second glance it was not a stain but rather a tattoo. Yes, dear readers a tattoo on that most taboo ring of muscle.
Like passing a highway fatality involving a bus full of crippled nuns colliding with a tanker truck carrying sulfuric acid, I had to stop and stare. What the hell would you posses you to get tattooed there?! Can you imagine that tattoo session? Can you say ouch? I don’t even want to think about the post ink healing process. 4 weeks of scabbing and itching anyone? How do you keep it sterile? Fuck that, how hell do you take a crap?! Gah! The mind reels. Sadly, or possibly thankfully, the series of images in question chose to opt against using the ULTRA zoom lens and show a close-up of said tattoo as it was taking on the business end of her co-star so I still have no idea exactly what she chose to have permanently etched upon the ring of her ass.
Fortunately, some of his commenters guided him to ErosBlog and thus, to enlightenment.
(Monk’s post also links to a different photograph of the tattoo in question, for those of you whose fascination with the topic is not yet fully satiated.)
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Saturday, October 18th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
There’s a lot of extreme closeup shots to be seen at the gyno/medical fetish site Exclusive Club, but as usual for me, I found myself more entertained by some of the establishing shots. Does the doctor really need such a firm hold on her chin to look at her tonsils? Or is he, like, planning to anoint them?
And I also like this next shot (below), chaste though it is despite the schmear of KY jelly on her butt. I can just hear the doctor booming “We are done, thou well-greased wench! Begone from my exam table!”
(Upon mature reflection, it’s probably just as well I didn’t pursue a medical career.)
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Tuesday, September 2nd, 2008 -- by Bacchus
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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Sunday, August 31st, 2008 -- by Bacchus
An alert reader sent me this link to a Craigslist post featuring what looks like a semi-nude (one boob) shot of vice-presidential candidate Sarah Palin in her beauty queen days, complete with huge 1980s hair.
The nude picture was found in company with this pageant bikini-contest shot:
Is this Palin? I dunno. It could be a random brunette with “Alaska” photoshopped onto the banner. It could be her. I just dunno.
Moving along to the nude picture you’ve all been waiting for:
Now, understand, I’m terrible with faces. My face recognizer is so bad that I don’t recognize my friends at the grocery store, half the time. And to me, this grainy black-and-white face doesn’t jump out as “obviously” Sarah Palin — either the current mother of five or the pageant beauty we saw yesterday. It’s just some random brunette showing a breast.
But if we believe the bikini shot…
It’s a clever sort of misdirection. Similar backgrounds, same white drape, similar hair. But to my eye, the face is much more bland. I can’t say it’s the same girl; I don’t think it’s the same girl. But, you know, it maybe could be, if a guy wanted to believe badly enough.
While still trying to decide whether I had a picture worth showing you, I moved my attention to the awesome hot leather miniskirt photo in the same Craigslist post. I was suspicious of that one; Palin is not that tall and her legs aren’t quite that thunderous. Final nail in the coffin: The Museum of Hoaxes has the source photo that Palin’s headshot was chopped from.
From there, I followed links through a ValleyWag story to this photoshop contest page, where, hey guess what? They have the nude picture already! It turns out to be an old internet photo widely circulated as being a nude photo of some celebrity I’ve never heard of, one Julia Louis Dreyfus. And even then, the majority of the sites showing it advertise it as a fake — so it may not even be Ms. Dreyfus.
I deem it unlikely that a nude photograph of Sarah Palin has been circulating for years on the internet, being deliberately mis-labeled as a Julia Louis Dreyfus nude. I guess it’s a theoretical possibility, but if I were you I’d be more worried about flying monkeys shooting out of John McCain’s ass.
Bottom line, folks: You can’t believe just anything you see on the internet. This will not be the last “nude Sarah Palin” picture we see. It may not even be the last nude Sarah Palin photo you see on ErosBlog. But the next time you see one, it would be good to remain skeptical.
To be honest, the most interesting photo to me is the bikini one of the girl with the “Alaska” sash. Is that Palin? Finding it in company with Photoshops makes me skeptical, but it’s an attractive photo (actually, video screen capture I believe) and I’d enjoy having it confirmed.
As always when Photoshop enters a discussion on ErosBlog, commenters need to remember that I am ruthless about deleting expressions of insupportable certitude. Opinions and arguments are welcome, but absolute claims and excessive certainty (“that’s obviously fake”, “Of course that’s real”) are rude and foolish and will be moderated away.
Friday, August 22nd, 2008 -- by Bacchus
If you haven’t had your spankings lately, you might vicariously enjoy this very sexy account of a spanking. Excerpt:
I felt the hard plastic of my flat paddle brush against the crease of my ass and thighs, wide enough to get plenty of thud on both parts of my body. He’d occasionally stop and drag the bristles across my sore, red bottom; or use it on my pussy, raking it against my clit and swollen cunt. I’d shudder every time he raked my pussy, my legs buckling against the sensation—but not falling on my heels again lest he decide to add 10 more. I just wanted to drop to my knees and suck his cock. With a pussy so wet, how could he deny me a cock suck at this point? I was beyond horny, just dripping with lust, sex, lewdness. I wanted to be fucked and prodded.
When he noticed that I moved my pussy against the bristles of the hairbrush, he said, “So you like this, Slut? You like feeling your ass on fire? You enjoy getting a hairbrush used on your slutty little pussy?â€?
I turned my face to the side facing him, “Yes, Sir,â€? I breathed out heavily and groaned, almost crying with lust, “Please.â€?
“Please, what?â€?
“Please let me suck your cock.â€?
It’s on Spanking Blog, of course.
Tuesday, August 19th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Way back in the dark ages, when computer games were something that came on floppy disks that mostly weren’t actually floppy, it was not unheard of for a man to spend too much time playing his computer games, nor for his woman to complain about the amount of his time and attention she didn’t enjoy because of it. (Sometimes the gender arrow pointed the other way, but numerically, not often.)
Then came the internet, and massively addictive massively multiplayer online games, and the situation only got worse. As early as the late 1990s, the “EverQuest widow” phenomenon was getting widely remarked upon. Once World of Warcraft exploded on the MMORPG scene and increased the U.S. MMORPG playerbase to many millions, the “problem” became a widely-understood social phenomenon. (The gendered nature of “the problem” also diminished a little more.)
In geek male circles, it was common and easy to say “Dude, you’ve got an actual live girl in your house, and she’s mad at you because you’re playing with us and not with her? What’s wrong with you? LOG THE HELL OFF!”
But in practice, that doesn’t always happen. My own gaming policy has always been to attempt to prioritize “real life people” above my games. Phone rings? Answer it. Relative wants a hand? Log off and give it. The Nymph walks into the room to show me the panties she bought? Give her my full attention; the raid (the fleet, the gang, the quest, the mobs, the squad, the enemies, the targets, the loot) they are eternal, they will always be there when I get back. The panties? They are gonna walk out of the room, and it won’t take them very long, either.
But, it’s not always that simple.
Early on, it became clear to me that the type of game mattered. Shooting games weren’t quite as bad, because (although addictive) it’s a lot easier to drop in and out of fast-paced shooting games where deaths and respawns are common and mostly painless. But the immersive multiplayer games where you accumulate stuff, and getting the best stuff requires coordination between many different players? The people in those games are also “real life people”, and some of them become your friends, and you make commitments to them just as you would your meatspace friends, and those commitments have power. And that’s very very hard to explain to someone in your life who thinks you spend too much time “typing at that silly box” and cannot comprehend that it can take thirty seconds, or twenty minutes, to resolve in-game affairs to the point where you can safely avert your eyes from the screen.
Obviously living with a gamer helps, although sometime it just means it’s you who’s getting the “not tonight, I promised Malathion_69 that I’d help camp for dragon armor” treatment.
I eventually, and fairly recently, realized that the “I prioritize the real people in my life over my computer games” rule-of-thumb (perhaps call it an aspiration, as it’s not always an easy rule to follow) was a little bit broken. My gaming buddies, after all, are people too, and it’s rude, socially broken, possibly even a teeny bit sociopathic, to tell anyone, by word or deed, “you’re always my lowest priority.”
That said, what’s the real challenge? As always, we need to meet our social obligations, and when you share a house and a life and a bed with someone, they have a legitimate claim to a high-priority interrupt on whatever it is you do to fill your idle hours. But “high-priority” is not the same as “absolute”, nor is it the same as “immediate”. An enlightened balance is the ideal, and how Buddhist does that sound?
I was reminded of my developing thinking on this subject by a sad memory AAG recounts:
Wrapped in a blanket to keep off the cold and armed with tea, I’d take to the porch with a book and a tiny reading light. It was a lovely retreat, and most days I was at least moderately content to spend a few hours out there reading while my husband worked or played computer games.
But on the chilliest Friday something was different. Was it hormones? An extra-hard dose of child-inspired loneliness? Too long since our last attempt at sex? I don’t know, but on that Friday night I needed the comfort and warmth of the man who I’d hoped would be my partner forever. I suggested it to him as he headed off to his work and computer. “Can we have some time alone this weekend? Maybe tonight? Or tomorrow?” I asked, attempting the lowest-pressure sell possible.
“I’m not going to have the time,” he answered. “I really need to finish that project for work, and I need to organize everyone’s fantasy football picks by Monday. Maybe early next week?”
And then he scooted off, leaving me with book and tea on the desk.
It was the first of many moments of clarity I experienced over the state of our relationship. I cried, book and tea forgotten…
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Wednesday, July 2nd, 2008 -- by Bacchus
How come we don’t see more beach outfits like this one?
Sunday, June 29th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Violet Blue and others have been noting over the weekend that every mention of her name has recently disappeared from the archived posts at Boing Boing, for reasons unknown. Violet herself quite charitably maintains the notion that we may yet hear news of “termites in the servers”, and I hope that turns out to be so.
Links and commentary: Violet herself, Vox, Valleywag, Buntz, Tomorrow Museum.
ErosBlog never having been deemed Boingable, I can’t use myself to test my first wild theory: that creeping Federated Media corporatism has forced an archive cleanup to remove all the smutty stuff (not a result one would expect from FM or the Boingers in any case). However, Google still shows me 593 results for Boing Boing mentions of the once and future Reverse Cowgirl, Susannah Breslin, so there seems not to have been a general push to excise sex from the Boing Boing archives.
I am on record against the capricious deletion of blog archives, and my reasons are ones I’d expect to be shared by the sort of folks who Boing at Boing Boing. That’s the last blog on the internet that I’d expect would start purging archives, of anything. So, like Violet, I continue to hope that the coming week brings word of hungry termites.
