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The Sex Blog Of Record
Saturday, March 23rd, 2024 -- by Bacchus
Titties and booze! One of the classic combinations. A surefire way to make men happy for at least the last nine thousand years:
Photo is from Mr. Cool #1 (1960).
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Thursday, December 31st, 2020 -- by Bacchus
With the foreman distracted, there’s no way this painting crew is gonna bring the job in on time and under budget:
Comic is by Bill Ward, from the September 1962 issue of Eve magazine.
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Tuesday, December 29th, 2020 -- by Bacchus
This is a detail from a print by Thomas Rowlandson titled Quaker In Love:
The full print makes it clear he’s propositioning a woman outside her brothel door while various people watch. Lines of poetry at the bottom are from Charles Dibdin’s The Quaker: A Comic Opera, and introduce a bawdy pun, if we imagine that our man is “upright” in a more earthy sense than Dibdin’s:
I love thee
Would move thee
Of love to be partaker–
Relent then
Consent then
And take an upright Quaker.
Dibdin’s comic opera Quaker, on the other hand, seems respectable enough:
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Wednesday, July 24th, 2019 -- by Bacchus
When the mugger tells her to “stick ’em up” she really sticks ’em up!
This has been another lowbrow comedic gem from the pages of the July 1973 Popular Cartoons magazine.
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Monday, April 29th, 2019 -- by Bacchus
These pretty fruit vendors pose a difficult conundrum. Do you prefer apples, or do you prefer pears?
Artwork is by Edmund Bernard on a postcard from the 1920s. It’s pretty obviously inspired by this famous erotic photograph:
Monday, February 4th, 2019 -- by Bacchus
I don’t really believe this “Tits” lunchbox is a real thing that existed so that people could buy and carry it. It looks very real in the photo, but as Kamera Klub says, this must be fake or made for a specific adult promotion.
One site out there — not the first by many years to have published the contextless photo, according to my provenance research — randomly puts a 1973 date on it. Kamera Klub, who are experts in such things, identifies the model on the side panel as Julie Collins, one of the models for legendary British nudie photographer Harrison Marks.
My totally-substantial reasoning for thinking this is a one-off creation or an outright digital fake is that metal lunchbox collectors are a fanatical community with a huge internet footprint of their own. If this tits lunchbox had ever existed, it could be ever-so-very rare and yet word of it would exist in their catalogs, collectors’ guides, and associated web chatter. Yet none of that turns up in searches. Just the one photo, endlessly replicated on “funny-sexy-wow” internet sites.
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Thursday, October 11th, 2018 -- by Bacchus
She’s got two great arguments for staying home tonight… and if those hadn’t persuaded him, I expect she had an argument or two in reserve that might have:
Cartoon is from a Sex To Sexty magazine from the 1970s.
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Sunday, March 12th, 2017 -- by Bacchus
Back in 2015 we shared Beauty Revealed, a unique 1828 self-portraiture of artist Sarah Goodridge’s breasts that she gifted to Daniel Webster. Now in A Relationship Revealed, author Cassandra Good gives us considerable analysis of what that says (or doesn’t) about the relationship between Goodridge and Webster:
Goodridge traveled to Washington in 1828 to give Webster the unusual image soon after Webster’s wife died. It is possible that with Webster now single, Goodridge felt more comfortable acknowledging an existing or budding sexual attraction. Goodridge could have easily painted a conventional self-portrait miniature to give to Webster on that 1828 visit, knowing that even such a gift would signify to him (and anybody who became aware of the gift) a romantic relationship. But the work she created and named “Beauty Revealed” was groundbreaking both in terms of art and social norms. This miniature, too, could be held close, but it was openly sexual. It clearly attested to an erotic and possibly sexual relationship between Webster and Goodridge.
…
We can only speculate about what this image meant to Goodridge and Webster. The gift of only a part of her body, one that is both sexual and maternal, might have gestured to Goodridge’s continuing command over her own body. As a friend or even lover, Webster did not have the unfettered access to her body that a husband would. Goodridge could choose what to reveal to him, and how much to give. But for all the sexual intimacy of this image, it still appears that the pair’s relationship was primarily one of friendship. It seems unlikely that the pair considered marrying. Goodridge would have had to give up her artistic career, independence, and home in Boston. Less than two years after his wife’s death, Webster married a woman fifteen years his junior, but his friendship with Goodridge continued another two decades. They were rarely in the same place, so much of their relationship would have been conducted through letters and was thus by necessity not at most times a physical one. The miniature’s revelation is thus all the more surprising.
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Sunday, August 14th, 2016 -- by Bacchus
Oh, the 1970s! It was a simpler time, with simpler pleasures. Chief among these: heavy petting down at the arcade.
Art is by Bill Ward.
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Friday, March 4th, 2016 -- by Bacchus
Whilst I was following up an artist attribution that a commenter kindly provided on an old post, I stumbled upon this example of extreme corsetry at a unique little Tumblr called Fetish Wear History:
The art, which is by Georges Mouton, is from a humorous postcard commemorating the Paris Universal Exhibition Of 1900. I believe the postcard may be a parody of industrial advertising cards of the times, captioning this woman’s breasts as her “Weapons for the Chase” as if they were in “Group 9, Class 51” in a large catalog of military goods. Here’s a clearer version of the card from a site that catalogs many humorous postcards from the Paris Exhibition:
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Thursday, January 14th, 2016 -- by Bacchus
As seen in the October 2015 Hustler magazine (online access edition).
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Wednesday, December 9th, 2015 -- by Bacchus
And a bountiful display it is, too:
From Lady Sonia; the model is Karlie Simon.
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Friday, December 4th, 2015 -- by Bacchus
For every lock, there is a key. Often that key is… boobs. (At least if your name is Elvira.)
The .gif is widely said to be from the 1988 film Elvira, Mistress Of The Dark.
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Friday, March 27th, 2015 -- by Bacchus
Readers with even a trace of classical education will recognize this as a moment in the story of Daphne and Apollo, the rapey tale of a god who so persistently stalked an unwilling nymph that she begged for (and got) divine intervention that turned her into a tree:
What’s interesting about this particular medallion image is that it captures Daphne just as her “limbs” have turned to actual limbs and roots, while the rest of her body remains (as yet) unchanged. I don’t know how Apollo would have felt, but I’m sure there are fetishists out there who would have been delighted if the transformation stopped right there. I suspect Apollo himself would have preferred it!
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Saturday, July 5th, 2014 -- by Bacchus
Always wear your seat belt!
Via Titty Blog.
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Monday, November 25th, 2013 -- by Bacchus
Awesome David Horsey cartoon from last year, in response to one of the “ZOMG I saw a titty, I’m scarred for LIFE” episodes of public hand-wringing:
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Thursday, November 1st, 2012 -- by Bacchus
So in this story, it all starts when the Pretty Girl character (played by Alyssa Branch) stared out her window at a bright summer afternoon. And she was not amused. In fact, she was bored. “Cletus, I’m bored.” Whatever is there to do?
Then she thought of something to do, and she was transformed:
Pictures courtesy of Little Mutt.
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Friday, August 31st, 2012 -- by Bacchus
From Spanking Blog, on internal narratives:
Doesn’t this look like (one of) the movies that would be playing quietly in your mind if you met a taxi driver with such epic breasts and that possibly-flirtatious smile?
Or maybe that’s just me. Ooopsie!
From Red Stripe Films.
The true skill — the skill too many men don’t cultivate sufficiently — lies in letting the movies play without the images bleeding through and becoming visible on your face. (There’s a school of philosophy arguing that one shouldn’t allow the movies to play at all. But I, in my hedonism, do not hew to it.)
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Sunday, July 15th, 2012 -- by Bacchus
Who has the prettiest slave boobies of them all?
I know I should put away childish things, but I could not resist. Picture is from the August 2004 edition of Hustler’s Taboo magazine.
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Wednesday, May 9th, 2012 -- by Bacchus
A good farm wife, being good:
From here.
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Tuesday, September 27th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
She’s clearly been trained in the “dazzle with breasts, then follow up with a slice at the torso” school of swordplay. No substitute for armor, or even woad — but possibly effective with the advantage of surprise:
From Action Girls.
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Wednesday, September 7th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
She’s surrounded by three hunks, one of whom is inspecting her boobs. I wonder what’s at stake?
Found this image on an Italian-language tumblr.
Saturday, May 7th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
I found this on Tumblr under the heading “Mother and daughter at Mardi Gras.” It’s a different world when the parades start to rumble:
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Wednesday, April 13th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
Your vintage porn for the day, just because it made me smile:
From Titty Blog.
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Tuesday, December 14th, 2010 -- by Bacchus
From FemJoy.
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Thursday, November 18th, 2010 -- by Bacchus
Its called “fucking” for a reason, I never wanted a boy afraid of breaking me, I want a man that will grab my flesh firmly and fuck me properly. If my breasts are not moving while I am getting fucked on all fours, it means I am not getting pounded properly.”
— Cicciolina
Thursday, October 21st, 2010 -- by Bacchus
Like the lady says on the defunct Tumblr said, “if it’s got sprinkles and frosting, I’m probably going to lick it.”
Monday, September 6th, 2010 -- by Bacchus
I don’t know which illuminated-for-the-tourists ruin that is our lovely traveler is standing in front of, but I’ll give her this, she knows how to liven up the vacation honeymoon photos:
Found on Tumblr.
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Friday, March 26th, 2010 -- by Bacchus
From 1962. You can’t hardly tell she’s wearing a bathing suit:
She’s a little before my time, but I remember her from that movie where she gets face-sploshed with horse manure.
Thursday, March 18th, 2010 -- by Bacchus
Remember when I showed you the black and white photos of ama, which are/were the Japanese topless pearl and sponge divers? It’s no surprise that more modern pinup photography in Japan would still make use of this cultural trope, but I was nonetheless delighted to find this lovely color ama vision:
Monday, March 8th, 2010 -- by Bacchus
“He won’t keep his hands off my boobs!” is a complaint that many a man has earned, true enough. But it’s one of those complaints a wise man doesn’t take entirely at face value. Often, when applied to a lover, the complaint is more about timing or venue or level of applied enthusiasm; it’s a rare woman who wants them left 100% the hell alone. And if you think rough treatment is never appreciated by any woman, here’s a photographic counter argument:
That’s from Sex and Submission via Kinky Delight.
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Thursday, January 7th, 2010 -- by Bacchus
Sports events would get more of my time if there were more pretty fans like this:
From Dare Dorm.
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Tuesday, September 8th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
“I would remonstrate with him on the topic of hats.”
From the Titty Blog.
Thursday, August 6th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
She had to show them off:
This comes to us from alt. binaries. pictures. erotica. cartoons, but I think it might be originally from Rooie Oortjes.
Monday, August 3rd, 2009 -- by Bacchus
This vintage topless photo amused me because of the ambiguity of the model’s gaze. Is she uncertain about taking her top off? Or just looking to the photographer to make sure he likes the way she’s doing it?