7/1/08 Update: It’s official, Boing Boing vandalized its own archives for reasons that will remain private:
A blogger named Violet Blue noticed that we unpublished some posts related to her. Some people wanted to know why.
Bottom line is that those posts … were removed from public view a year ago. Violet behaved in a way that made us reconsider whether we wanted to lend her any credibility or associate with her. It’s our blog and so we made an editorial decision, like we do every single day.
…
We hope you’ll respect our choice to keep the reasons behind this private. We do understand the confusion this caused for some, especially since we fight hard for openness and transparency. We were trying to do the right thing quietly and respectfully, without embarrassing the parties involved.
Violet, meanwhile, says she doesn’t have the first clue what brought this on:
“I’ve been wracking my brain thinking of what issues I might’ve come down on the wrong side of. There’s been no argument, there’s been no disagreement, no flame war, none of the usual things. I haven’t blogged positively about anyone they hate. I haven’t decided that DRM is awesome. I’m not totally pro-AT&T wiretapping. I’m just trying to figure it out. If there’s an issue they have with me, they haven’t told me.”
As somebody who’s been linking to both parties for more than half a decade, I find the whole thing very distressing. I thought better of Boing Boing, I really did.
Another update: I’m starting to get really heartsick about what’s going on at Boing Boing — even though I know none of these people personally, it’s like I’m losing respected friends. First Xeni comes this close to calling Violet Blue a pile of shit:
The “unpublishing” versus “deleting” issue is this: the posts were removed from public view while an evaluation of what to do took place. We didn’t want to pay to host them on our blog anymore. This is also why we remove hateful, ad hominem attack comments from public view, too: this is our home, we are proud of the home we built and the guests who visit here with us, and we like spending time here ourselves — so we don’t like to leave piles of shit lying around on the floor.
But don’t look for it now, because the tackiness has been edited away. The same comment now reads:
The “unpublishing” versus “deleting” issue is this: the posts were removed from public view while an evaluation of what to do took place. We didn’t want to pay to host them on our blog anymore. This is also why we remove hateful, ad hominem attack comments from public view, too: this is our home, we are proud of the home we built and the guests who visit here with us, and we like spending time here ourselves.
Yuck.
Tuesday, May 27th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
There’s no excuse for this. It’s like the closing segment of the old Man Show — it’s pure, old-fashioned, mostly-harmless lechery. “Cheerleader” (not really, but she’ll pass) Angel Woods shows us her panties:
And then we transition rapidly to the gratuitous rear view. At this junction, no gentleman would be thinking thoughts containing phrases like “surprise buttsex”:
Finally, after cartwheels and handstands not shown here, it’s time for the cheerleader moment you’ve been waiting for ever since high school. I refer, of course, to: panty failure!
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Monday, February 25th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
OK, despite the appearance of the link at the bottom of this post, this is not a political post. Of course, what you do with said link, I wash my hands of that.
{*scrub* *scrub*}
One of the most ancient and funnest games on the internet is posting links that aren’t quite what they seem, tricking folks into clicking on them to their immediate surprise or regret. These days the cool kids seem to be calling this a “rickroll” — apparently there’s a YouTube music video by Rick somebody that’s been a frequent destination of misleading linkage lately. I’m an old fart, I remember when Goatse.cx and Tubgirl were all the rage. These things are timeless; I’m sure there’s somebody out there who remembers clicking a falsely-described link in their Mosaic browser to some ASCII penis art with ejaculating semi-colons.
With all that talk to serve as your warning, and with you bearing in mind the sorts of things ErosBlog routinely links to, here’s an Erosblog-Approved destination:
Celebrate Bush!
Saturday, February 9th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
There’s a video up at Atlanta Bondage under the title Can’t A Girl Pee In Peace? (Backup link.) I’m not going to re-publish it here, because it’s not, to my eye, erotic, nor funny either. However, it has some interesting social implications that aren’t likely to get mentioned anywhere else, there not being very many places that combine occasional social analysis with comfort in referencing a video clip featuring bare boobies and mildly kinky porn.
The “girl” in question is pretty clearly, to my eye at least, a model for one of the many porn sites that cater to the public urination fetish (subfetish category: women squatting to pee in the public streets). This model is bare breasted, smiling, and squatted-down right in the middle of some sort of street or public way (perhaps a wharf, or pedestrian mall). Here’s a cropped still from the beginning of the clip, in which I’ve highlighted the villain of the piece, to whom I am semi-arbitrarily assigning a male pronoun:
In the clip, he strides forward and kicks our incontinent heroine solidly in the ass, nearly knocking her over. The remainder of the clip shows her steadying herself with a hand, then turning and standing up to confront her attacker.
So, what’s going on here, and why is it interesting?
As it happens, I just read a piece by Chuck Klosterman in Esquire magazine about declining interest in professional boxing. As Klosterman explains it, people have lost interest in the sport of boxing because they no longer have a visceral relationship with the idea of hitting people or getting hit. A fine theory about which I have little opinion, never having been a fan myself of hitting people or being hit or watching big burly dudes do either one. But I was fascinated by Klosterman’s next line of speculation:
Now, I realize all of this is (obviously) more good than bad. I’m happy that avoiding physical confrontation has become so easy that I don’t even have to think about it. But I wonder: If the decline of boxing is the product of civilization’s detachment from physical fear, what is the accompanying downside? I think one possible answer might be a depressing brand of social overconfidence.
It is impossible to deny that the culture is coarsening. Everyone concedes this — even the people who are happy about it. It is now acceptable to say almost anything, about almost anyone, in a public space, and for no reason whatsoever. There is no line to step over, because such lines no longer exist. And I think those boundaries disappeared the moment people really, truly lost the fear of getting punched in the face. Americans have understood this intellectually for decades, but I don’t think we accepted it in totality until now. Adults are now so insulated by technology (and so protected by modernity) that the possibility of a physical consequence for any action is a psychological nonfactor. We have removed interpersonal fear from day-to-day behavior. Today, boxers are the only people who get hit for fucking up.
So, what does this have to do with our punted piddle-princess? Everything! His foot hitting her ass is a classic example of generation-gapped cultural conflict.
By my own lights, the peeing porn starlet was misbehaving. People who enjoy seeing girls peeing in public have a fetish, a modestly rare one. Most everybody else doesn’t want to see it, and they surely don’t want to step in it, or walk around it. At best, it’s horribly rude and socially transgressive to be doing what she was doing. Responsible pornographers would secure a movie set and provide sufficient extras to achieve the same visual effect without imposing their fetish on unwilling passers-by. And they would hire a dude with a mop, to clean up after.
I think it’s fair to speculate further that she and her photographer knew she was violating the social contract, but were sanguine about getting away with it. They probably worried about police intervention — perhaps they had a spotter watching for cops and ready to call a warning — but I suspect that it never occurred to her that any of the passers-by upon whom she was imposing her bare breasts and pussy and urine stream would take physical action against her to interrupt or to punish the imposition. People of her generation, or mine, just don’t do that sort of thing.
But our man (and I do think it’s a man, but I’m not sure) with the crazed white Einstein hair and the armload of files is not from our generation. He’s from a generation in which people cared a lot more about public propriety, and frequently took it upon themselves to enforce it with direct action. Doubtless he was offended by some half-naked [four letter term of derision] pissing in his path. Doubtless he considered he was doing a public service by applying a swift kick in the ass to both interrupt and punish the breach of the social contract. I have no doubt he felt good about doing it, and the way he stops and squares his stance after the kick suggests that he was ready to do it again if need be, or to stay and defend his actions otherwise. If we had an audio track, we’d be hearing somebody getting a piece of his mind about now.
So, who is really the villain of the piece? The pisser, or the kicker?
I’d like to weasel out with “a pox on both their houses”, but I need to acknowledge that it’s really not quite that simple. The trouble with enforcing social contracts with fists and feet is that social contracts aren’t really contracts, and they tend to get made up on the spot by cultural bigots and then enforced on people who never consented to them. (Don’t believe me? Ask Matthew Shepard.) I don’t really want people in my society feeling free to piss on my toes for profit, but I’m a lot more worried about living in a society where disagreements about appropriate public behavior get “settled” by sudden assault.
So, I guess my bottom line is, ix-nay on the ass-kicking. But I do agree with Klosterman that by creating a world where the ass-kicking is improbable, we’ve also created a world full of people who feel free to (metaphorically, most days) pee on your toes and tell you to go fuck yourself. That’s good more often than it’s bad, but it’s definitely a mixed blessing.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Saturday, January 5th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
As a man who spends a lot of time saying “No puppies! How would we…” I was amused by Heather Armstrong’s description of how she got her new puppy:
I won’t go into too much detail about how I persuaded my husband to get one of these puppies, just that I might have fallen to the ground, clutched the bottom of his pants, and dried my tears with his shoelaces. And then promised lots of naughty things involving whipped cream.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Wednesday, September 12th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Always Aroused Girl got asked, essentially, “why in the hell…?” More specifically, “why would a woman need anal sex, when she’s got a vagina, the ideal self-lubrified device that mother nature specially crafted for the purpose?”
She responded, in part:
Sometimes we do things not because we need to, but because we want to. Because we really REALLY want to. Because for months or even years, we’ve wanted to. Because something deep inside our tiny reptilian brains screams out in a voice that cannot be ignored, “Penetrate my bottom!”
And if you are wise, if you love your ass (and why wouldn’t you love your ass?) you will listen to that part of your brain, because (and this is the secret) ass sex feels really great to some people. It feels really great to some men and some women. It feels really great to some straight folks and some not-straight folks.
It doesn’t feel better than vaginal sex, nor does it feel worst than vaginal sex. It just feels different. It feels different in the same way that oral sex feels different than vaginal sex. It feels different in the same way that blue looks different from red. It feels different in the same way that lasagna tastes different from steak.
None of those things are intrinsically better or worse. They are just different.
If you are among those folks for whom anal sex feels really great, you’ll know what I mean, Annie. You’ll know exactly why it’s worth the effort to prepare your ass (and your mind) for anal sex. You’ll know exactly why you devote the time to working with your partner toward anal sex.
You do it because buttsex feels really great, and it feels really great to share that really great feeling with your partner.
And the only way you’ll know if you are one of the folks who loves anal sex is if you try anal sex.
But Annie, please don’t have anal sex until you know you want to try. When you are ready to try, a small voice in your head will start begging. You’ll be enjoying your traditional sexual activities when suddenly you’ll hear, “Play with me, please!”