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Monday, July 20th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
Six years ago, I blogged about Japanese puddings in the shape of a naked girl. Well, they are still at it, with a product called Niigata Bust Pudding:
Via Danny Choo.
Sunday, May 17th, 2009 -- by Dr. Faustus
I wish to take critical notice of, and commend to the attention of ErosBlog readers, David P. Barash and Judith Eve Lipton’s new How Women Got Their Curves and Other Evolutionary Just-So Stories (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009), which I have just recently finished reading. If you have any interests in the state of our scientific understanding of sex, it’s a book for you.
Barash and Lipton face a set of intriguing conundra when trying to understand why human women are built they way they are. If you think of a woman (a man also, but that’s a subject for another time) primarily in terms of designing working animal plumbing and wiring, you’re going to be in for some rather remarkable surprises once you meet any actual women. Other mammalian females occasionally break down and replace their uterine linings, but only adult human women do so in such a metabolically costly way every month. Why? Most other female mammals openly advertise (at least to other members of their own species) their fertile periods and sexually receptive only then, but for the most part even human women themselves are unsure of when they are fertile. Why? Few other animal species have anything more than traces of female orgasm (and most do not have even that), but in human women orgasm is a gloriously common fact of sexual life. Why? Other female mammals manage to suckle their young just fine without carrying around large adipose deposits around their milk glands all their adult lives. Human women have breasts. Why? Finally, there seems to be no metabolic why an animal’s fertility should cease when it has decades left to live, but any woman who lives long enough will undergo menopause. Again and always, why?
Now refreshingly Barash and Lipton come out right up front and admit they don’t have the answers to any of these questions. They admit that they are collecting conjectures — informed speculations (unless you’re Desmond Morris, in which case, silly speculations) on the questions I’ve laid out above. And on all of these questions there is a lot of conjecture — there’s a little text-box in every chapter for each of them, and in most cases the box has at least ten items. This is fine. Science necessarily begins in conjecture; it is then in careful gathering of data and the willingness to allow your beautiful hypotheses be slain by ugly facts that it distinguishes itself from other, less-reputable forms of epistemic activity.
One notable feature of the conjectures on offer here is that a discerning reader may see the emergence of an increasing number of conjectures having to do with signaling and screening, rather than just plumbing and wiring, as to why women are made the way they are. An example: back when I was a student in high school (the dark ages, I know) the best my biology teacher could come up with for why women have orgasms was a variant of the inelegantly-named “uterine upsuck” hypothesis: female orgasm had something to do somehow with helping sperm get up to eggs and do their baby-making work. The evidence for this conjecture is very weak: it’s basis in physiological data is very thin, and in any event anorgasmic women seem to be just as fertile as orgasmic ones. A much more promising conjecture is that female orgasm is a screening device, something that evolved to help women discriminate between desirable and undesirable mates. (The exposition of this particular conjecture got a favorable notice from economist Robin Hanson, who perhaps deserves the title of Dean of Signaling, over at Overcoming Bias.)
Likewise, female breasts might be signals (whose evolutionary development subsequently got a boost from runaway sexual selection). Since human men provide at least some resources to their offspring (usually) it pays them to be at least a little bit choosy in mate selection. Any human female can say things like “I am young and healthy and therefore a good mate,” whether it’s true or not. But it’s much harder to fake the ability to accumulate and carry around a lot of extra healthy-looking fat, unless you really are young and healthy and therefore a good mate: breasts would therefore be a good example of a costly signal in evolutionary terms, rather like the peacock’s tail.
I cannot help but note another conjecture offered by Barash and Lipton. Obviously I cannot say whether it’s true or not, but I must say it certainly resonates with me. This is a conjecture about concealed ovulation: the fact that usually even women themselves do not know whether they are in a fertile period. This might be called the Consciousness Conjecture, and it was advanced originally by a biologist named Nancy Burley. It runs something like this: sex is fun, pregnancy is not. Pregnancy is especially no fun if you’re a hunter-gatherer on the move much of the time, and what is more, for most of human existence, childbirth was at once excruciatingly painful and often fatal. Women (or proto-women) were conscious and observant and took note of all these facts and would avoid having sex when pregnancy would be likely to result. Concealed ovulation emerged in an evolutionary move that allowed genes to propagate themselves because women wouldn’t know when they were fertile — in short, it evolved out of a conflict between women and their own genes. (Thus an early example of what psychologist Keith Stanovich calls The Robot’s Rebellion.)
A brief review can’t really do justice to all the charms of this little book. Columbia University Press has made an extended excerpt available on the book’s web-page here and the full chapter from which it comes in PDF format here. I would be remiss in reviewing for ErosBlog without including a picture or two. After all, what book on sex and science would be complete without a picture of lions mating? Not this one, clearly.
Kudos to you if you can guess the conjecture about human female sexuality this picture is offered in illustration of!
And naturally, no discussion of women and their curves would be complete without one of those breathtaking south Indian sculptures of Parvati. Barash and Lipton of course offer one (though not exactly this one):
(And if you look up neurologist V.S. Ramachandran’s Reith lecture on the origins of art in the human brain which Barash and Lipton are referencing there, you’ll be rewarded with yet another one.)
I realize of course that a book of biological conjecture about human female sexuality might not be everyone’s cup of tea. “Those silly scientists,” some might say, “they can’t figure out even the commonest things.” But I for one take a different view. Books like this one are evidence that science is nowhere near its end, and that even in the most ordinary (if intimate things), there remain fascinating and deep puzzles to solve.
And I submit that, my dear readers, really is sexy.
Sunday, February 15th, 2009 -- by Dr. Faustus
Having as I do a fondness for cinematic oddities, a favorite weekend diversion of mine is to peruse my dusty library for things I haven’t seen before. Today’s venture came up with the following from Jasper Sharp: Behind the Pink Curtain: The Complete History of Japanese Sex Cinema (Godalming, UK: FAB Press, 2008). A production company called Kokuei, which started making films for the Japanese Ministry of Education, made two movies on a “girl Tarzan” theme called Valley of Lust (1963) and Cave of Lust (1965). According to Sharp, nothing survives of these movies except a handful of publicity stills. But what stills! For the pleasure of ErosBlog readers, I post my favorite from Cave of Lust, the actress Aki Ema, together with a monkey companion:
Some monkeys have all the luck.
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Tuesday, December 2nd, 2008 -- by Bacchus
I have checked the date on this story, and it is not April 1:
$200k worth of inflatable boobs lost at sea
SYDNEY – More than 130,000 inflatable breasts have been lost at sea en route to Australian.
Men’s magazine Ralph was planning to include the boobs as a free gift with its January issue.
The cargo is worth about $200,000, which is another blow for publisher ACP’s parent company PBL, which is already in $4.3 billion of debt.
A spokeswoman for Ralph said the container left docks in Beijing two weeks ago but turned up empty in Sydney this week.
The magazine has put out an alert to shipping authorities to see if they have the container, but if they don’t turn up in the next 48 hours it will be too late for the next issue, she said.
Ralph editor Santi Pintado urged anyone who has any information to contact the magazine.
“Unless Somali pirates have stolen them its difficult to explain where they are,” Pintado told AAP.
“If anyone finds any washed up on a beach, please let us know.”
Mr. Pintado may be a bit confused about his piratical geography (the sea route from China to Australia doesn’t pass through the waters infested by Somali pirates) but the more traditional Indonesian crews in the Malacca Straights may be pillowing their weary heads as we speak on the sweet vinyl bosoms of their latest haul.
That’s really all I have to say, except for another hearty “YARR!”
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Wednesday, October 1st, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Remember about two weeks ago, when I mentioned the new public bondage site, coming from our kinky friends at Kink.com?
Well, Public Disgrace is now live, and looks to be living up to (some of) its promises.
About half the pictures in the sample galleries are close-in shots of hardcore bondage sex in what look to be protected, semi-outdoor spaces. To be honest, those aren’t terribly interesting to me, because I have a harder time with suspension of disbelief, and so there isn’t a lot of newness there. To me it’s “just porn”, with (by 21st century standards) no particularly transgressive edge.
On the other hand, I find the soft-core “pure” public bondage shots to be more interesting, because they seem to occur in genuinely public settings, complete with interested onlookers:
I will confess I find the branding for this new site a little confusing. If the goal is, to use their words, “unique street scenes of erotic humiliation”, what’s disgraceful about that? If the fantasy of a woman in chains is that she has to do what you make her do, I get that she may be embarrassed or humiliated by the public exposure, but I don’t see any disgrace in it; to me, disgrace connotes an aspect of guilt or sin or wrongdoing or bad behavior, and one of the essential transactions at the core of BDSM is that the submissive is liberated of responsibility for the things he or she is “made” to do. Hence, no disgrace. Unless the disgrace is supposed to be in the eye of the beholder, the putative onlooker shouting “that’s disgraceful!” or getting violent, like this guy?
Monday, September 22nd, 2008 -- by Bacchus
“Google Suggest” Ignores Adult Search Preference Cookies
Google, as all sex blog readers probably know, filters porn (they call it “explicit sexual content”) out of your search results by default. They call this “Safe Search”, and you can turn if off by letting Google set a cookie in your browser. (Most ErosBlog readers have, presumably, done this.) No worries, it’s been like this for years. We’re used to it, and in many contexts it’s useful to have the filtered option.
Recently, however, Google introduced a dynamic on-the-fly search suggestion feature called Google Suggest. When you type Britney Spears into the search box, a drop-down appears with what Google calls “relevant suggested search terms” in real time:
Nerd response: Cool!
Sex blogger response: Hey, wait a minute! Isn’t something missing from that search box? Wouldn’t you expect to see “Britney Spears nude” on that list?
Let’s check. The list changes with every character you type, so let’s go “britney spears nu” and see if it fills in the suggestion:
Suspicious, but maybe all those “number one” sites are just crowding it out? Let’s make this impossible to miss, let’s try “britney spears nud”:
Whoa! Is that the sound of crickets I’m hearing? “Mom, Google Suggest won’t come out and play with me any more!”
At this point I hit the “Preferences” link and went to check my Safe Search setting; it forgets the “Do not filter my search results” setting every time I clean out all my cookies, and resetting it is the first thing I do after that. Nope, “Do not filter my search results” is checked! That’s not the problem.
And make no mistake, this is a problem, and not just for feelthy perverts like me. This is the sort of thing that sets mild-mannered eyeglasses-wearing librarians sputtering with rage, because once you start filtering out words, like “nude”, that do double duty as erotic signifiers and, you know, plain old information tags, you begin to muck up basic research of the sort that any high school civics class might legitimately be doing. Allow me to illustrate.
Does anybody remember John Ashcroft, and his infamous prudery that had him covering up fine art at the Department of Justice because the bare breasts offended him? Imagine you were trying to write a high school essay about public art and needed to reference that incident. If you actually Google John Ashcroft nude (shudder) you’ll get 39,000-ish results. But start typing that request into Google, and you’ll learn that while John Ashcroft singing “Let The Eagle Soar” might be relevant to your search request (with 10,500 results), “John Ashcroft nude” could not possibly be, even though there are four times as many potential results out there:
Again, we need to check to make sure it didn’t just get choked by having to select between too many potentially relevant suggestions. We can do that by typing more letters; “john ashcroft n” gets me “john ashcroft news” as the sole suggestion, and with “john ashcroft nu” we’re back to the sound of crickets. Sorry, seeker after knowledge, nothing with “nude” in it could possibly be relevant to your search, EVER.
That’s search engine prudery right there, and it’s as stupid and mindless as automated mechanical prudery always is.
Of course, I’m not dealing with search results filtering, what I’m complaining about is search suggestions filtering. But that’s a distinction without a difference, a nit only a lawyer could enjoy picking. Google already has a cookie on my computer telling them that I don’t want them to protect me from the pollution of my vital essences that is the adult internet; what earthly reason could they have for ignoring that preference in determining which searches to show me in the suggestion box?
Just to show the full ridiculousness that is Mrs Grundy as played by The Mechanical Turk, let’s search for dear old Jenna, once said to be the most-searched woman on the internet:
That settles it. The Mechanical Turk “knows” damned well who I’m searching for, knows when I’m two characters into her last name, but it can’t mechanically imagine that “jenna jameson nude” (with nearly half a million search results out there) might be at least as relevant as “jenna jameson neck tattoo”? Sorry my friends, but inside the amazing Mechanical Turk there sits a very human prude.
Again, it’s easy to imagine lots of good business reasons why Google might want to filter even the mildest adult topics out of its search suggestion tool. That’s not my point.
My point is that for many people, Google is only useful if they can get the unfiltered version. Google knows this. Google makes it easy to set the “don’t filter me” button. But what good is that, if they then silently ignore the setting?
OK, now let’s have some fun looking at all the things Google Suggest refuses to suggest.
How about a good spanking? That’s only about as kinky as six inches of your average garden hose these days, plus there’s the whole universe of information out there about why you shouldn’t do it to your kids. Surely Google Suggest has something for the spanking searcher?
Google Suggest says: No spankings for you!
How about porn? If I type “por” into my search bar, you think maybe “porn” might be a relevant search to suggest?
Duh, no, silly me.
Ok, would you like to look at some fine rubber nipples? Or, you know, buy some, for your baby’s bottle or for your plumbing supply store? Sorry, you’re shit outta luck — Google Suggest can offer you “nippleplay” (presumably because the guy writing the filter didn’t get warned against it), but the Mechanical Prude has never heard of a nipple that was relevant to anybody:
That’s enough for now, although readers are invited to find other, especially laughable “never relevant” stop words that choke Google Suggest. Have fun teasing the Mechanical Prude!
Thursday, September 4th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a fanciful re-imagining of the Sphinx:
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Friday, August 29th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Remember the foot with the pussy in it? That was a manufactured fetish object, sadly no longer available.
The foot nipple, on the other hand, just growed. It’s real, all right; there are pictures. The foot nipple even has those wayward nipple hairs growing out of it. (We’ve seen them before, too.)
Apparently nipples in unusual places are not that that unusual, in the grand scheme of things, but the foot nipple is a first in the medical literature:
A 22-year-old woman sought medical care for a lesion in the plantar region of her left foot, a well-formed nipple surrounded by areola and hair…. To our knowledge, this is the first report of supernumerary breast tissue on the foot.
…
Anomalies associated with breast development are not uncommon. Supernumerary nipples, and less frequently supernumerary breasts, are present in about 1-5 percent of the population. Such alterations are more common in women, usually occurring along the embryonic milk line, which extends from the axilla to the groin.
Supernumerary breast tissue (SBT) is rarely found beyond the mammary line. However, the back, shoulder, face, and thigh have been described as sites of SBT development.
Thanks to The Beautiful Kind for blogging this.
Tuesday, July 8th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
The postcard from an exotic location, featuring the bare breasts of the ladies in those parts, is a tradition at least as old as photography, and quite likely older:
Wednesday, July 2nd, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Pretty girls flashing their breasts in the sunshine, what could be more summery than this?
The model is Karen from ALS.
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Friday, May 23rd, 2008 -- by Bacchus
A nice vintage nudie photograph, starring a model with an unusual facial expression:
Wednesday, April 16th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
So of course, my skepticism of yesterday’s Marilyn Monroe blowjob movie report was shared by others, some of whom now claim to be “debunking” the “hoax”. To me, the “debunking” sounds like skeptical experts explaining why skepticism is in order, but you can’t really establish “hoax” unless you have evidence or a confession, which the skeptical experts do not (yet) appear to have. It wouldn’t be fair for us to expect debunkers to do the impossible (“Prove that the movie doesn’t exist!) but it’s still cheating for them to engage in their informed arm-waving and then claim that’s the same as if they did prove the movie doesn’t exist. I’ll chalk this up to Defamer’s over-hyperbolic headline writing, and wait to see what else develops.
Meanwhile, there’s much internet talk of a tame old porno loop called The Apple, Knockers, and the Coke Bottle, starring Arline (or Arlene?) Hunter, who (some people say) looks a bit like Marilyn. If anybody out there is treasuring that loop in a format suitable for emailing, ErosBlog stands ready to share it with a broader public. My Google-Fu is weak today, and has so far yielded only this:
Source is a Marilyn Monroe fan site with this to say:
The actress in this film is named Arlene Hunter who was a 1954 playmate for Playboy magazine. In it Miss Hunter removes her clothes, rolls an apple around her breasts, and then provocatively sips from a Coke Bottle.
I can’t believe that people are making money off of this stag film by ripping off unsuspecting fans. I personally don’t even see how someone could mistake the two women, Arlene Hunter has a faint resemblence to Norma Jeane but is certainly no look alike.
Interestingly, there may be another stag film out there that’s commonly claimed to feature Marilyn. This site is adamant that it’s not the Apple/Coke Bottle movie, and has the best compilation I found of stills, links to magazine coverage, and the like. I myself don’t find the stills to be all that compelling:
Open season:
I hereby declare that the usual Erosblog rules against the “Is it real? Is it fake? Is it Photoshop?” game in the comments DO NOT APPLY to this post, or to the previous one. Hell, for this story, that’s got to be at least half the fun. Go wild, but remember this — unless you are the photographer of one of the images in question and want to share your first hand knowledge, your opinion is not fact and should not be presented as such, or with unwarranted certitude.
Monday, March 31st, 2008 -- by Bacchus
I can’t seem to stay away from the vintage:
Look at her face, boys, look at her face. Make eye contact. Smile. You know the drill!
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Saturday, March 8th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
You don’t see too many fictional accounts of rimming, and this is the first I’ve ever seen that has a little funny twist at the end. It’s from this story by Vinnie Tesla:
Impulsively, I bury my face in an armpit, and drink in her sharp animal smell. She’s moaning and laughing at once as my beard tickles her delicate skin. I lick along the line of her shoulder blade, the muscles there flexing as she struggles playfully. I throw her tee-shirt to the ground, and push her against one of the basement’s grimy cinderblock walls. I pin her arms above her head, and give the other armpit a more thorough treatment.
She starts out laughing and twitching, but this gives way to quiet moans, that get louder when I bite. I release her arms and run my lips over the pale, freckled flesh above her bra. Impatiently I pull the bra up over her tits, and fix my mouth over one of her nipples, crinkled tight in the basement’s chill air. My hands find the catch of her bra, and it joins her tee shirt on the floor. Once again she grabs my head and holds it tightly as I worry and suck at her fat little bud. I hold her other breast in my hand. The flesh is breathtakingly soft, and fever-hot. I pull the nipple roughly, stretching the crinkles smooth. “Yeah,” she whispers in my ear, her hot breath sending shivers down my spine, “yeah.”
Still cradling my head with one hand, her other strokes the front of my jeans, and cups my cock with her open palm. “Mmm, nice,” she purrs.
“You like it?” I ask, my hands kneading her breasts, “soon it’s going to be buried in your cunt.”
She looks me in the eye teasingly. “Just my cunt?”
I open and close my mouth several times like a goldfish. So much for my attempt at the suave dirty-talker.
Molly laughs at my expression and begins struggling to get the legs of her overalls over her boots. Watching her breasts sway as she works, bent over, is irresistible. She tugs the overalls down her thighs, and sits on the floor to pull them off. Then, with a yelp, she’s up off the cold, damp concrete again, rubbing her chilled ass.
“Here, let me help with that,” I volunteer, and squat behind her. “Oh my god.”
“What?”
“Molly, you have got an amazing ass.” Broader than I expected, exquisitely round and smooth. Dusted with pale freckles. Flawless, so far as I can see. Groaning, I grab her hips and bury my face in that exquisite butt, licking and biting at the smooth, taut flesh. She presses back against me, and wiggles her hips slowly and sexily, enjoying the attention. Eventually, though: “Weren’t you gonna help me get my clothes off?”
“I got sidetracked,” I admit, and jerk her panties down to her knees before resuming my feast.
She begins skeptically, “That’s not a whole lot of– oooh, that feels good.” I’m kneading her cheeks hard with my hands now, while licking teasingly around the top of her crack.
“Bend over,” I tell her.
“Yes, sir!” she says sarcastically, but does so, resting her hands against the wall, and spreading her legs as much as her bunched clothes will allow. I stroke her ass lightly
“You want me to?”
“Yeah,” she whispers, almost inaudibly.
I pull at one of her cheeks, exposing her hidden parts. The skin of her anus is surprisingly dark, and fringed with wispy reddish hair. Below, the lips of her cunt are fat and swollen. She flinches a little when the wet handiwipe from my pocket touches the sensitive flesh of her asshole. I run it over the surface a few times, and then drop it onto the floor. My hands spread her cheeks, and I begin running my tongue along the skin just above her anus. Then I move down, and lick at her perineum, drawing a gasp from Molly. Finally I bring my tongue to her clenched little orifice, and rub against it with gentle pressure.
She lets a little shriek escape, followed by a low moan. I feel goosepimples rise on her muscular thighs, as she reaches down and cups her cunt in one hand. I’m alternating broad, spiraling licks with tighter, more aggressive ones, loving the feel of her soft flesh against my face. She’s slowly undulating her hips; each breath out is a long quiet moan.
The rocking of her hips accelerates; her voice rises in pitch. I (teasing bastard) rise to my feet and draw her up too. It takes a moment for her eyes to focus again, and then I’m seized in a bruising hug. “Oh, wow,” she says dreamily, “Oh, that was really nice. I haven’t done that before.”
“My *pleasure*,” I say emphatically. “But I’m a little confused. You said you wanted me to rim you, right?”
She grins. “I wanted you to *spank* me, you twit.” Before the blood can stop roaring in my ears, she continues: “Now help me get these off!”
Of course she does eventually get her spanking, which is how (via Spanking Blog) I came upon this story.
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.