And you’ll discover that it’s your ass begging for attention. If that happens, consider exploring buttsex.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Monday, August 13th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Gentlemen, if you’ve got a modicum of self-confidence about your skillz with teh butt secks and you’re pretty sure you’re not hurtin’ the lady or anything, yet she still seems unduly and persistently reluctant, it may help to remember that women, or at least Always Aroused Girl, sometimes worry about odd things at odd times:
For all the apparent confidence I might seem to have about buttsex, there have been times that it has completely terrified me.
Not because of the pain aspect. It’s never felt painful. Instead, I worry about poo.
Rationally, I know my bottom is simply confused. It’s so conditioned to interpreting that particular sensation as needing to use the facilities that I get panicky when I’m first entered. I worry that poo will make an appearance, even though I know there’s none there. I worry even though I know that my partner would still like me even if we had a minor poo-tastrophe.
I know those things, and yet I do more than my share of panicking. However, the longer I have successful buttsex, the more my confidence grows.
Not directly related to the above point, but I’m going to quote from later in the same post just for fun:
I gushed, and then I came in earnest. It was one of those orgasms that froze me in place and clenched every muscle in my pelvis. Apparently it felt pretty good to my friend too, because he wrapped his hand around my throat, clamped his teeth on my earlobe and moaned hard.
I nearly lost an earlobe and an eardrum but I didn’t care.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Monday, July 2nd, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Fans of the leading edge porn from San Francisco’s Kink.com have been looking forward for weeks to today’s grand opening of the new “reality BDSM” site, The Training of O. According to the promo material, The Training of O documents real, gritty, multi-day training sessions with submissive models, who “earn their stripes in erotic servitude” and “prove their determination to train by enduring grueling tasks of initiation.”
“Grueling tasks”, indeed! I am delighted and amused to see an old BDSM print-fiction trope come alive: namely, the huge and pointless dirty job for the naked slavegirl to perform, an endless round of weary nude labor with no earthly hope of completion in time to avoid punishment. This is grit you would not be seeing in your typical San Fernando Valley “omigawd, I might break a fingernail” posed-and-phoney BDSM porn. Here’s the glamor shot (from this introductory shoot) of a poor naked girl who’s been handed a shovel and pointed at a very large pile of dirt somewhere in the bowels of the awesome Armory shooting location:
Indeed, I was so entertained by this earthmoving project that I grabbed a few screen captures from the video. Those white heels and frilly sock-stockings are never gonna make it through this day:
Adding insult to injury, our unfortunate submissive is being made to haul that dirt quite a ways, which is real work when you do it with a shovel, as any former day laborer knows:
But the life of a slave can always get worse! Now the poor thing has lost her shovel privileges (my guess would be for excessive whining):
Does she look sufficiently put-upon yet?
Try not to look so abject, m’dear. Cheer up, we haven’t even gotten to the chaining-and-caning part, starring about eighty pounds of steel chain and your pretty bottom! But let’s not get ahead of ourselves; a girl who gets that dirty has to be very thoroughly washed.
A detailed story at Xbiz.com sets out the new site concept in even greater detail:
“It’s a startling site,” director James Mogul told XBIZ. “It’s ‘reality BDSM’ so that elicits a lot of reactions, and I think the content is super-strong. I would say it’s realistic in terms of what you might expect to see in an actual BDSM exchange.”
The basic premise of the site involves models videotaped over a weeklong course in submission training. “I’ve actually developed a training program,” Mogul said. “We take applicants and interview them and develop a curriculum based on their experience. Some girls we worked with are very experienced and some girls are brand new and I think we’re hitting a wide range of the scope. We are going to mix it up. The plan is to go with about 75 percent fresh talent and about 25 percent of the content will be experienced, known talent that we can kind of push boundaries with a little bit.”
Shot at the company’s new production facility, the massive San Francisco Armory building, Mogul is able to utilize several different sets to create a gritty, authentic atmosphere.
The spaces are beautiful. The decay is beautiful. It’s like walking onto a movie set all made for you,” Mogul said. “There’s really nothing that needs to be done in terms of the aesthetics, but there is a lot that needs to be done in terms of making production practical and that’s coming together very, very quickly.”
As always, it’s the aesthetics of the production that will set The Training of O apart from what’s been done before. Just one more example: Here’s Sarah Jane Ceylon in the handiest-ever slavegirl head box, complete with portable glory hole and cork:
Just the thing for punishments or blowjobs, or even for providing the peace and quiet a weary slave needs after a hard day’s training.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Friday, April 13th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Wife spanking? Bonnie is for it.
So much so, that she’s put together a handy list for other women who want to be spanked, but are having a little trouble convincing their menfolk to get with the program:
Fifty Reasons to Spank Your Wife or Girlfriend
Reason #50 made me laugh:
#50: If she didn’t agree, she wouldn’t have shown you this list!
Thanks to Spanking Blog for the link.
Wednesday, March 14th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Say what you will, but married sex doesn’t have to be either rare or (when routine) boring:
We go through condoms like matches. I began buying the large packs – 24 is it? One pack probably lasts us about a month. I would say that we probably make love 4 to 7 times a week. Sometimes daily.
It can happen in the evening during and after a kinky session, or late at night, half-asleep in bed, always following the same routine – he wakes me up, half asleep himself, by rubbing my body, caressing my breasts and rolling my nipples between his fingers, pulling down my panties and even delivering something like a vague, sleepy spank. I expose my breasts, whether it means pulling something up or down, or taking something over my head and throwing it on the floor. I remove the comforter from my chest, to feel the chill of the cold bedroom (always cold) on my bare skin, contrasted with the heat of his palm and fingers. I slip my hand between my legs and masturbate.
Inevitably, I turn over, kneeling on the bed, with my legs wide apart, my face either in the pillows or next to his. He continues to play with my breasts, as I often replay in my head various master/slave scenarios, imagining the power exchange between us. I close my eyes. He would often put his fingers into the dewy, slippery territory between my wide-spread thighs – caressing, running his fingers up and down, plunging them inside, penetrating me roughly, firmly, confidently. Sometimes I would come right there, around his fingers – I wonder if he can feel the muscles contracting. Sometimes I would come from a slightest touch of my intimate areas, sometimes from the breast stimulation. Last night was especially “dramatic,” as he put it this morning. It was loud.
The night sessions are always followed by an intercourse, almost always with me on top – I reach for the dresser drawer in the darkness, feel the condom wrapper with my hand – scratchy edges, smooth surface. Pull it out and present it to him. Put my lips around his penis and suck on it as if my life depended on it. He would lift my head off himself, place the condom on. I’d throw away the remaining clothes, if any left, climb on top of him and ride him into bliss [his bliss]. He might kiss me along the way, or slap my bottom sharply with his palm, or hold me by my neck, which I find especially hot, or my hair, or hold on to my hips and guide my body, or wrap his arms around me. I never come from an intercourse, but I love it – I like it slow and sensual, I like it rough, I like it either way – by then I am well lubricated. Sometimes I try to clench my muscles around him. He comes inside, always inside.
From A Farmwife With A Twist.
Monday, February 5th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Subbie Bunnie has something to say about erotic pain, starting with a practical tip:
you have a subbie that goes stoic? you have a girl that doesn’t cry out? i swear to god, this will fix it. take one normal ordinary chopstick. gently and sweetly take your bottom’s hand. place the chopstick across the nailbed (the root end, not the tip end). now, get ready, and press. HARD. and don’t stop pressing.. and listen to your subbie scream and scream and SCREAM. omigodpain. holy cow, holy shit, ow ow ow pain.
now, i should have taken it as a bad sign that his own slave (who takes a blade to her skin with barely a cry and the whip too) hold your head carefully in her lap and advises, “just scream. there’s really nothing else for it.”
…
i forget how the pain feels. i forget, and i need to feel it again. i’m addicted to it, to the heady spacey feeling of almost too much, of the breaths caught so hard my lungs rebel against the sharpness of the air. i long for the grey-sparkly blur of my vision when the whitehot flash of cane, or whip, or electric spark erases everything except for the heat in my pussy, the burn in my blood, the words on my lips, begging pleading for the almost otherwordly and almost equally agonizing burst of pleasure. like jumping in the deep end of the pool, when it’s not quite warm enough to swim yet, and the water is ice, and the shock is all you feel, all you can register, until your feet hit bottom , and bring you back, pushing, fighting, to the surface, and break out, gasping, into the glittering, blinding reality that is suddenly so much brighter.
hurt me again…
Wednesday, January 3rd, 2007 -- by Bacchus
The next time I’m at the beach and find a handy sand ledge, I want to excavate one of these:
So much more fun than carving a sand castle!
Thursday, November 2nd, 2006 -- by Bacchus
A friend of mine, a real-world meatspace friend going waaay back to my mis-spent youth, sent me a brief email note and a link the other day. This friend of mine is, I’d say, amused to find himself acquainted with an internet pornographer, but I do not think he’s convinced I’m making the best use of my talents and education. The email said, in its entirety but for salutations:
Of the various virtuous roles you might occupy in the greater human scheme, defender of the public peace didn’t come to mind first, but perhaps it should.
Yeah, he talks like that. It’s one of his many charms.
The link he sent was this one, to an article in Slate: How The Web Prevents Rape.
I’d seen previous references to the research documented in the article, but nothing so cogently written. A few excerpts:
First, porn. What happens when more people view more of it? The rise of the Internet offers a gigantic natural experiment. Better yet, because Internet usage caught on at different times in different states, it offers 50 natural experiments.
The bottom line on these experiments is, “More Net access, less rape.” A 10 percent increase in Net access yields about a 7.3 percent decrease in reported rapes. States that adopted the Internet quickly saw the biggest declines. And, according to Clemson professor Todd Kendall, the effects remain even after you control for all of the obvious confounding variables, such as alcohol consumption, police presence, poverty and unemployment rates, population density, and so forth.
Well, duh.
OK, so we can at least tentatively conclude that Net access reduces rape. But that’s a far cry from proving that porn access reduces rape. Maybe rape is down because the rapists are all indoors reading Slate or vandalizing Wikipedia. But professor Kendall points out that there is no similar effect of Internet access on homicide. It’s hard to see how Wikipedia can deter rape without deterring other violent crimes at the same time. On the other hand, it’s easy to imagine how porn might serve as a substitute for rape.
I said “Well, duh” because, as I wrote back to my friend:
To me, that’s one of those studies with a result that’s intuitively self-evident. (Not to devalue it; so much that is self-evident is also wrong.) The crux for me is in the sentences “It’s hard to see how Wikipedia can deter rape without deterring other violent crimes at the same time. On the other hand, it’s easy to imagine how porn might serve as a substitute for rape.”