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Friday, January 25th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Offered for discussion, an excerpt from “Nicole Gets An Education” by Vulgus. It (the excerpt, not the story, which is very long and somewhat tedious in the common manner of free internet sex fiction) is a short fictional account of a woman who has her best orgasm ever while being raped, so some of you may want to pass it by:
I am very aware, however, that the second best orgasm I ever had was when Bill Harris was making love to me. He held my hands over my head in one of his strong hands and I felt totally helpless. He stared into my eyes and I felt well and truly taken. He was large and strong and I felt overpowered. It was very exciting.
My best orgasm, however, was when I said “No” to Tom Phillips. We had gone out to dinner and spent a little time at a club. I had to get up early so we couldn’t stay too long. He grudgingly took me home and somehow wormed his way into my new apartment. It was my only experience with ‘date rape’. He took control as soon as my door closed. We had been dating for a month or so and we had sex a couple of times. Tonight, though, I was not in the mood. I was tired and a little pissed at him for being such an ass.
But he started pushing me toward my couch and pulling my clothes off. I was fighting him off, but not screaming or trying to hurt him. Finally he got tired of it and he used the cloth belt from my dress to tie my hands behind my back and he pulled my dress down to my elbows and pulled by bra up over my breasts and roughly mauled them while he held me close and forced his tongue into my mouth. I was struggling and begging him to stop, but he just ignored me.
Finally he pushed me to the floor and bent me over the sofa. He pulled my dress up in back and ripped my panties off violently. Then he held me down while he unbuckled his belt and slid it out of his belt loops.
As soon as it was free he doubled it over and started beating my ass. As he was beating me he was yelling at me, “Don’t you ever say no to be again, god damn it. You fucking tease, you bitches are all alike. You just use men to get what you want and send them home with blue balls and think that it is just great fun. Fucking bitch!”
I was crying hysterically, but he didn’t care, he must have beat my ass for several minutes before he pulled his pants off and raped me from behind.
I knelt there helplessly, my hands tied behind my back, his hand holding my hair in his firm grip and pulling my head up so that he could see my face while he fucked me. His other hand kept moving under me and squeezing and pinching my by breasts and my nipples. It was horrible. And I came harder than I had ever come in my life! Over and over. I lost track of how many times I came. I had never been so aroused in my life. Some of those rape stories I read on the internet flashed through my mind as Tom violently raped me and I screamed in pleasure.
Tom finally came in me. He stood up and wiped his cock clean in my hair. Then he dressed and left without ever saying another word. It took me almost fifteen minutes to get my hands free!
I sat on my dress on the floor for a long time sobbing and sad and furious and confused.
Finally I got up and took a shower and as I washed my sore body I pictured what had happened tonight in my mind and as I washed my sore pussy I was on the edge of another orgasm. Well, I had no reason to disappoint me, so I rubbed myself until I came again. But then I was mad at myself for doing it.
This excerpt is a fairly stark and unequivocal example of a blindingly common meme — the meme of the woman who is overpowered by brute male force, raped with a modicum of violence, and, on a sexual level at least, enjoys it.
There are plenty of controversies swirling around this meme. Many men, for example, enjoy pointing out that it’s a predominantly female fantasy, at least measured by sales dollars — because, lightly prettied up, it’s at the heart (or somewhere lower) of an entire genre of commercial fiction marketed to and mostly consumed by women. In certain feminist circles, this fused grenado gets lit and tossed back over the wall by means of various arguments to the effect that the fantasy is thrust upon women or defensively adopted by them in response to the miscellaneous oppressive mechanisms of patriarchy.
But my interest is not in the question of whether the meme is prevalent — for it surely is — or whether it is popular with women — for it surely is that, also. Readers of this blog will know by now that I am predictable to this extent: memes expressed in erotic fiction, consumed and enjoyed as such, will attract no condemnation from me.
No, my question is: What do you think is the propagandistic effect, if any, of the meme? Do you think expressions of it are intended to convince (or, regardless of intent, do have the effect of convincing) anyone (male or female) that real world rapes are less evil or pernicious than they actually are? In other words, does fiction like this have the intent or effect of reducing the power of “No”?
Of course the forces of censorship — against which ErosBlog lives in opposition — are quick to say yes, and to assume that a “yes” should end the conversation. I think erotic expression is important enough to defend even in the face of real-world negative consequences, could they be established, so I will doubtless continue to oppose censorious impulses. But it remains an important question. Is there danger in the expression of such fantasies? And if so, what’s the appropriate reaction, given the toxic sexual pressure cooker environment you get when a society chooses repression and censorship?
Sunday, December 9th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Isn’t it comforting to know that our nation’s security (actually, “security theater”, to use the more accurate Schneier-ish phrase) relies on hand-weighing the breasts of potential Canandian terrorists? (Reflect briefly on the phrase “Canadian terrorists” for a moment and then join me in a rousing mock-ironic chorus: “Oh noes!“)
The guard doesn’t crack a smile. Instead, he beckons a lean, hard-faced woman with greying blond hair held back in a high pony tail. Next thing I know, I’ve been pulled out of the line, away from my family and escorted into a little low-walled room for a more intimate encounter. I stand there, a bit flustered, but still smiling.
“I think it’s just my bra,” I say, trying to strike up a friendly girl-to-girl rapport. She’s having none of that. She escorts me to a special chair and runs the wand carefully over every bit of me. Then, she has me stand on a pair of footprints, outlined in white. She wands me again, and again, my torso sets the thing buzzing like an angry mosquito.
She eyes my bosom suspiciously. It’s not the kind of ogling I’m used to.
I’m a robust 34 FF. That’s the kind of full-figure that needs support akin to a good bridge truss. Over the years, my breasts have attracted their share of attention. Back when they were still perky enough to stand up all by themselves, they were generally considered quite distracting by the men of my acquaintance. But that was 20 years and 50 pounds ago. These days, I look more like a centrefold for National Geographic than Playboy, and my underwire is a wardrobe essential. Still, I never imagined my plunging cleavage could be viewed as a threat to homeland security. The guard puts down the wand and starts a thorough manual search. She doesn’t ask me to take off my shirt — though I’d almost rather she did.
Instead, she slowly, methodically palpates every millimetre of my underwire, starting with the poky bits under my armpits, making her way around to my sternum, feeling carefully, one presumes, for suspicious lumps or gaps. Next, she takes my two breasts, one in each hand, and weighs them carefully, like a shopper trying to choose the right mangoes.
“Balanced,” she mutters. “Nice balance.”
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Thursday, October 11th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
It’s been a while since I’ve linked to Naked Jen, but she remains one of my favorite web nudists. Looking at this picture, I have to ask: Why haven’t hennaed breasts become universally fashionable?
Friday, September 28th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
It has to be said: People are funny about their kinks. They want the kink, but sometimes they don’t want to own up to the sex part. They don’t like to admit that they do what they do because it makes them horny and leads to great sex.
In the realm of bondage, one way people sometimes display this curious hesitance is to treat bondage as if it were a sort of performance art. They wax lyrical about the aesthetics of the thing, do bondage displays in public venues with strict rules against any sort of sex play, and create highly stylized photography featuring beautiful bondage models like Roma, here, tied up with almost all of her clothes on:
Which, in my view, is mostly bunk. It leads to some breath-taking bondage photography, sure. But when a man ties up a woman’s breasts with that much care, it’s for one reason only. The reason? So she can’t bat away his hands when he does this:
Now, that’s what I call getting a good squeeze!
(Of course, those particular hands actually belong to Claire Adams, as you can see in the full gallery from Whipped Ass. No matter, it’s still a good squeeze.)
Thursday, August 9th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
I really don’t know what I could say that would improve on this excerpt from a cheesy novel from another age. Politically correct clucking aside, what’s to say? But I think it will amuse you all:
Lars put his hand behind her head and drew her toward him. They touched lips. He thought of Terry and how ridiculous it was to prefer anyone to this gorgeous acre of femininity. She pressed her lips to his. ‘You tough little bastard.’
It didn’t bother him. It was a kick for her and a kick for him. The mismatch of the century. He took her in his arms, bending over her as she stuck her legs straight out and slouched lower. He kissed her hard, slid his lips down her neck to her breasts. She wiggled her legs and said ‘Ummm, baby.’ He found a zipper near her armpit and worked it. The dress loosened, and he drew it down from her shoulders. He found the hook in back. ‘Introducing,’ he murmured, and took off her brassiere. Big, all right. A feast, and not only for the eyes. He feasted.
After a while she led him to her bedroom and stripped, turning and posing for his pleasure. She stopped him from undressing. She wanted to do it herself. She undressed him as if he were a baby, cooing over him and doing everything but carry him to the bed. She even tried that, but couldn’t make it. He laughed and it was still a kick and he was ready. But she wasn’t. She kept stalling, kept playing.
An hour passed, a full hour, and he grew tired and testy. ‘Be a big girl,’ he said, and pushed her down and pulled at her legs. She rolled over onto her stomach, but her backward glance was melting. He realized this was what she wanted. She wouldn’t ask for it because asking adulterated true toughness, but she wanted a hard man, a mean man, the man who had kicked Sommy in the nuts. He smacked her big rear end. She said, ‘No, I won’t!’ He smacked it again, the sound ringing out in the silent house. He thought of Terry. Was she next door, listening to them, jealous and sexually excited?
He smacked Mona’s rear five times, his hand stinging from the force of the blows, the sound loud enough to waken anyone in the house. Mona whimpered and rolled onto her side. ‘You hurt me.’ Her eyes blinked back tears. He grabbed her shoulders and shoved her flat on her back. She tried to draw up her legs. He slapped her face. She said, ‘Not that.’ He slapped her again and jammed his knee between her thighs. ‘Not that,’ he mocked. ‘You want me to pat the famous fanny all night. Not that. You want Lars to perform by the script.’
She wept, pressing her legs together. ‘I’ve changed my mind. Go away. You’re not –‘
He grabbed a breast. ‘If you don’t open –‘
She cried out. Her legs opened. He stroked her face and kissed her. He told her how beautiful, how desirable she was, and she wept softly and called him a rat and rapist and hugged him and bit his shoulder.
It went very well. As soon as it ended her eyes closed and she began to doze, mumbling that she hadn’t slept well all week and please phone her soon.
From The Movie Maker by Herbert Kastle (1968).
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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.
Wednesday, January 10th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Naked Twister is a perennial favorite here at ErosBlog, but I think I’ve found the largest-breasted exemplar yet seen in the wild. From the new-but-coming-along-fast Titty Blog comes this crouching nude twister-lady with a feral gleam in her eye and some notably pendulous breasts:
I’m not sure if she’s planning a fast transition to a game of leapfrog, or if she’s just spotted new prey and she’s poised to pounce.
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Wednesday, November 1st, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Yes, she’s arguably gilding the lily. Heck, she says as much herself, it’s hardly a secret. But sometimes a little gilt paint helps rock the world.
We’re talking, of course, about a pile of advanced blowjob tips from Pretty Dumb Things, with a side order of suggested anal/oral entertainment:
The paper frills on the ends of the lamb chops aren’t necessary, but they’re nice. The umbrella in your adult beverage doesn’t make it taste any better, but it’s festive. The balconette push-up bra doesn’t really give you perkier breasts, but it’s alluring. None of these things–not the paper frills, the wee umbrella, the naughty lingerie–actually makes the decorated item any better, but they seem as if they do. The lamb chop seems more succulent; the frozen piña colada appears more decadent; the breasts look as if they’re ripe for the plucking.
In the spirit of sexy similitude, let me present you with a few things you can do that will put the icing on the cake, the gild on the lily, the pastie on the nipple, if you will, of your blow job.
…
Eyes on the Prize: One thing a dude likes is if you look as if you’re enjoying sucking his dick. One way you can perform your enjoyment is to make eye contact. Especially at the beginning of the blow job, before you’re getting all hot and heavy and the guy’s eyes are lolling back in his head in full-on pleasure mode, get yourself in a position to look at him over the head of his cock as it rubs against your lips, as your tongue twirls around its head, as it slowly enters your mouth. It’s not something you can–or want–to spend your entire blow job doing, but it’s a great beginning, or a fine punctuation in the middle, especially if you want to slow things down while simultaneously heating things up.
Say It With Me, “Pruneâ€?: When Marilyn Monroe wanted to make the perfect kissy mouth for photos, she said, “prune,â€? as legend as it. Your turn to be a siren. Say “pruneâ€? and see what your lips do. Now put a nice tumescent cock in front of your mouth and say it over and over, each time more lasciviously. Let your tongue escape like a naughty little wet monkey and flick at the rim of your man’s cock head. Imagine you’re French, and say it again.
You can also wrap the head of the cock in your lips and make tiny, fluttering sucking motions with your mouth as you slowly pop the cock out of your mouth to say “Pruneâ€? again. “Dried Plumâ€? just doesn’t have the same erotic resonance.
Und so weiter.
Friday, October 20th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
If it’s possible to talk about big fake boobs without condemning anybody’s choices or tastes, I’ll kick off by admitting that I do not like them, Sam I am. I’ve said this before here on my humble little sex blog.
It’s rather a strong preference. I don’t like the way they look in naked pictures, I don’t like the way they sometimes jut out in bad directions and look like lost sports equipment buried under overtaxed skin, and I imagine I wouldn’t like the way they feel, though I reserve the right to change my mind if I ever actually get my hands on any (not very likely, given predictable objections The Nymph might have). They are, simply put, not to my taste.
But more than that, I don’t like the opportunity cost they represent. Wrapped around every fake boob is the residual flesh of — it seemeth to me — a mutilated boob, one that I, or somebody else, might have liked, but will never get to see.
Of course, it’s important to remember: they weren’t, they aren’t, my boobs. Nothing “lost” that I had any say about, none of my business, et cetera. One man’s mutilation is another woman’s joyful body modification, and of course it’s her body. Body modification, however extreme, is clearly well within the self-ownership rights of every free being, no matter how much it may squick me. And so forth.
None of which prevents me from feeling, in a visceral way, bewildered every time I see them. “What was she thinking?” I wonder. “How could she?” “Why, o great but diminished gods of Olympus, why?”
Pretty Dumb Things to the rescue! Chelsea Girl says why:
I am for myself a fan of the big breasts. However, that preference is merely for my own; I find other women’s breasts beautiful in all sizes and shapes. I have found myself equally attracted to women who burgeoned with double-scooped sundaes of breasts and to whose who were flat as a grey-glass sea. I am an equal-opportunity bisexual when it comes to other women’s breasts. But for myself, I’ve always liked myself best as a big-breasted chick.
Always. Even when I was somewhere in between an A and a B cup, the size that my genetics gave me. My breasts grew suddenly, one night when I was twelve. It felt as if one day I had those telltale puffy areolas of nascent pubescence and the next morning I had a gently cupped palm full of breast. Which would have been fine, except that in addition to growing my fresh spanky shiny boobs, I had also grown blighted bright red stretch marks that emanated out from my mallowmar areolas like ugly stringy weedy flowers.
That night when I was twelve and finally grew my boobs, when I woke that morning to find them, like stingy treats from a cranky titfairy, I felt severely cheated. From having grown up with fresh-air loving, naked-in-the-rain-dancing hippie parents and grown up around my mother’s brothers and their 60s and 70s-era Playboy and Penthouse magazines, I knew full fucking well what boobs were supposed to look like, and I knew these striped things on my chest weren’t it.
Moreover, I had, from the time I was very young, known that great big American breasts were my birthright. When I played grown up with my little friends, and we all shoved socks into our tanktops or bathing suits, I always stuck three or four pairs against each flat brown nipple, stretching my top out to tent-strained excess, and then I would stand back and admire my body. Growing up, I thought Raquel Welch, Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield owned the body that I myself would grow to inhabit.
My own breasts, the ones my DNA gave me, were a mystifying disappointment.
Of course she’s just getting going when I stop quoting, there’s much more. Enlightening and useful, even if, at the end of the day, we must fall back upon the ancient wisdom: de gustibus non disputandem.
Wednesday, July 19th, 2006 -- by Aphrodite
Wish I could tell you it was a hot mashup of pleasure and pain, but it wasn’t. Just a stupid fight between J and I, helped along by alot of bad information.
J got back from a long business trip on Monday…..a very long trip. So we were both eager to get together and have some fun. He’s barely in the door of my place before his hands are caressing me…..stroking my flanks and gently tugging my t-shirt out of my shorts.
After he does that, his hands beeline for my breasts…..My nips are really sensitive, and he loves to tease me with nipple play. And he’s really good at it, his hands are marvelous. I don’t remember how we got there, but we got to my bed and he pulled up my shirt and started nibbling my nips….alternating between them and using his hands to keep the other nipple happy too. And I came from J’s breast play, a nice uncommon surprise.
Clothes came off, and I straddled J, teasing him with tongue and cunt, spreading my wetness over his cock….then I shifted to rub my clit against his penis and had another orgasm. Not a big one but still alot of fun.
After some more teasing J finally takes me the way I like it best, slow and teasing, and alternating deep and shallow thrusts. It doesn’t take much of that and I’m coming again, a slow motion build and release just before he comes too. He looks happy, I’m sure happy…..and everything seems great for a few minutes.
But then when some blood starts returning to J’s bigger head, he starts complaining that I didn’t “come properly.” I finally figured out that what he meant is that I didn’t have a huge, earth-shaking, When Harry Met Sally-type production. Um, no…..I don’t always have those, mostly because I can’t create them and I don’t always want to try to. Sometimes they happen and sometimes they don’t even though they might be expected to. But I come easily and usually come often, and that keeps me a happy girl.
So I start trying to explain to J that when I have sex I’m all about the coming but I can do that different ways. And he starts saying stuff like the only real orgasm is the Big-O kind, and that other stuff is kind of like faking it. Well, that made me mad, and I guess some of the things I said got him mad too….maybe he thought I was saying he’s less experienced when all I was trying to say is that I’m a woman who knows my body and loves to come, and how can he not like that?
He left and we haven’t talked since then. I haven’t told him about being a sex blogger yet, mostly because I’m not very good at it and a good way to start that talk hasn’t come up. But this might be a good way, because I don’t think I can convince him myself and I know I’m not the only girl out there wired this way. Sisters, can you help me out here?
Wednesday, May 10th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
This photograph of the incredibly edible Annie Cruz is one of those pictures that strikes you (well, it struck me) half-dumb from the sheer beauty of the model:
As the man in the bejeweled turban said: “Have that one bathed and sent to my tent.”
Er, Pasha? Begging your eminence’s pardon, but there may be a slight flaw in that plan.
It turns out that Annie is seen here mistressing in the Men In Pain femdom dungeons. If he’s not careful, our would-be acquisitive sheik could find himself tied by the balls to his own tent peak. But not, perhaps, without a bit of tenderness:
Even if you aren’t the sort of man who normally enjoys having a woman tie him up and be mean to him, the full shoot of Annie in action suggests that perhaps it wouldn’t be all bad….
Friday, April 28th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
They don’t make architecture like they used to.
When I saw this photo (courtesy of Matt from The Secret Life of Librarygirl) I was struck (not literally, that would hurt) by the, er, emphatic size of the stone breasts on this gryphonesque mishmash creature:
Apparently this is a detail from the interior decoration at the Biltmore Hotel in Los Angeles.
Friday, February 10th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
I’ve been fond of the actress Emily Proctor ever since her Ainsley Hayes character waltzed through Capitol Hill on The West Wing, stealing muffins everywhere she went while destroying blonde stereotypes with strong, intelligent dialogue. Now, of course, she’s a fixture on CSI. I was accordingly pleased to discover that she bared her breasts in the 1990s in a movie called “Breast Men”:
Found on alt. binaries. nude. celebrities.
Monday, December 26th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
I put together a Sex Blog Roundup for Fleshbot a week ago, but for some reason they didn’t publish it. So I thought I’d put it here for you to enjoy. Without further ado, here it is.
Feels Like Home from My Not So Secret Self:
“I tugged at my honey’s shorts and within moments he was naked, his cock–already hard from the warmth of my breasts rubbing and pressing against his flesh–was standing tall in the warm glow of the bedroom. I hesitated for a moment before stripping my own panties off and joining him in nakedness.”
Purple Silk Boxers from Urban Gypsy:
“He strides over to where I stand; lets his tongue bathe my lips and then nuzzles his face into my neck, licking that most sensitive area that seems hot wired directly to my clit, eliciting soft moans. A greater whimper escapes my lips as he grabs my hair at the roots, pushing me to my knees so that my mouth aligned with his cock which so insistently pushes the purple silk towards me. ‘Suck,’ he says simply.”
Head Hanging Over the Edge of the Bed from Always Aroused Girl:
“In the distant past, I had the pleasure of sharing the bed of a young man who (among many other things) loved to come all over my breasts. I think if I were a man, even for a few days, ‘come all over lover’s breasts’ would have to be on my list of Manly Things to Do.”
Fantasome from Emerging On The Other Side:
“Tonight, my husband made sweet passionate love to me. As did my lover and muse. Simultaneously. Except my husband was unaware of his presence, since a threesome involving two men and myself is not his idea of bliss. But it’s definitely one of mine.”
Storming The Fortress from Late Starter:
“When we got to the castle around midday it was fairly deserted, with probably no more than half a dozen visitors…. The room was dimly lit by daylight coming through a very small slit window…. We’d started to kiss passionately and to loosen one another’s clothing when we heard the couple from the floor above coming down the stone staircase. We hastily made ourselves as respectable as possible in the few seconds available, but we were both red-faced and breathing heavily when the couple reached the open doorway.”
Candy Cane For Des from Desireous:
“I sucked him and licked him and sucked his tasty freshly shaven balls. I had him moaning and squirming beneath me. I love that! Nothing like making a man moan, it?s one of my favorite things! He had his hands in my hair holding tight. I sucked him good. I know I had him pretty close to orgasm a few times but he held back and kind of distracted me, sneaky guy!”