In the canonical feminist view of rape, the brainless chant is that “rape is not about sex, it’s about violence and power.” I’ve always thought that to be arrant nonsense. Rape *is* violent, but that’s a statement about practicality and means, not motivation. It’s always seemed to me that rape must be about sexual frustration. Reduce the frustration, reduce the incidence of rape, quod erat demonstrandum. About as controversial as arguing that feeding people reduces hunger.
(If I had been writing the above for this blog rather than in email shorthand to someone who knows me well, I’d have been more cautious. Specifically, when I wrote “rape must be about sexual frustration” I’d have disclaimered it a bit; “many rapes are”, perhaps, rather than “rape must be”. And I would have been more tactful in my description of the opposing view.)
My own belief is that the internet porn effect is broadly beneficial, whatever its debatable effects on the rape statistics. Peeping Toms in the bushes used to be a staple of the suburban police blotters, but when was the last time you heard of one? Didn’t we used to get more high street raincoat flashers, before the internet came along and offered the sending of unsolicited dick pictures as a safer alternative?
I don’t have numbers to prove any of that, of course. Which is why I find the research quoted in Slate to be so interesting.
Tuesday, October 31st, 2006 -- by Bacchus
OK, so there’s a lot of bad porn out there. But sometimes — accidentally or on purpose — you find pure art. This picture looks like a scene from a morality play I might almost watch. If Norman Rockwell had been just a little bit pervier, he might have painted it, and given it a pretentious title. “The Unwelcome Invitation”, anyone?
Picture is from some Lupus Spanking porn found on Spanking Blog.
Friday, October 27th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
As long time readers will remember, whenever the subject of female ejaculation comes up, we hear from people wedded to their belief that female ejaculation is a myth and that female ejaculate is “just pee”. As I said last time, “Erosblog is NOT going to be a forum for spreading sexual ignorance and doubt on this topic.”
For any lingering doubters among my readership, however, I submit a couple of posts from Giardino del Piacere: Wet Emails and More Wet Emails. Lots of intimate details from women who have no reason to dissemble:
First, I’d love everyone to know, normal women like Eva and me ejaculate. I can’t speak for Eva, but I’m no porn star. I’m a woman rapidly approaching menopause. I have history, boobs that sag some, squishy thighs and a drooping bottom. Nope, not porn star material at all, but I can sure squirt like one.
Second, I believe and as she indicated in her messages, Eva believes, that any woman can learn to ejaculate. It takes only a willingness to let go when the urge to ‘let go’ hits. If you’ve ever experienced a screaming urge to pee while having great sex or bringing yourself pleasure, you are probably a squirter waiting to be born. You’re never too old or young to learn. Eva has a long history of ejaculating, mine is something I’ve discovered within the past year.
Third, squirting not a bad or dirty thing. It is not urine. No, I’m not a physiologist or a physician. I’m the owner of the coochie that drenches the bed. At my age, I truly know the difference between urinating and the sensations I have when I ejaculate. Often I have to visit the bathroom shortly after sex. Logic tells me if I were urinating and not squirting I would have relieved myself.
Tuesday, October 17th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Over at Making Light, there’s a complete roundup of the tale of one Fred Head (D – Texas). With a name like the hero of an Ogden Nash comic ballad, he decided to live up to the name, attacking his Republican opponent for having once written “pornography”, aka a tame romance novel. Tame, I tell you:
Ross gave a quick tug and her pajama bottoms slid away with a quiet rustle. Suddenly she was bare. He thrust his leg between hers, and a deep heaviness throbbed in her belly. He was hard, pressing against her, and she moaned.
She needed him to fill the aching void at her center.
With devastating slowness, his hand cupped her completely before he slowly slid a finger into her warmth…
Oooh, suddenly she was bare! Bare, I tell you!
It gets better — once this escapade started hitting the blogs, someone sounding a lot like Fred went around posting comments in support of himself, referring in the process to “Absence Only” sex education policy when he (presumably) meant “Abstinence Only”.
Needless to say, the righteously justified ridicule continues to accrue.
Saturday, September 30th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
In which Monmouth demonstrates the fine art of gift-giving:
For her 40th birthday, I gave Betty a belated present: A shiny, black hand-poured silicone buttplug, tapered in shape, with a generous bell end at the bottom, just above the recess.
It was destined to fit snugly into her tight, pink anus.
…
I smeared some lube on the puckered opening of her ass, and buried my cock again in the wet depths of her pussy. Betty pressed back against me, driving herself onto my hard shaft, and I slid my thumb experimentally into the lubricated tightness. She let out a deep groan.
“Fuck…” she muttered, and I pulled my thumb out to reach for the plug. Teasing her, I slid it down the slippery crack of her ass, down to the waiting anus, and began to massage her with it, gently. With one hand on her hip, I kept her still, just the tip of my cock still inside her, and pressed the tapered smoothness of the buttplug against the resisting muscle.
“Open up,” I purred. “Show me how you take it in your ass.”
Monday, September 11th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
There’s an astonishing firestorm of controversy swirling around a recent event in which someone (male) posted a woman-seeking-sex personal ad on Craigslist. The responses, including the usual spectrum of cock pictures, were collated and made public on a wiki, along with all the contact information provided by respondents. There seems to be an ongoing effort to develop the wiki to more fully “out” the folks who responded, augmenting their information with whatever else can be found out about them from public sources and from those who may know them.
Predictably, all hell has broken loose. Details available from BoingBoing, Violet Blue, and many other sources. The most popular sentiment appears to be that this was a horrid and hateful thing to do.
But was it?
I find myself unable to get very worked up about this. Indeed, I can see a positive side. This might even be a good thing for the online sex personals ecosystem.
I’m reasoning thusly: Online sex personals are, by all reports, a toxic ecosystem. Serious seekers after sex partners, especially female ones, have to wade through an astonishing volume of bizarre, ugly, inappropriate responses in order to find the few “real” responses. For example, a woman emailed BoingBoing with this description, which sounds typical of many other accounts I’ve read:
I’ve posted a few “Casual Encounters” ads at different times looking for various things. The first ad alone received over 300 replies. Some of them were beyond repugnant — the bestiality proposition springs to mind. The majority were unappealing but mundane — people who just didn’t dance the same way I do, mentally speaking, didn’t know how to compose a well-thought-out email or articulate themselves attractively. Those were ones like the one-liner “yo, hit me on MSN”, that kind of thing. I received a lot of dickpix. Then, there were a tiny fraction that drew me in and showed me that as much consideration had gone into their reply as I put into my original post. Those were people I connected with, corresponded with (from a gmail account), and eventually met.
Speaking to all men, let me say this: Mailing a potential female sex partner an unsolicited picture of your dick is not appropriate, it’s not smart, it doesn’t work, it brands you as a vulgar idiot, and it makes all men look bad by gender association with your fucked-up self. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. I repeat, don’t do it. Man law, got it?
So I have no, none, zero, zip, nada, a distinct absence and lack, of sympathy for the guys who are pissing in the well with these inappropriate responses.
Why do they do this? Well, one reason is that they can get away with it. It “feels” anonymous, there’s a perceived zero cost, it’s like socially-approved flashing because nobody sees you except someone who (faintly, theoretically, but not really) “was asking for it.”
Well, guess what? It’s not as anonymous as it feels. As proven by the events prompting this post.
What happened here is that the flasher creeps have been exposed in public, for everyone to point and laugh at. That’s a bad thing? I don’t see how. If it becomes routine, maybe they’ll stop.
Folks who feel differently seem to feel that there’s been a betrayal of some reasonable expectation of privacy, some unwritten social contract that has been protecting these virtual flashers. Huh? If there’s any expectation of privacy in a picture of your johnson that you send to a most-likely-uninterested recipient, it sure as heck isn’t a reasonable expectation.
But what about the few serious, non-offensive responders caught up in this same net? What about the “tiny fraction that drew me in and showed me that as much consideration had gone into their reply as I put into my original post” guys?
I still don’t think they have any reasonable expectation of privacy in their responses, but much more importantly, I don’t see how they were harmed by this exercise. A guy that’s free to be looking for sex on the internet, who writes an inoffensive “you sound like a fun lady, I’d like to get together” letter, how is he harmed? Now the world knows that he’d like to meet women and have sex. The world did not suspect this already? Where is the harm?
My bottom line is that this is just like the old advice from your mother, about not leaving the house while wearing dirty underwear, because you could get hit by a truck and somebody might see it. To me it seems only sensible: don’t write personals responses that you wouldn’t want to see on the front page of the newspaper. Because, in the final analysis, email sent to strangers is an essentially public medium. Argue about whether it ought to be public, we may — but change the fact that it is public, I don’t think we can. (Whoops, Yoda moment, sorry.)
This is not a manifesto, I’m not walking way out on a limb in defense of these opinons. These are merely my preliminary reactions to an interesting story. I don’t use personals myself, so I don’t have a dog in this fight. Judging by the firestorm sweeping the net over this, emotions run hot. Agree or disagree, I’d like to remind everyone who might wish to comment here on ErosBlog that the comments are heavily moderated, and your input needs to be civil and friendly or it simply won’t be seen.
Tuesday, September 5th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
In which Femme Fatale demonstrates why girlfriends have nothing to fear from strippers:
To return to the moment: the moon is outside my window and my sleepy mind is fuzzy as I think about strippers and lap dances and how I must be better than a skanky exotic dancer. But how can I show him? How can I prove my worth not only as a good, loving girlfriend but as a versatile sexual being with so much to give? My mind slithers over possibilities in my sexually creative head, my voice is soft, sweet, yet full of need and unbridled interest,
Babe, I’m into cock-bondage. Don’t worry, its not the crazy kind, just the fun kind and I promise you’ll like it.
Without waiting for a response, I reach behind his head to my jewelry rack that hangs on the wall of my currently being-re-decorated room and take my 35 inch strand of antique natural pearls. His waiting cock is standing forth like a monument to the night and to all his little sex driven mind can conceive. Delicately and with small, soft hands, I wrap the pearls around his cock, starting at the bottom of his thick shaft and twining up, completely encasing his hard flesh in pearls. When at last the pearls were in place, I took both ends and pulled gently, flicking the head of his cock with my tongue.
His reaction was palpable as his hand covered his mouth, his breath coming harsh and thick, fast. His cock too was reacting, pulsing and swelling against the pearls. With each surge of his flesh, the pearls ripples into it exciting him even further. As I sucked and licked away at his sensitive head, he became like stone inside my mouth, harder and thicker than he’s ever been before, the head showing red and swollen in the blue tinted light of the dappled moonlight.
His breath was coming harsh and his comments rippled forth like curses to God as his body tensed and he writhed on the bed,
Oh baby, this is the best sensation I’ve ever felt in my entire life, I swear. Oh my god. It just feels so awesome.
I smiled gently with satisfaction as my mouth luxuriated over his cock, his body, his mouth and his pulsing cock giving me feedback that only increased my need to make him come hard and finalize his grand sensation.
Without warning I pulled the end of the pearl strand up and over his cock and away, the pearls rubbing him as the streamed upwards, massaging his already maniacally aroused cock. He moaned and his body tensed the nth degree, his words only grunts and a long streaming moan issuing from his mouth followed by a laugh of sheer pleasure and amazement.
His moan was even deeper as I slid his whole length into my mouth, letting the tip of him touch the back of my throat before sucking upwards. After a few moments and his fingertips sliding at the base of his engorged cock, his hips bucked before he came with a force that nearly drowned me, his come hitting the inside of my throat and causing me to hold back gagging as he came stronger than he ever has.
Thursday, August 3rd, 2006 -- by Bacchus
I was busy last month when Violet Blue wrote up the Vintage Spanking Photos blog:
A wonderfully simple concept, the Vintage Spanking Blog features a regularly updated installment of pictures of lusciously round, imminently smackable female bottoms from times gone by … or at least squirmier, sore-cheeked times of yore…
Busy I was, but I did make a mental note that I wanted to pass on the link. This is “pretty bottoms” week on Vintage Spanking:
Mmm, indeed it is.
Thursday, July 13th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
The reason Erosblog doesn’t cover more mooning stories is that available photography usually features normal guys with semi-hairy butts — not a particular erotic trigger for your humble reporter, nor indeed, so far as I know, for any appreciable and identifiable fraction of the blog readership. However, I must admit that the Moon Amtrak website features one nice side view of a well-turned female bottom:
Thanks to Functional Ambivalent for the link.
Sunday, June 4th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Almost two years ago I posted my controversial opinion that blogging services suck, citing an incident where LiveJournal killed a vibrant vintage erotica resource and concluding:
Anything worth doing on the internet is worth doing at your own domain that you control.
I still feel this way. Latest evidence, from LiveJournal again: apparently they are threatening to suspend users who dare to display the dreaded nipple, even when it belongs to the Virgin Mary and is being suckled by none less holy than the Blessed Baby Jesus:
Picking to the bottom of a huge flapdoodle with many nuances, the bottom line is that LiveJournal recently changed a FAQ explaining its TOS; the TOS prohibits “inappropriate” imagery, and the FAQ change nerfed a “graphically sexual” interpretation of “inappropriate”, replacing it with a “nudity” interpretation. In short, the prudishness got kicked up several notches. Obviously, folks object to the idea that all nudity is inappropriate by definition, because it’s such a fundamentally silly and stupid idea.
LiveJournal owner Six Apart has issued the classic corporate non-apology, stating in effect (I’m paraphrasing, and not with sympathy) “We’re sorry our new no-nipple policy makes us look stupid and bad, but we’re really not stupid and bad, so we’re not sorry for doing stupid bad stuff to our users, and we’re gonna keep doing it, neener neener, thank you for your support.”
In the Making Light post cited above, a commenter offers up a potential explanation of the corporate business pressures that might be responsible for all this anti-nipple stupidity. He then concludes with a version of my point from two years ago:
But the one thing this whole debacle proves is, you should never trust a public corporation to hold your blog or social network, because they will always try to place the interests of their shareholders ahead of the desires of their customers.
Exactly. Get your own domain, and get it hosted by somebody smart who knows he’s selling bandwidth, and that you’re the customer. And if you want to show some nipple, make sure your host has customers who sell real pornography on their sites. I promise, a web host with customers selling Street Blowjobs or Cum Fiesta is just going to laugh like hell at anyone who emails to complain about your nipples, whether or not there’s a baby attached.
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Wednesday, May 31st, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Let’s be honest. Usually when a sex toy seller sends me a product for review, the best reaction I can find is a profound shrug. (It can be worse; I actually had one outfit send me a pair of size four stripper shoes, complete with transparent acrylic spike heels. The only person I know who would enjoy these just turned thirteen without outgrowing her princess complex, and I can’t figure out how to get them into her possession without her parents thinking I’m some sort of horrid creep, so that’s right out.)
Generally it’s: Oh, look, yet another vibrator, only this one smells like vinyl apricots and falls apart when you press it against…anything. Whatever. Batteries not included? Trashcan.
So I’ll confess to some skepticism when I got a package from Wild In Secret. But I like opening packages, so what the hell. It’s free stuff, how bad can it be?
Ask rather: How good?
Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce the first vibrator I ever saw that makes me feel the way all men feel when they first acquire a fine high-quality power tool. Behold, the Phantasy Sinnflut:
This is honest-to-God German engineering in a sex toy. First impression: Pretty! Nice color, friendly shape, nubbins on the end are kinda erotic-looking:
Second impression: Feels nice! The shape fits easily in the hand, and the texture (medical-grade silicone) feels more like flesh than the usual hard plastic or vinyl.
Third impression: Whoa! Is that a charging base? Is this thing rechargable, like my trusty Black & Decker electric screwdriver that I bought in 1997 and still use every week? Muah-ha-ha-hah!
Sure enough. No batteries, never again! Wheeee! And hey, the prong that fits in the charging base doesn’t have any exposed contacts, it must use inductance the way the fancy new electric toothbrushes do. Does that mean the Sinnflut is waterproof? Lemme check: Yup, the website says it is, although, sensibly enough, the user instructions (in four languages) are very clear about keeping the charging base out of the bathroom and away from water. Duh, that part plugs into the wall.
Now let’s fiddle with it. (Alas, The Nymph is out of town, so I can’t subject the Sinnflut — or The Nymph, for that matter — to full operational field testing.) OK, that little button is the on-off switch, nice buzz, but just one speed? That can’t be right. (Fiddle fiddle.) Aha! The nubbin that goes in the charge is also a speed control. Press it sideways and this thing goes from zzz to buzz to BZZZZZZ to “ARGH, I should stop pressing it against my face because my teeth are buzzing and my fillings are shaking loose.” This thing goes to eleven. (And past, it turns out — there are a couple of intermittent vibration modes you get if you press the stud again once it’s at max power.) Bottom line: way more powerful than a typical battery vibe, feels more like a hand-held plugin “electric massager”. But dials way down to a gentle hum if you like that sort of thing.
I’ve gotten some nifty free swag in the mail since starting this blog, but right now I think the Phantasy Sinnflut may be the coolest sex toy ever sent to me for review. Once The Nymph gets home, I’ll try to update my first impressions with some useability reports.
Friday, May 5th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Farmboyz seems to put a lot of thought into his shaving:
I left the bedroom without answering him. I began to collect what I would need, and that included my thoughts about doing this. Within seconds of his request, I had decided that shaving Jamie would not be much of a turn-on for me, but that I did love seeing the way passion wracked his slender body, making his back arch like the flare of a sunspot, and causing the shaking muscles of his legs to knot. With this in mind, I was curious to see what heightened reactions this ritual might produce. He was calling me from the bed.
“Just a minute. I’m getting some stuff together for this.”
I opened the linen closet and collected my favorite faded soft blue towel in the folds of which you may hear the ocean. In the bathroom, a fresh double-edged Good News razor and a can of mentholated Gillette Foamy. I would need a bowl of water, and once I had selected that bowl and filled it, there would be nothing left to delay my return to the bedroom. I stood in the pantry, fussing over this decision.
I thought about the young man in my bed who was calling my name. I felt as if I were about to be admitted into the last room of him, and that once I had inspected its contents, I’d be slipping out the back door, with no farewells, and with no intention of returning. Jamie might remain with me for days or weeks longer, but there would be distance between us that he would not notice.
I stretched to reach a high shelf, pulling down an old stoneware bowl, the bottom of which was incised with “Ruckel’s Pottery, 1870, White Hall, Ill.” It was glazed with the same cornflower blue of the towel. Men with eyes of this color can own me if they wish. Jamie’s eyes were this color.
I wondered what the previous owners of this bowl would feel about its imminent employment. Sensible women of the heartland. Daughters of the pioneers, preparing simple food grown on their plains, gently hand washing this bowl for decades, keeping it bright and flawless. I saw them with their hands folded in their laps, seated on small chairs in a circle around the bed, around Jamie, who is smiling up at me as I return to the bedroom, his knees drawn up to his chin and his dick drooping like a sprig of lilac onto the dark sheets.
But don’t he write purty?
Friday, March 3rd, 2006 -- by Bacchus
With a title like “Toasted Buns” on a sex blog, you’d expect a spanking picture. But you’d be wrong:
There’s the sort of woman who’s no fun to go camping with (“Honeeee, I need to wash my hair…”) and then then there’s the sort who is.
Friday, February 24th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
I don’t know whether this ever-so-cute underdressed skier is engaged in a demure mooning, or whether she suffered a failure of her outerwear. Either way, I thought it was a great image to share in honor of the concluding Winter Olympics:
Monday, February 6th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Dan Savage recently published a collection of letters in his Savage Love column, reporting on some real bad “how I lost my virginity” stories. This one poor girl says she got electrocuted, thrown naked into the street, sunk (naked) in a lake, had to walk home naked again, and more:
We first tried at his house. We thought the shower would be a “sexy” place to do it and that the rushing water would also be a nice cover for any strange noises. In this particular tropical country, showerheads are often electric and some fool had made theirs out of metal. I touched the showerhead briefly and was shocked so severely that I fell and spun out across the floor. At that point his host mother barged in, dragged me out of the house by my feet (buck naked, mind you), called me a ”whore,” and kicked me to the curb.
We came up with another brilliant idea: We would borrow something similar to a rowboat from a friend, paddle out onto the local lake, and get the deed done. This boat was something like 20 feet long, about 1 foot deep, and about 4 feet wide, and made of wood. We brought the necessary items: a bottle of liquor, a joint, and a condom. We paddled out and were almost instantly naked. I stuffed our clothes under the seat in the front of the boat. After one slug of the booze and one puff off the joint, we commenced to clumsily roll around in the bottom of the boat. We were about to do the deed when I told him my ass was getting wet.
“That’s supposed to happen,” he said.
A little lesson in boats: They sink slowly until they’re about half full of water, then they go down like lead weights….
My favorite part: “That’s supposed to happen,” quoth young Lothario. Blub blub.
Wednesday, January 11th, 2006 -- by Aphrodite
You read it here first! Evil Science Chick is increasing her science empire by doing sex toy reviews. Last time she just teased us with a mention of the toy. This time she went all Consumer Reports for us, dishing it out on the Top-Tough rabbit vibrator.
amusing aside: the woman who rung up the toy informed me that this was a very good jackrabbit toy for “beginners.” Apparently, only EXPERIENCED jackrabbit users should utilize the purple colored ones with the plasta-chromed bottom that cost $10 more. Remember that, folks. Stick to sex toys APPROPRIATE for your skill level.