Tranny Surprise from Bad Sex:
“I was at the Cat Club in San Francisco, I think it was Bondage-a-go-go that night, I was in latex, my first outfit. I think it was second or third time out in rubber. I was having an OK time, but not really getting any attention….”
Midwest As Seductress from Kiss and Blog:
“A month into living together, we acknowledged our sex life was stale as Noah’s doggie bagels and pledged to liven things up. One night, about an hour after we’d gone to sleep, I woke up with a plan to spark the embers. Rolling toward Nathan, I began lightly nibbling his ear. He swatted me away.”
Thursday, December 15th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
No, not literally crapping; this isn’t that sort of website.
Over on Figleaf’s Real Adult Sex, Figleaf posted a long entry about folks who come to blogs where there are nekkid pictures, only to leave strongly derisive comments about the nekkid pictures in question. He likened such folks to trolls, and suggested deleting the body-critical comments plus the standard troll cure: ignoring them.
I posted a long comment over there, which this post mostly duplicates, not because I disagree with the prescription (I don’t) but because I don’t think the nasty body-critical comments are really deliberate trolling behavior. A true troll knows he’s a troll; these guys (and they are always guys) are just bringing to the internet their “normal” obnoxious behavior from daily life.
Here at ErosBlog, I’ve always been ruthless about deleting anything that attempts to drag down my attempt at maintaining a body-positive, sex-positive, kink-friendly editorial tone. For example, awhile back I posted some public nude shots of Kirsten Dunst, and attracted a whole host of folks commenting on how ugly her breasts supposedly are. She’s pretty by any reasonable measure, so what’s up with that? I dunno, but the ugly comments I had to delete far outnumbered the ones that remain.
What I’ve learned running a sex blog is that there are a whole host of guys whose only mode of discourse about bodily appearance is to make a negative comment. I think perhaps it originates in adolescent one-upsmanship; one guy says “Sally’s hot, I’d like to do her” and the other guys all say “No, man, she’s a pig, she’s got a huge ass” as a way of belittling the first guy. However it started, the result is a fairly large class of guys whose reflex response whenever they see an erotic picture is to say something mean and ugly about the body depicted.
It’s clearly an act of emotional aggression, some sort of attempt to establish superiority by expressing contempt for that which other people consider beautiful. An extreme form of this (which I’ve seen in various places on the internet) is the “It’s a tranny” game. The way the “game” is played is to post a picture of an unknown but pretty woman, and then wait until other men admit that the woman shown is lustworthy. Then the trap springs, as the original poster (or others) assert “It’s a tranny!” It doesn’t have to be true; the point is merely to score points by belittling another man’s opinions about sexual attractiveness.
I guess the point of all this is to suggest to other bloggers that they not take it quite so personally. If you post your boobs or butt on your blog and some nasty guy makes a rude comment, it’s possible that he doesn’t hate you specifically and didn’t stop by your blog to cause trouble specifically for you. More likely, he’s just a boorish lout who says “fat ass!” by reflex whenever he sees a pretty butt. It’s not aimed at you at all; it’s male posturing aimed at the other men who are admiring your ass.
Sure, delete his comment, just the way you’d evict a stinky drunk who stumbled into your living room from the street. But don’t take the comments so much to heart, any more than you’d worry about the good opinion of the drunk.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Tuesday, December 13th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
If you’ve ever been around large tropical birds, you’ll know that they behave like a toddler you can’t reason with. They can bring enormous joy and energy and life into a home. But they hear everything and they aren’t shy about sharing what they’ve learned. Especially not Uccello the Macaw:
The cable guy did not look at him so Uccello started squawking. I went over to him to talk and give him attention so he would not interrupt the worker, but Uccello did not want my attention. He wanted the attention of the new guy!
Uccello continued, “Suck me, baby, suck me.” That phrase got the man’s attention. A smile came to his face.
The bird continued through his extensive lexicon of words. Repeating certain phrases that The Biker especially enjoys. I could feel my face turning red as I sat there caught between being embarrassed and wanting to just laugh out loud. “Pretty tits. Woo Hoo. Pretty tits,” he said. I had to cover my breasts with my arms thinking that now the technician would be examining my chest, however his eyes did not leave his work.
“Fuck me hard, (inserting my nickname for The Biker). Do it!” Now I had to bite my lip.
The talking, squawking, acrobatics, and dancing continued, “Harder. Oh yeh!. faster. Oh yeh!” and “I’m so wet. Eat me.” until finally, seemingly exhausted by not getting the attention he deserved Uccello concluded with his new line, “Make me cum. Make me cum!”
Bad, bad bird! But what can you do?
From Biker & Teacher.
Monday, November 21st, 2005 -- by Bacchus
I don’t usually post pictures of nude celebrities that I stumble across, because (to be blunt about it) most celebrities are no more attractive (when they aren’t planning to be photographed) than is the common run of humanity. Plus, candid photos (of anybody) are rarely sexy.
But of course for every rule there is an exception or six, and in the case of naked celebs, there are a few actresses who would be sexy and beautiful if you pulled them out of a stock pond after a stampede. And Kirsten Dunst, I’d say, is one:
Oopsie:
Tuesday, July 26th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
As you know full well if you surf the sex blogs much, there’s a peculiar surplus of angst-ridden blogs by women who self-identify as sexually submissive. A frequent theme for the angst seems to be the tension between these women’s desires to be or to feel sexually submissive, and their desires to be fully valued as free and autonomous human beings.
It’s in that light that DTG’s trenchant observations on the difference between sexual submission and boring old acquiescence strike me as being most useful. I’ll let you click through for the bit on acquiescence, but the bit on submission is too fun not to quote:
Submission is right there in our physiology. We feel it in our bodies from the first time we get fucked. Like puppies, we roll on our backs and expose our soft bellies and breasts, spread our legs, and let you big guys have free run of our most tender parts. Not only do we submit, we wag our bums and pant joyfully and sometimes pee ourselves with excitement. Well, some of us do. Heh.
Thursday, May 19th, 2005 -- by Dionysus
I must say, I’m impressed. I managed to offend ErosBlog’s audience on my very second post. Don’t give in so easy. Make me wait for it. Make me earn it. Don’t give it away for free, I’ll get complacent.
But let me change the subject here.
While we’re on the topic of mythology and sex (and when, frankly, are we not in this space), I wanted to point out a newly-released e-book by the lovely and talented Doxy Wringer entitled Satyrs, Sex & Cookies. This is a collection of erotica which, in Doxy’s own words, ‘houses both a few old favorites and a smattering of never-before-read lewd treats.’ It’s got a couple of supernatural stiffeners, a near-incest tale and a tasty lesbian encounter.
Doxy never disappoints. She’s got my five simoleons.
Sample:
I was on some kind of padded surface. It felt like a doctor’s table, only in the shape of a letter “X” with an added support for my head. The cold vinyl under my back sent gooseflesh up and down my spine. It was an altar. Incense bowls burned at the four corners of my spead-eagle form, issuing a foul, herbaceous, sickly-sweet mist. Leather tethers braced my wrists, and my ankles. I was open so wide that my thigh muscles felt overextended. A dull pang radiated up the creases where my legs attached to my torso and in my sweaty armpits.
Cool air was free to lick up between my legs like some twisted gynecologist set-up. I groggily realized the way I was spread open and the lack of a table between my legs would allow them to walk right up between my thighs and…
To my far left was a statue of some kind – it looked like a prop out of a Buffy the Vampire Slayer re-run. An obscene monstrosity of black marble and what looked like red jasper. Some kind of satyr-demon. A man’s head, but for horns, atop a torso of rippling brawn, but that’s where the human parts ended. His legs were gnarly. Hoofed and hairy. Goat or Clydesdale or grizzly llama.
And an erection the size of a Buick.
* * * *
He walked up between my legs until the dangling sheath of his sex idly thumped my thighs. His thick-fingered hands reached forward, grasping hold of my already tender breasts and mauling them in lusty, kneading handfuls. A shimmer came into his black eyes – a carousing to a silent summons.
The chanting was more like music now, a buzzing drone of strings and wind instruments – badly tuned flutes and lyres. Or maybe it only seemed that way because I myself was being strummed.
“It has been ages upon ages since I have indulged in the flesh of a human woman,” he crooned in a breathy gust of sound. “You are a girl. Young. Supple. Succulent.” Without warning, one hand shoved between my thighs and I felt long, probing fingers stretch into the swollen tenderness of my slit. “And tight,” he leaned his head back in a lecherous moan of satisfaction.
Thursday, February 3rd, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
Bacchus has offered lots of evidence supporting his preference for natural breasts. The last was a sad photo of a pretty woman with an awful boob job. Via Daze Reader I learned that men are, er, plumping their penises with silicone too. The awful photographic evidence is hidden behind this link. What kind of guy would prefer psychological sexual stimulation to getting a blow job, or actual sex? Don’t answer that, on second thought, I don’t want to know.
Now, to soothe your tortured eyeballs, here’s something much better, from Fred at Good Shit:
And remember, people: silicone is for computers, not tits and dicks.
Monday, January 10th, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
I’m gonna borrow the DirtyTalkinGirl’s serial format for telling this story, so that I can focus on the bits and pieces of it, and so that it won’t be one huge blog splat to read through. (I see she’s started another series, the vixen. :D ) I also thought about pulling out the best parts of our story, and creating a story out of them….maybe a site like Sssh would buy it….but my writing needs lots of improvement before I’d be able to sell something! Anyway, I promised to tell the story to you first, so here we go…
Looking back over the ErosBlog archives, I see that I didn’t provide alot of detail about our Thanksgiving adventures. Since the story really starts there, that’s where I’ll begin today.
R was probably my first serious romantic interest. My hormones were just starting to percolate when he started talking to me in school. It was all innocuous stuff, sports and homework and music, but he was friendly, and cute….and I noticed that I was feeling new things, caused by his attention. Even though I liked talking to him, I’d often get distracted by his appearance, or his yummy smell…..that happened pretty regularly when we’d be doing something together. The new twitchings and longings happened more when I’d think about him, especially as I was lying awake in bed at night, trying to fall asleep. It was a mystifying, maddening, yet delicious torture! As I said in my first entry about R, we never were able to hook up throughout school, though we both wanted to. And we both thought about it a lot over the years. That made our unexpected reunion pretty predictable….and explosive.
So, I’m standing there in the store trying to decide what liquor to buy, when the jangle of the bell announces someone’s entrance. I hadn’t been paying any attention to that before, but this time I look up, and my heart flips. It looks like R!! Nah, it couldn’t be, I tell myself, he wanted to get away from this hick town as bad as I did. It’s wishful thinking. But I couldn’t pull my eyes away….the walk, the hair….it’s him. At about the same moment I decide to approach him, R turns and sees me looking at him. He seems to have none of my doubts–his face blooms into the big, happy smile that I’d burned into my mind all those years ago. Seeing that dissolved my uncertainty that it was really him….and suggested he was as happy to see me as I was him.