Find out how she rated it yourself, and be amused by images of little crockpots for lube in the process! ESC also asks for information, so leave a comment about your rabbit experiences. It’s for science, people! :hehe:
Thursday, December 22nd, 2005 -- by Bacchus
I have received via email from The Girl an entertaining set of instructions for properly and accurately measuring a penis. The instructions for measuring won’t offer much that’s new to anyone who ever attended a quantitative methods class, or, for that matter, who showed up in pre-school on the day they handed out the little plastic rulers. No indeed, the best parts of the article are the sardonic illustrated instructions on how not to do it:
Figure 2: Outer Limits Method
Incorrect
In this view from behind, notice how the starting and ending points of the measure again give a false
impression of the usable portion of the penis itself.
The penis
is never supposed to be measured to the geographic center of the ass pucker.
|
Monday, November 14th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
It seems that Annie’s husband has discovered the silver lining, er, behind having an allergic wife:
I was likely snoring alluringly – we all know how sexy a good snort and snotty sniff is – which naturally drove my man wild with desire and, no longer able to restrain his need, I felt him get on the bed behind me and spoon, the rowdy beast poking at his lair’s door insistently. Herein lies another effect of “severe allergy” pills. Being antihistimines, they dry everything up – everything except my nose that is – requiring the horny, and now grumbling, man to get up and rummage the nightstand drawer for the lube.
At that point he was truly a man on a mission, he was gonna Get Some and Get It Now. He lifted me up onto my knees and elbows and was quickly home with a virile plunge. The thing about hay fever is that as long as ya stay really still with your eyes closed, the symptoms can be held at bay. The minute ya move and open your eyes, It’s All Over. With Robert fucking happily away, I sneezed and Robert says, “Whoa! Sneeze again!”
“Huh? What happened to gezundheit?” I query in disbelief.
“Gezundheit. Now sneeze again. Man, that feels amazing!” he sez, thrusting the beast in to the hilt and holding, waiting for the next sneeze. “Come on, look at the light or something… sneeze for me, baby.”
Sneeze for me, baby? I’ve heard of cumming on command, but sneezing on command? Now, this is kinky.
“Um…” I responded brilliantly.
“Come on, baby, SNEEZE!” he commanded, slapping my ass hard. Then again.
Damned if that didn’t work. The stimulation did indeed set off a new round of sneeze – or maybe it was just convenient timing – but Robert got his desire. The way he moaned it must have been pretty darned good.
“It would be even better in your ass,” I heard through the nose pill haze. Soon, the beast had poked his head into my tight, unprepped bottom.
“OWWW-choo! Shit, Robert!” Aaahhh-choo! My hay fever attack was officially exerting itself again in full force. So I’m sneezing and bugfuck stupid with a cock up my ass and my man is moaning “oooh baby, it’s sooo good”.
It just doesn’t get any kinkier than this.
I suppose you could try this at home (even without allergies) using a bit of black pepper. Or, for the truly retro Victorian shopgirl experience, snuff.
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Saturday, October 22nd, 2005 -- by Bacchus
One of the common mostly-false slams against porn in this era of globalisation is that the performers are mostly coerced sex slaves, or at least impoverished scared young girls with few options. (I’m not making this up as a straw man argument; see, e.g., the Biting Beaver (her term): “You CANNOT know if the girl you are masturbating to is, in reality, a sexual slave from Austria who has a gun pointed at her head just off camera.“)
Yeah. And you cannot know that the bottle of salad dressing you pour on your salad isn’t full of stale unpasteurized jizz from bored wanking food factory workers, either. But that doesn’t make it likely, or stop you from eating creamy salads. Why not? Because of branding. If you worry about funky jizz in your dressing, you buy a reputable brand from a company you trust, one that’s got white-coated vat inspectors and security cams all over the factory floor. And, if you really worry, you do research. You get a tour of the factory, or (more likely) read the article in Consumer Reports by the reporter who worked there for three days undercover. The point is, you check into it a little bit.
This is perfectly possible with porn. By way of local example, these issues came up in a peripheral way in this post about real sex in BDSM porn, where a couple of readers suggested in the comments that making such porn was degrading and unsafe for the models, only to be confronted by other readers who were able to vouch for the porn company in question based on personal acquaintance with the models and producers.
And that’s how you check out your porn brand. Research. You look for accounts (which are all over the web, since many models have blogs) of what it’s like to work for a particular porn company, how they treat their people, how the sets are run, whatever you’re worried about. Of course you can’t disprove sensationalist claims about porn factories full of enslaved Eastern European beauties this way — folks who want to cling to that fantasy will continue to do so, brandishing their “news” stories from The Weekly World News, National Enquirer, and Reader’s Digest — but you can satisfy yourself, along with any other reasonable people who might be curious, that the porn you buy is sex slave free.
To pick another flamboyantly outrageous example, how about the notoriously severe spanking and caning DVDs produced by Lupus Pictures? They are often cited as an example of a company that must abuse and exploit its models, because what right-thinking innocent girl would voluntarily consent to an ass-whipping that leaves her in tears with flaming red welts on her bottom? (Short answer: There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreampt of in your philosophy.)
Here are couple of a relatively mild screen capture samples so we know what we are talking about, courtesy of Lupus Spanking [2014 update: now defunct]:
And now some samples from an article by and an interview with Niki Flynn, who went to Prague to make a movie with these “evil werewolves from the East”. From the article (link broke awhile ago, see this .txt mirror):
I never thought of myself as a girl who could survive a Lupus-style caning. I cringe and wince when I watch the films and say, “There’s no way I could take that!” I’d heard the internet rumours, of course — about the innocent, impoverished Czech girls who are seduced by the money into being abused by the evil werewolves from the East. But I’d look at the “behind-the-scenes” pictures on the website and see everyone having a good time, laughing and horsing around, even after the canings. So the rumours never seemed to have any substance. Besides, the same girls turn up again and again to do films; they clearly know what to expect.
…
The thing that impressed me most of all was the consummate professionalism of everyone involved. This was not a group of pornographers making dirty pictures, nor was it a cruel band of misogynists delighting in taking advantage of girls who couldn’t say no. This was a real film crew working on a real film. In addition to the director, producer, script supervisor, makeup artist, properties and wardrobe mistress, caterer, cameramen, boom operator, still photographer, actors and (ahem) stunt girls, there were people on hand to offer us refreshments, comfort or anything else we needed.
…
Did it hurt? Of course. Did I enjoy it? Absolutely not. Do I regret it? Not for a moment. In fact, I had the time of my life. So did William. I knew exactly what I was getting into and I did it because this is what I like. And when it was over and I lay sobbing over the desk, I felt what mountain climbers must feel when they reach the peak. I was so high on the feeling of accomplishment and so lost in the roleplay that I nearly wished I could have some more! And when I look at the marks now I have a sense of pride and achievement. I savor the marks. No one who isn’t into this can ever truly understand. Boxers and footballers suffer broken noses and concussions. No one criticizes them or calls their sport unhealthy. What we do is so much safer. It’s really a shame so many people misunderstand.
Hmm, she doesn’t sound helpless or exploited, does she?
From her interview:
David: There are many rumors about the girls who perform in Lupus productions. Some believe that they attract poor, starving, drug-addicted Eastern European Girls. Now I know that this isn’t true. Prague is often referred to as ‘The Paris of the east”. The Czech Republic is not a third world country. What myths about Lupus would you most like to dispel?
Niki: (Sigh) Yes, the famous urban legends. I think that those rumors are insulting to the girls actually. It’s true, some people think of the Czech Republic as a third world country and that the girls are all uneducated and bullied into it. Or, they have no choice because they are so desperate for money they will do anything. The truth is that the Czech Republic isn’t a third world country; it’s a middle income country that has just joined the European Union. Most of the Lupus crew are friends on the Czech BDSM scene. Some of the girls do it because they are genuinely kinky — they come back again and again. Some may do it for money, but it’s not a crust of bread. They are paid a professional rate. On the set, they are treated as professional actors. The production team at Lupus couldn’t have been more professional or more concerned for my safety — for all of the performers’ safety.
And that’s how you know that the girl in your favorite video doesn’t have an off-camera gun pointed at her head.
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Sunday, July 17th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
This is perhaps the most energetic bit of sex prose I’ve ever had the pleasure to read:
…and then I twigged, this must be her special ploy to rouse the roues, playing the helpless fawn shrinking before the roaring ravisher. Wasted on me, absolutely; cowering or brazen, it’s all one to your correspondent; as she turned to flee, whimpering, I siezed her amidships, tossed her into the air, planted her on hands and knees, and was installed before she could budge, roaring feigned endearments to soothe her pretended alarm and bulling away like fury. With two lost months to make up for, I’d no time to waste on further refinements, nor, I fear, did I treat her with that solicitude which a considerate rider should show to his mount, especially when she’s barely five feet tall and half his weight. Having slaked what the lady novelists would call my base passion, I staggered up and collapsed on the bed, most capitally exhausted, leaving her prone and gasping on the carpet with her little bottom a-quiver, very fetching, and her hat and veil still in place.
From Flashman And The Angel Of The Lord by George MacDonald Fraser.
Friday, May 20th, 2005 -- by Dionysus
I really should put the answer to ‘what is that’ after the cut in an extended entry. But you know, for some reason I’m not going to.
Still. Play along. Take a guess. What exactly are those things?
 ?
What they are, is animal-penis-shaped dildos. No, I am not kidding. Top to bottom, those are:
Raccoon, Crocodile, Orca, Kangaroo.
I’m telling you, I am not kidding.
These simply – um – amazing creations courtesy of the very, very interesting people at Zeta Creations (zoofur.com).
And frankly I’ve never seen anything like them.
Sunday, April 3rd, 2005 -- by Bacchus
After that post last week featuring frat boy buttocks, it only seems fair to give equal time to the callipygean delights that sorority girls (or, at least, the young ladies who masquerade as sorority girls while making soft-core pornography) have to offer. This fetching tableau spotted over at Spanking Blog ought to do nicely:
Cute cute cute!
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Thursday, March 3rd, 2005 -- by Bacchus
In the last couple of weeks I’m sorry to say there’s been a huge influx of nastiness into the ErosBlog comments. (I’ve had to delete more comments in the last week than in the entire six months prior.) We’ve got a lot of new readers right now, and perhaps some of you aren’t aware of the one rule for commenting here:
“Don’t be a dick.”