Our purchases completed while making reconnecting chit-chat, we step outside, and each of us exhales deeply. Neither wants to say goodbye, but who wants to make a move? Remembering how he liked my wackiness, I strike first. I say something like, “I so do not wanna go back to the oldsters yet. You got somewhere to be, or do you want to cruise with me?” He says that sounds like fun, and we choose his bigger SUV to drive around to all our old cruising places.
As he drives we’re still catching up on news and stuff, and I’m not paying a lot of attention to where we’re going until he stops the car. It’s Lover’s Lane (yes, that’s its real name), but it’s even better now because it’s just as deserted and the trees and bushes along the old curvy road are bigger…..and after he stops the car, R turns to me and softly says, “I never stopped thinking about you, or wanting to find you.” I answer by launching myself across the seat and delivering a kiss that tries to make up for all we hadn’t been able to say or do back in school.
He’s surprised but recovers almost immediately, and returns the kiss enthusiastically. Then we start giggling….then talking and kissing and giggling more, as we shed any lingering shyness and spill the things that remained unsaid for so long. Pretty soon, the talking slows……then the giggling follows suit, and our kisses become more….intense. They’ve all been intense, but it’s clear what we’re both wanting to happen next.
I begin to caress his body, stroking lower down his flanks each time as his enjoyment of my touch is obvious. He responds by grabbing both my breasts at once in typical high-school-hornboy fashion, which provokes an outburst of giggles that is smothered by hotter kisses, and gasps of pleasure from me as he massages my breasts. My hand dives to his crotch, and finds an ample reward. Even through the thick cloth of his jeans, I can tell he’s rock hard….and pretty large. He softly moans his pleasure at my strokes.
What happened next is kind of hazy in my mind. Somehow we shifted from the front seat to the back, and we’re going at it like two crazed teenagers–no taking clothes off except to uncover the bits that so crave attention, no safe-sex discussion or precautions, no what-happens-afterward talk, no attention to techniques and tricks–just heat and wet and the all-out explosion of pent-up passion. And I do explode, again and again…..R is very generously endowed in both length and girth, and he fills me and rides me hard, lasting a surprisingly long time before his orgasm overtakes him.
He remains inside me for a bit, as we catch our breath and regain our faculties…..neither of us seems embarrassed or uncomfortable with what just happened. Finally we separate, tidy ourselves up a bit, and with some more general, comfortable conversation, he drives me back to my car at the store parking lot. There, R gives me that big, irresistable smile again, along with another mind-melting kiss.
Once I get home and take a swig of the hooch I’d bought, I decide that since I had been such a forward lass, the next move would be up to him. I suspected it wouldn’t be long in, er, coming … and I was right.
Thursday, November 18th, 2004 -- by Aphrodite
Luscious breasts are great to admire, but just as eating the same breakfast every day can get old, the same old views of titties can lose their power to capture one’s interest.
Ever-vigilant to keep that from happening to our dear readers, I’m happy to say this photo ought to do it:
Sure got my attention…..then made me wonder, What would my boobs look like from underneath?
Another mystery find.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Wednesday, October 6th, 2004 -- by Aphrodite
I’ll admit to not being the foremost expert on breasts, but when I saw these, I couldn’t help but think, “Who could find those attractive?”:
I’m sure some do, or tits like that wouldn’t exist.
On the other hand, this painting is much more lucscious to me:
Neither one is me, just for the record.
Tuesday, September 7th, 2004 -- by Aphrodite
I forgot it was the Labor Day weekend! I’ve been busy the past few days getting the place squared away before fall’s chill begins kissing the land — it happens early where I live. I also took the opportunity to freshen up my bedroom. I painted it a deep blushing-pink almost-red shade, and it’s gorgeous. It looks like a spectacular sunset all the time (and when the sun does come into my room, in the late afternoon and evening, it’s all the more dazzling).
Seeing the paint going on and drying, and being even prettier than I had hoped when I selected the shade, got me thinking about what an even nicer love-making nest this room will be in its new color scheme. And that got me to thinking back on past good times … and the best time I’ve had, sexually speaking, so far.
The guy wasn’t a great love of my life; I can’t even really say that we were boyfriend and girlfriend. He was in a college class with me. One night I saw him at a bar, and he was the only guy I knew there so I started talking to him. We hooked up that night, and it was pretty good … but that’s all.
We got together occasionally, but our schedules never really lined up well to get together a lot. As it happened, our last time, toward the end of the semester, was far and away the best sex of my life …J and I always had fun together, joking and laughing, even during sex sometimes. I told him after class one day that I always seemed to have thoughts running through my head — not just consciousness of what I was doing, but “word-based stuff” in my head. I’d tried meditation to help clear my mind and focus it, but it hadn’t succeeded. That was hard for him to understand, and he declared he was making a project of helping me clear my mind. For weeks afterward, he’d do silly things to try to jolt my brain out of thinking. Nothing worked, but it was fun anyway.
On an early December Friday night, I was getting stressed out by projects and upcoming exams, and decided to go for a walk. My college town was small, and a short walk from the edge of campus was all it took to get to the farmers’ fields that surrounded the town. A half moon grinned through platinum ribbons of high cloud; a few corn canes clattered in the occasional push of chill air. My pace was slow as I soaked in the quiet and cold, both soothing my mind.
Having gone about a mile down the road, I was surprised to hear footsteps behind me — not hurried ones, but deliberate and measured, like mine. Glancing back, I recognized the gait as J’s, and slowed to allow him to catch up, if he wanted.
He did. We walked for a bit in amiable silence. Finally he murmured, “Getting away from it all too, huh?”, and I nodded. We approached one of my favorite spots on this walk — a small stand of trees that huddled together, cornered by a small stream and ancient fencing. J inclined his head, and I easily leapt a low spot in the barbed wire, the spot he’d indicated being one I frequented as well.
We lay on the ground, which was not yet as cold as the air. Even so, I was thankful for the long coat I’d chosen. J’s kiss was an intoxicating mix of cold lips and nose pressing to my face, and warm, sweet breath. My body responded immediately, its sensual desires having gone unfulfilled for weeks.
Rather than indulge those desires, J acted as if he hadn’t noticed. He returned to star-gazing.
I cuddled closer, pressing my breasts against his arm, thinking that would send an unmistakable signal.
Nothing from J.
What the fuck?! I thought. J had never been slow or shy before, so his lack of response was a total surprise. I decided to display my interest in a more obvious way.
Leaning over to return his kiss with a more ardent one, I swung a leg over his body and pressed close, feeling J’s erection. As he opened his lips slightly, I gyrated against him, tongue and pelvis matching rhythm. As the kiss ended, J reached up, gently stroked my hair, then firmly grasped my shoulder and pushed me down, reversing our positions.
Ignoring my hunger or oblivious to it, J langorously slid his fingers down my skin, unbuttoning my shirt and allowing the cold to sweep over my skin. My nipples, already taut, crinkled further, then even more as one received the warm attentions of his tongue, the other teasing flicks from his cold fingers. A long sigh of release and desire escaped my lips.
My attempt to return the favor was rebuffed; J gently but firmly pushed my hands down, then unbuttoned his shirt himself. The warmth of his chest against mine was brief, as J slid down to kiss and caress my breasts again. His other hand glided over my belly to unbutton my jeans.
Still impatient with his pace, I moved to help him pull my jeans down. Wordlessly, J again spurned my action and slowly pushed them down, leaving them as an awkward but effective restraint around my ankles. Finally understanding that J would only proceed as he liked and at the pace he wanted, I lay back and contented myself with teasing his nipples and seeing his growing excitement.
After what seemed an eternity of slow, tender kissing and stroking heightened by the contrast of chill air and warm skin, J removed his jeans and prepared to enter me. I was so wet I could have taken him all in one thrust, but his unhurried pace continued. I began to rock my hips in anticipation of the orgasm building within me, but J pulled out.
Understanding immediately, I ceased my motion, and after an agonizing delay he entered me again.
J’s uncharacteristic slowness focused my full attention on every movement, every touch. Slowly in, not quite fully, then slowly out … all the way out? No, thank god … and again … again … The caress of his hair on my cheek as he bent to kiss me, never altering his rhythm …
I felt suspended in near-rapture, perpetually on the edge of orgasm. Then a slight increase in J’s pace and erection signaled his impending orgasm, tumbling me over the edge in a slow-motion release. His full thrust into me as he came sent me off again … every nerve seemed to transmit my shuddering release. J blanketed me, holding me close as our orgasms finally subsided.
It wasn’t until long afterward, when we were walking back to campus, that I realized J had at last reached his goal of completely clearing my mind of words. Unfortunately, I never told him … and even more unfortunately for me, no other lover has come close to matching that amazing night with J.
Sunday, August 15th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
From Diary of A Porn Publisher, this made me laugh:
In the past, I have always eaten barbecued spareribs from the smooth belly of a naked slavegirl, using her thighs and breasts to wipe my messy hands. Tonight, for the first time, I ordered spareribs in a restaurant. I normally avoid eating any kind of finger foods in public because, well, I guess I’m too civilized. The ribs were delicious, though, and I gave them my full attention. When I finally did glance up from my plate, people were staring at me. I noted then that my hands were completely covered in barbecue sauce and gobbets of fat, encroaching up my wrists. I had to make do with napkins.
Friday, June 25th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Although uncut penises are just about as rare as real breasts in American porn, you have clamored and I have found one — by going overseas, of course. Coincidentally, several of you have reminded me of the National Penis Day recently celebrated in New Zealand. Naked Protesters has the pictures:
That’s a fellow named Alex Behan.
Tuesday, June 1st, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Don’t talk to me about the wisdom of the ancients:
“And it is absolutely NOT necessary for wives to move at all. For a women prevents and battles pregnancy if in her joy, she answers the man’s lovemaking with her buttocks, and her soft breasts billow forward and back; for she diverts the ploughshare out of the furrow and makes the seed miss its mark. Whores practice such movements for their own reasons, to avoid conception and pregnancy, and also to make the lovemaking more enjoyable for men, which obviously isn’t necessary for our wives.”
— Lucretius (60 B.C.)
Found via a link over on Tiny Nibbles.
Wednesday, April 7th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a photoblog of phone-cam pictures … of breasts. Hey, why not? CLEAVAGE! It looks like this, if you didn’t know:
Monday, February 23rd, 2004 -- by Bacchus
I’m not entirely up on my anime, but I think this is Sailor Moon after some unfortunate enlargement surgery:
Whoa! When did they start building the little anti-grav units into the implants? Plastic, it’s such a forgiving medium.
Friday, January 2nd, 2004 -- by Bacchus
From the most-viewed section of the interesting Mobog phone-cam photoblogging site:
Tuesday, December 30th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
I’m a pop culture illiterate, so it doesn’t surprise me that I’ve never heard of Michelle Branch or her music. That notwithstanding, Diablo from Pussy Ranch made me howl with laughter when she wrote:
This month’s Maxim cover features a half-naked Michelle Branch shielding her tender young breasts from a Photoshopped pillar of leaping flames. “Barbecutie!” the cover cleverly blares. I’ll bet earnest little Michelle Branch never thought she’d be likened to a McRib on the cover of a lad mag. She can strum a D chord, after all! She’s better than this, ostensibly! She wrote the theme song to Sorority Life, not that I pay attention to such things!