Here’s my original explanation, reposted from the archives:
Don’t Be A Dick
When I got to college, one of the two poor sophomores assigned to my freshman dorm to inject some sanity thereinto called us clueless freshmen together and spake thusly:
“In a lot of these freshmen entries, they have all kinds of rules. I don’t like rules. So we are only going to have one. Don’t be a dick.”
And we mostly weren’t, and we had a great time. The moral and political lesson I took from that, namely that small communities don’t really need more than one rule, is possibly the most valuable thing I learned in college. Thanks, Josh!
By popular demand…I’ve decided to install a commenting facility here at ErosBlog. However, I’d like to ask you all to remember Josh’s rule. I work at keeping the tone here relentlessly sex-positive and unwaveringly non-judgmental. I may slip up, but that’s the goal.
I welcome your comments, but I’m simply not interested in creating a forum for haters, condemnators, repressive creeps, and the like. Lively debate, at times, is to be expected. But nastiness and anti-sex messages (and personal attacks of any sort, on anyone) will probably be deleted summarily. Be nice and play nice, please?
Thank you.
Further exposition, which should not be needed, but seems to be:
If you’re posting personal attacks against other commenters, you’re probably being a dick.
If you’re posting hostile criticism of anyone, including the people I quote or post about, you’re probably being a dick.
If you are using profanity or sexual slurs to describe anyone, you’re probably being a dick.
If you’re condemning anyone’s sexual choices, you’re probably being a dick. If you are criticising anyone’s sexual choices without exaggerated politeness, you’re probably being a dick.
Don’t be a dick.
That is all! (Oh, except for: thanks from the bottom of my heart to all of you who play nicely and make the comment-moderating duty worthwhile.)
Saturday, January 29th, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
When I saw this report, I almost fell out of my chair laughing. Live Science reports that male monkeys pay to see female monkey bottoms.
But wait, it gets better. Guess what the Duke researchers want to do next? You guessed it:
Next, Platt and his colleagues want to see how people will perform in a similar experiment.
Uh, hello guys? You can come back to planet earth any time now…..
As Fark says, “Duke sucks.” (No, I don’t know why they post that with almost every mention of Duke.)
Thursday, January 27th, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
Ewwwww, that spider picture totally squicks me! Thus, as a public service to everyone similarly afflicted, I push it farther downscreen with something much more appealing:
Whew! I don’t know what I’d do first, spank or lick that luscious bottom.
What? That’s not to your taste? Okay, then, how about this?
Sofia was found at the always-worth-a-visit Domai.com. The yummy man was found at naked-men.co.uk.
Thursday, November 25th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Earlier this year, I posted this post and this other post linking to sites covering the alleged joys of figging and electrical stimulation, respectively. Little did I imagine that somewhere out there, people were combining the two.
Pause to imagine that for a moment. Then unclench your wabbly bits, and read on!
Sure enough. In the comments to this post at Spanking Blog, one “mrstimm” writes:
There is another slick way to do it: there’s a company here in England which makes essential essence oils (including ginger and hot chili) which can be inserted in the anus or rubbed on a freshly thrashed bottom. And if you are exceptionally wicked and into electrosex as well you can coat the stainless steel electrode with the oil, insert that in the anus, turn the power on, and cane the subbie whilst restrained.
…
I have to say the figging oils are so much more convenient when you want to combine either buttplugs or electrosex probes with spanking/caning or severe judicial punishments which I prefer. Ten times more effective.
I say, old chap, that’s just not nice!
Friday, September 17th, 2004 -- by Aphrodite
Wired Magazine, techie-geekie-cool web site that I adore, is adding a new sex column! It’s called “Sex Drive with Gina Lynn”, and here’s a quote from her debut column:
For you newbies, think Sex and the City, only smarter. This is sex and the internet, sex and science, sex and the digital world. It’s the sex of technology and the technology of sex, two of the most powerful forces at work in our modern lives. It’s the foundation of a social revolution. And you’re a part of it, like it or not.
If you’d like to read it all, here ya go. She includes her email address toward the bottom, and invites questions and comments.
Coolness! And now I gotta run — my older sister and her two daughters are visiting today, so I need to make the place look respectable. :confused:
Thursday, August 26th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
If “goatse.cx” doesn’t mean anything to you, proceed with caution.
A while back I linked to the Wikepedia article on goatse.cx. Now (please put away your sandwich) here’s an interview (including small but graphic photos) with a French guy who is a self-taught expert in that dubious art of extreme anal stretching:
When I first started, I was using small bottles of shampoo. After that, I tried small apples, and then bigger ones. At this point I’d put a year of stretching in, and bought myself a large dildo.
My method was to dilate my ass as often as I could — every day, even if just for a short while. Before starting it’s important to use a large dildo; use it to both warm up and clean your ass, so make sure you stick it up all the way. When you find that you can take this large dildo without any work-up or preparation, then you know that you’re ready to take it to the next step.
Then, in each session, to get your bottom prepared, put in a big cucumber. Soon you’ll arrive at a point where even the biggest cucumbers you can buy at the grocery fit easily in your ass. Now you’re ready to get serious. Buy a small Coke bottle, and use that in your ass. When that passes in and out easily, move on to bottles of wine. Once you can take wine bottles easily, you can move on to even bigger things.
Bigger things? Yup. There’s a whole paragraph on those big Coke bottles. Next stop: plastic playground balls.
A word of caution to the intrepid assventurer: Buy yourself a copy of “Anal Pleasure and Health” first. And whatever you do, please make sure you don’t wind up on the Rectal Foreign Bodies page.
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Wednesday, July 28th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
The government porn trend continues. Now, according to the Toronto Sun, Canada is getting into the act, demanding the submission of naked pictures as part of immigration applications. It’s not quite as crazy as that summary makes it sound, but still:
Foreign strippers must supply nude photos to officials
TORONTO – Immigration officers are having to pore through naked pictures of hundreds of exotic dancers to keep imposters out of Canada, the Toronto Sun reported Tuesday.
Foreign strippers planning to table dance in clubs must now provide photos of themselves with no clothes on to qualify for a visa for Canada, said immigration officials.
“Stage photos during performances are required,” said Sergio Mercado, of the Canadian Embassy in Mexico.
…
The potential dancers have to prove they can dance in the nude, immigration lawyer Mendel Green said Monday.
“They can’t be partially nude,” he said. “If they don’t have pictures in the nude, they are not going to wiggle their bottoms in Canada.”
My question is, does Canada have a public information law similar to the Freedom Of Information Act? And if so, are these immigration applications public documents available to the public? Just think, free dirty pictures from the government, for the cost of a stamp!
Thanks to Boing Boing for the link.
Saturday, March 27th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
This morning at ErosBlog Central I was pouring my second cup of coffee when The Nymph began to wake up.
So I wandered over to the bed to kiss her. After that essential business was taken care of, I was standing by the bed, sipping my coffee, and watching her wake up as we made desultory conversation. (Also, I was amusing myself by tugging at the sheet she was attempting, fruitlessly, to cover herself with.)
I ask her: “So what do you want to do today?”
A: “I need to go to the store.”
Q: “Oh yeah? What for?” (Translation for aliens: “What items do you need to go to the store to get?”)
A: “I need a couple of items.”
Whereupon your researcher abandoned all further attempts to communicate with this alien via ordered sound waves. Instead, I rousted her from her nest by vigorous application of this essential tool to the bottoms of her feet.
She had it coming. No male jury would convict me.
Saturday, March 20th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
From time to time I can’t help revisiting Why Your Wife Won’t Have Sex With You (although I do it in the same spirit as a man goes to the racetrack to watch a demolition derby). The prevailing view over at Why Your Wife on this too-frequent lament of the modern American husband tends toward the “try acting more like a woman and she might … just might, so don’t get your hopes up … decide to have sex with you again someday” variety.
Like the flying squirrel said, “Aw, Bullwinkle, that trick never works.”
On the other hand, there’s a comment over in a “Sex And Marriage” post by Quiver. Quiver gives some potentially useful advice to a man in those unhappy sexless straits, only to have a commenter share a rather more robust strategy:
“If all else fails (or if you prefer, before trying anything else) put her over your knee and with one arm firmly around her waist to hold her in place, yank her knickers down and spank her bare bottom very hard until she howls. Then spank her vigorously again until she begs at the top of her voice to be allowed to spread her legs and offers her pussy (which will probably be glistening wet by now). Then allow her to service your cock in whichever way you please. A woman who has just been spanked often sucks exquisitely well, and on her knees doing it she can look deliciously beautiful, so that may be a good starting place.”
Kids, don’t try this at home. Enormous downside potential if it doesn’t work — complete with sirens and handcuffs and a well-deserved orange jumpsuit.
Saturday, February 28th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Last Man Dancing writes regarding the perils of too much vibration. Real fun with a vibrator:
You see, if I love doing one thing in sex, that’s playing my lover’s body like a keyboard. I had picked out my five worst ties and had her firmly tied to the four corners of the bed. On my hand, I had one of those Swedish massagers that straps to the back of the hand. I looked down at her tied to the bed and decided that she looked good enough to eat. I bent down and grabbed a mouthful of her breast and twirled her stiffening nipple with my hot wet tounge. She wiggled and leaned toward me moaning softly as I sucked her breast further into her mouth. As I slid over to suck on her other nipple I gently trace her aerola with the very tip of my saliva slick finger tip. I switched the massager on and grabbed her nipple between my vibrating fingers and squeezed. The little fucker swelled up like a fucking cherry and the Bitch went nuts. She’s lying there moaning and writhing against her ties, fucking the air with her cunt. So I stopped.
You stopped!
What are you fucking nuts?
Yeah, I fucking stopped. Nobody told her she could cum yet.
So I take my buzzy little fingers and go on a little adventure. I slid my vibrating digits and traced a windy road to her mound. Briefly, barely, I gave her clit a brief taste of what was yet to come and made a sharp right down her legs to the bottoms of her feet.
I kept this up for about a half an hour and when I finally got to her pussy, she was so dripping wet that two of my fingers just slid right in and I just squeezed and massaged her g-spot. I reached down and turned the dial up as far as it would go and palpatated The Perfect Bitch goes into what could best be described as a seizure. Her eyes rolled back in her head. She stopped breathing and her body lept about two feet into the air and stayed there as she did a wrestler’s bridge off the bed for a good 20 seconds. She then released, let out 5 or 6 loud “Oh-Oh-OH’s”, and an “uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh” when I asked her if she was okay. She then went stiff and locked up again for another 15 seconds. She comes down and she’s screaming like a banshee fucking my hand. I’m getting a little worried at this point so as ask her “More?” and she keeps nodding and pantiing and jerking her hips whispering “more, more, fuck me more, more, more.” I’ve got 4 meaty fingers up inside of her and she tightens up one last time and she’s writhing and screaming on the bed and her cunt is just squeezing the shit out of my hand in spasm after spasm.
Finally, she just passes out on the bed. She just laid there and didn’t move a muscle. She scared the shit out of me, I had to check if she was still breathing. I untied her. She had pulled so tightly against the restraints she had bruised her wrists. She’d live.
I threw a blanket over her and let her sleep.
A few hours later she woke up and tried to get out of bed to go take a piss. As she tried to stand, her legs gave out from underneath her. I fucking cracked up as she went “baloop, bump” on her naked ass. Her legs were numb and her knees were so weak she couldn’t stand. She complained that she had no feelings below her waist whatsoever. I helped her to the bathroom and she was okay after she started walking around a bit.
Christ, it took me almost an entire week to relearn how to just hold a pencil.
Thursday, January 29th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
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.
Sunday, December 7th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a woman shaped like a…well, you be the judge:
Ya gotta love those curves!
Saturday, November 15th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Amazing. Enough to make a praying man out of me. Talk about an argument from design!
Wednesday, August 13th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a cute photo of a very young horndog:
Somebody buy that kid an ice cream cone!
Sunday, July 20th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Here’s Fairy Butch with some advice on choosing the right sized dildo:
Many times in my years as a sex toy salesperson has someone presented me with his or her partner and asked, “Which size dildo should we buy?” Ahem.
Now, Pumpkin, from gazing upon your partner I may be able to ascertain her race or her ethnicity, and if she’s wearing political buttons, I might even be able to get a handle on her creed, but you can bet your bottom dollar I won’t be able to judge a good fit for your girlfriend’s butt based on her taste in weekend wear.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Wednesday, June 11th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
I seem to be stuck in a picture rut lately. Here’s a shot of the world’s most ridiculous bikini bottom:
It must be summertime….
Thursday, May 1st, 2003 -- by Bacchus
This is only marginally on topic for a sex blog, but the headline was impossible to resist. And it does appear that the ridiculous and puppy-fatal rule in question may be related to AOL’s overall attempt to look family-friendly (i.e., anti-sex). If nothing else, this serves as a demonstration that failure to get on the Clue Train is fatal to puppies and other living things. From this web page (which probably won’t be there much longer):
AOL has a rule in the fine print that says that we must NOT put a web link into any email!! Yep – it’s there in the fine print. Take a look.
Well I had our website ( www.amrt.net ) on the bottom of my email and someone ratted me out – saying they found the amrt.net website “offensive” – this is the site for dogs and cats in animal shelters – not a porn site.
So AOL went in and changed my password. Oh yes they sent me an email explaining why they had changed my password. But I never got that email – because they had changed my password. And I never got the email that told me a litter of puppies needed out of the Downey shelter NOW. And thanks to AOL those puppies died that night.
Ouch.
Saturday, April 19th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
EverQuest Porn? You betcha!
Setting the scene:
The morning in Kelethin was crisp as always. High in the treetops the temperature was much cooler than down on the forest floor. Sunshine speared it’s way into the lofty wooden structures in narrow rays and sharp angles. Bird chirps and wolf cries filled the air in a gentle cacophony.
And occasionally, a mysterious song could be heard.
It took skill to hear it; you could only listen for it among the other sounds of nature if you knew precisely what you were listening for. Visitors to the vast Faydark never gave a second thought to the melodic wailing which seemed to whisper through the trees on occasion, the quiet cry never lasting much more than a minute or two, and always blending as though it were nothing more than the call of an owl, or the howl of a wolf.
But the Elves knew the sound and when one of them listened carefully, paid very close attention, they would hear the infrequent melody. A quiet, high-pitched tune, different every time, like a long feminine sigh that varied it’s pitch just enough to distinguish itself as musical. Then they would smile knowingly and go about their business.
And then getting down to business:
“Take me ” she whispered. “I will warm you both ”
With only a few languid strokes, she felt them grow hard at her touch. She briefly wondered why Barbarians never seemed to freeze in the arctic when they nothing beneath their kilts, but the thoughts were wiped from her mind as she suddenly felt their hands upon her. Big, strong hands, grasping her bare shoulders, their huge palms and fingers nearly covering her entire upper arms. She felt herself laid on her side.
…
“AH!” she cried out. He was so huge, his cock filling her delicate elven body completely. He was as hard as wood, and glided easily within her moistness. Tremors of pleasure rippled through her body.
At the same time, she finally felt the warm, nude body of the second Barbarian pressed up behind her. Joe’s body nestled against her own, his warm chest finally covering her back, chasing away the chilling air. His thighs rested just beneath hers, warming her even more. His arm draped over her hip, holding her steady while Gregor rhythmically slid in and out of her, his thick cock stretching her nether lips tight around it. “Yes Yes ” she grunted with each of his thrusts. Behind her, she felt Joe’s finger slide further back along her bottom, gently spreading her wetness along her tender flesh, pressing gently between her buttocks, into her tender hole.
“OH . OH TUNARE!!!” she cried out as she felt Joe slide his finger gently inside her forbidden region. She felt so very filled by the both of them, and they moved in time now, in and out, in and out. Gregor’s cock from in front, Joe’s finger from behind. It felt so perfect, her body was awash with sensations, the nipping cold still stinging her skin wherever and whenever it was uncovered, the fiery warmth of the two strong Barbarians around her, the wonderful sensations coming from her filled wetness and her behind. Her body shifted with each stroke, moving in time with each of their thrusts, over and over, the pleasure inside her building, and building…
Tuesday, February 18th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
The above picture makes Bacchus thirsty. It also puts him in mind of the following extremely explicit but wildly implausible passage about anal sex and ripe oranges, from the book Captive by Aishling Morgan. Don’t read on if you are likely to be offended by this sort of thing:
Aisla sighed as the warm grease from the roast duck touched her bottom hole, then gave a little gasp as her anus was penetrated. Yarath began to wriggle his finger about in her rectum, exploring her and greasing her ring, then feeling the shape of the tangerines through the membrane between vagina and rectum. Aisla pushed her bottom back, eager for buggery, but was given a gentle slap for her trouble. Yareth’s finger pulled from her anus and something replaced it, not his cock, but another tangerine.Â
With her eyes and mouth wide in shock, Aisla struggled to accept the fruit in her back passage. She felt her ring stretch and a complaining stab of pain, but even as she cried out her anus gave and the fruit had popped inside. She accepted it with a long groan. Juice had splashed between her buttocks and was trickling down her thighs, showing that the tangerine had burst as it went up her. Sulitea giggled again as another fruit was pressed to Aisla’s anus, again stretching, hurting and popping inside just when she thought she could not take it. A third followed, leaving both vagina and rectum bloated and straining, while she felt an urgent need to evacuate herself.
Only then did Yarath take her by the hips, and she realised she was to be buggered with the tangerines still in her rectum. His cock went in slowly, forcing the fruit aside and increasing the straining feeling in her bowels. By the time he was in her to the hilt she was panting and struggling for breath, overwhelmed by the bloated sensation in her gut and up her vagina.
Yarath began to bugger her, with the fruit rolling and bumping in her rectum with each push. Aisla’s control went quickly, and as Sulitea came to stroke her hair, she panted and grunted her way through the sodomy. Her hands were locked hard on the table top at first, gripped tight in a futile attempt to control herself. Soon they slipped, first back to her buttocks to stretch them open, then beneath herself to find her clitoris and start on the climb to orgasm.
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Wednesday, December 4th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
Sticky Kitty explains why she likes to be spanked:
Very simple:
It feels so nice on my bottom.
I like the ones that “thud” right in the middle of my ass.. very close to certain sensitive areas. Thats what it feels like… a “thuddy” feeling. Its the kind of strategic smack that stimulates you from the inside out. Its like a resonating inside my body, kind of like when you hit the body of an acoustic guitar. Its hollow and deep, and causes a vibration in the strings.
Loyal readers (all who are still here, that would be) are invited to share their reasons in the comments.
Monday, October 21st, 2002 -- by Bacchus
This is almost too good to be true. “Saudi Arabia’s First English Daily” takes on your tough Muslim sex questions, and wrestles them to the mattress. Is Allah down with hot Islamic anal sex? Well, it turns out that Mohammed himself has weighed in on this weighty question. Doggy style is fine, but keep it procreative please:
A man came to the Prophet and asked him whether it was permissible to have sex with his wife from behind. The Prophet answered in the affirmative. As the man was on his way out, the Prophet called him back and said: “Consider what I have said: from behind, but in the front.”
Thanks to The Fly Bottle for the link!
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Wednesday, October 16th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
In a shameless bid for publicity, a notorious environmental organization has released a 10-point guide to environmentally friendly sex. No, I am afraid I am not making this up. The tips range from the ludicrously obvious to drop-in-the-bucket pointlessness (from an environmental standpoint, anyway):
Tips include turning off the lights to conserve energy (‘if you want to see your partner then have sex during the day’), making sure your garden is pesticide-free for alfresco activities (‘would you really want to set your bare bottom on weedkiller?’) and banning lubricants such as petroleum jelly (‘Esso’s screwing the planet but you don’t have to.’)
It gets worse:
And if you and your partner indulge in any spanking or bondage then Greenpeace advocate ‘looking for timber and paddles certified by the only internationally recognised ecological forest certification organisation, the Forest Stewardship Council.’
Kinky sex for the politically correct! Bah, give me a good old fashioned made-in-the-USA paddle chainsawed from the heart of a clear-cut old-growth Tongass National Forest yellow cedar tree any day. Guaranteed to give the nymphs that old fashioned personal tingle, while providing high-wage jobs for hard-working American loggers!
Wednesday, October 16th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
It is reliably reported (er, in People Magazine) that Spice Girl Mel B likes a good sex spanking. Her ex-boyfriend, who reportedly is a bit peeved that she violated their mutual confidences, tells all:
“She particularly liked to be spanked on the bottom in the middle of it. She loved to talk dirty and learnt lots of dirty words in Icelandic and would shout them out when we had sex.”
And Mel loved the thrill of sex outdoors. Fjolnir said: “We made a point of doing it outdoors in the famous Blue Lagoon hot springs in Iceland.”
“We also joined the Mile High Club on a flight to America. We sneaked into the toilets and were at it for probably 10 minutes. She was moaning so much I put my hand over her mouth.”When we came out a stewardess gave us a knowing smile. Mel didn’t care and shared it all with the other Spice Girls when we saw them next.”
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