…
However, either Michelle’s asscrack has been airbrushed into nonexistence by Maxim’s art department, or she is, in fact, lacking a cleft between her buttocks. If the latter scenario is true, then we can assume that Michelle Branch cannot pass solid waste. That’s sad. Imagine you’re in the studio, recording your latest opus, and those knob-twiddlers from Maverick are pestering you. And all you can think is: I need to crap so bad. I wish I hadn’t loaned my colostomy bag to Madonna.
I suppose it’s that kind of urgency that creates truly exquisite, D chord-driven albums.
Wednesday, December 17th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
It will come as no surprise to readers of this sex blog (given some of the pictures and links that get posted here) that there are as many startling fetishes in the world as (it sometimes seems) there are people. Nor is ErosBlog the place to come to find condemnation of any of them (fetishes or people), although as to some (fetishes) this blog remains silent for the sake of my own undisturbed digestion. The next story, from Rebel With A Clue of the Anarchobabes, caught my eye because it involves a fetish I’d never heard of, and a stunningly dickish approach to satisfying it:
When I was just out of high school, I hitched a ride with this older guy in a nice car and a suit. Okay, so tell me I’m crazy, but he seemed okay. And he was, I guess. He was a lawyer, very respectable. We ended up going out a couple of times and old mom really liked him. I got the finally you’re going out with the RIGHT kind of guy rant. I could just see her planning my wedding to a fuckin lawyer. And he seemed okay, except for being that sort of guy who tells you you shouldn’t order steak well done and who tries to make you feel bad if you don’t listen to La Boheme instead of Rage Against the Machine.
So the first couple of times we go out, he’s everything mom thinks he is. But then one night we go to his house and we start getting hot. And it’s okay. I admit it, it’s more than okay, I’m getting ready to jump out of my skin, not only my clothes. And he starts peeling me. Then he gets to my bra. And he takes it off. And he STOPS AND TURNS THE LIGHT UP AND READS THE FUCKIN LABLE!
I have these breasts, you know. Pretty good ones. But he read that lable and got this big dum grin and says, “That’s exactly the size I thought you were!” And then sort of rubs the bra together in his palms and smiles in this weird way. Then he tells me to get dressed and sends me home! That’s all he wanted, to find out my bra size. I never saw the guy again and you bet that was OK with me.
You know, now that I think about it, I have heard of that fetish before. Who among us hasn’t known someone with a fetish for being right, at all costs?
Friday, December 5th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Philip at Hot Action shares a long reverie. A reverie about laundry, you could say, if you had no soul at all. The reverie begins:
I went upstairs and started to tidy up my room. I was sorting my laundry when I found the bra you’d been asking about. Yes, I still have it. So you want it back, do you?
I raised the bra to my mouth and and took a bit of the shiny black material in my teeth. I imagined biting through to the hard, sensitive nipple on the other side.
The smell of your breasts was still powerful on the garment….
Wednesday, December 3rd, 2003 -- by Bacchus
This was sent to me with the proposed caption: “Why women don’t play football (but should)”:
Thanks, Richard!
Thursday, July 24th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Attu has found a page with a bunch of pictures (for so long as their bandwidth lasts) of the lovely Nadine, who has vast, er, tracts of land:
Simply amazing. And (if you study all the pictures carefully, purely in the name of science of course) pretty likely real.
Saturday, July 5th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Michelle from Sweetness Follows discovered the “Secret S & M Section” at the tack shop and it totally disrupted her lunch break:
Looked at the whips and bats up on the wall… okay so they were actually intended for horses, not for S & M. There was a basket full of riding crops. All different lengths and sizes, with different tips — some with big flat parts on the ends, some with a long leather whip-like cord, some with smaller flat parts (I realize I don’t have the terminology correct).
And I stood there, and thought of all the uses they could be put to.
“This one,” I thought, looking at one with the whip-like end “could be used on my tits and my nipples. This one,” (the one with the bigger flat part on the end) “is for my ass and my pussy. And this one,” (the one with the small flat end) “would be for when Mike has me hold open my ass so that he can spank my asshole”.
I stood there, looking through them, picking them up, feeling their weight and texture in my hands. I imagined myself, spread open in front of Mike while he spanked me with that riding crop, making my outer lips all red, until he had me open my cunt so that he could slap my inner lips, my pussy hole, even fucking me with the handle, and calling me a bad, dirty, slutty little girl the whole time. I imagined him having me stand in front of him, hands behind my back, back arched, presenting my tits to him, and the sting of that leather cord on my nipples, the undersides of my breasts…. I imagined how it would feel, after 20 minutes of being spanked mercilessly on the ass with that first riding crop, only to have him tell me to spread my ass open and slap my asshole with that last, smaller crop. The one that would sting the most, I think.
To make sure, I tested them all, slapping them against my palm.
At that point I was glad I was wearing a skirt because the wetness from my pussy had already soaked through my underpants, and would surely be showing through pants, had I been wearing them. As it was I could feel my thighs, slick with pussy juice.
“Do you need some help choosing one?” I nearly jumped out of my skin, then turned to face the girl who worked there. I know she didn’t know what I’d been thinking, but still… I blushed a little. “Oh… no, just looking…”
Dollars to doughnuts, more than half the riding crops that store sells never touch a horse. And they know it.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Monday, June 30th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
I liked San Francisco well enough when I lived there for a couple of years. However, this story reminds me that, as a geeky broke straight boy with no motorcycle, I missed out on some of its more signal charms. True fact: the most exciting thing I ever touched on Ocean Beach was some sea glass. I like better the sound of this San Francisco:
She headed north on Franklin and I wondered where we were going. When she took a left onto Geary I realized she was headed for the beach and not either of our apartments. That was fine with me a little shiver went through me at the vision of being caught by a park ranger while her head was between my legs.
She must have brought other women here, I thought, when we stepped onto the sand and I saw that she had chosen a spot that was sheltered from the wind. When we had arrived she had opened up one of her saddlebags and pulled out a blanket, and she spread that out for us now. The air was warm, but maybe it was just that my whole body felt as though it was desperate for her touch. We both kicked off our shoes.
She sat, and pulled me down with her. Then she reached over, opened my jacket, and both of her hands went to my breasts….
Thanks to Crystal at Exposed for sharing this and lots of other stories.
Wednesday, June 25th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
From Makura No Soshi, a long catalog of sexual experiences, well written and pleasing to any voyeuristic eye. I like this bit the best, because it’s the one that she makes sound like the most fun:
The first time I kiss a woman it rocks me all the way down to my knees. Later, when I am alone, I burst into tears. I think about it over and over again. I want to go around singing that stupid song that was on MTV for awhile, “I Kissed A Girl.” I lock myself in the bathroom and think about it some more, and touch myself. The first time I have sex with a woman I am terrified that I won’t know what to do. I think that I will do to her all the things that I like to have done to me, for starters, and that perhaps she can tell me all the rest. Her skin is so unbelievably smooth, her breasts so soft, and she is wet and plush-velvety, and red, and deep. Her clitoris rises toward my mouth like a sweet, dark fig. It is the best sex. Ever.
Tuesday, June 24th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
George Kranze has some thoughts on how to integrate bukkake more fully into American culture:
Talk about a natural fund raiser – how many times have you been driving around and seen a church group or civic club selling car washes ? Now, who the hell wants to wash their car ? I let mine sit in the rain – works just fine.
But suppose you drove past a fire department and saw a large hand-lettered sign that read “Bukkake $5” . You park, and walk into the station, (which has been emptied of fire trucks for this occasion), and lo and behold, a gorgeous brunette Demi Moore look alike is kneeling on a pillow in the center of the garage. Men mill around, drinking draft Heineken from a freshly tapped keg, bullshitting, and stroking their meat. One by one, as the need arises, they drift on over to Demi and shoot their load.
Her hair is streaked with strands of cum, cum hangs from her chin and occasionally falls to her bare breasts – she is grinning like a she-devil – a good time is had by all. Shit, you would donate 5 bucks and join the party, right ?
And he thinks it would be just the thing for centers of higher learning:
Sororities at some of our rowdier campuses could require that all new members undergo a bukkake.
The beautiful debutante would kneel in the center of a large room in the sorority house while several invited fraternity houses mill around, swilling beer, and, uh, rising to the occasion. The debutante would have to fellate the three largest guys, the rest would have to service themselves. At the crucial moment guys move right next to or in front of the cutie and shoot their load. The whole party would be recorded on video for both the sorority archives and the debutantes scrapbook. (Interesting item for her future ex-husband don’t you think?)
For anyone who is still confused about this bukkake business (as Stan Rogers would say, “You lucky few”) there’s some background here and here.
Saturday, May 31st, 2003 -- by Bacchus
It’s tres chic to criticize pornography; probably every literate person does at some time or another, despite the shooting-fish-in-a-rainbarrel nature of the enterprise. But few manage to do it with such elan:
I find almost all porn to be insufferable. The inflated breasts, the blond hair, the absence of the merest trace of thespian ability. But the thing that repulses me most of all, is the stupidity. I’m not talking about the inane dialogue that is written to give porn films a plausible scenario. I’m talking about the insipid direction, lighting, cinematography. The men’s gym-tits and deli-window dicks. The women’s gonfle tits, cookie-cutter measurements, greasy sheen. Their interchangable clonedness. The repetitive and unimaginative scenes in which the same buttons get pushed over and over and over and over again. It’s like a printing press that prints out the same newspaper day after day, and we’re supposed to be interested.
Thanks to Madame G.
By the way, anybody know what “gonfle tits” are? It sounds like a dessert to Bacchus….
Wednesday, April 16th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
There’s an odd little flash movie on this page (direct .swf file link here) involving disembodied cartoon breasts that dance around to piano music. Yup. For real. And some of them wind up in a parfait glass, with spoons. And then at the end there’s a whole ball of them that explode, like the Death Star.
What does it mean? Hell if Bacchus knows. It’s Japanese, if that helps.
Wednesday, February 5th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
What she said!
She quotes loosely from a press release:
“One of our clients is a French doctor and plastic surgeon, who has an amazing new procedure: It involves injecting collagen into the G-spot to increase its surface area, thereby improving the occurrence and intensity of orgasms. It is a very quick and easy procedure that can be carried out at the [blah blah blah] clinic in [blah]. It has been brought over from Paris where it is all the rage. If you would like any other details, please get in touch.”
Now, Bacchus is not equipped with a G-Spot, but his most recent ex emphatically was, and presumably still is. Surface area was more than adequate, howbeit quite remarkably changeable in texture. This suggested “enhancement” sounds every bit as absurd as “enhancing” a pair of firm but deliciously malleable breasts by cutting the nipples mostly off and stuffing vinyl bags of salt water in through the holes until the skin is stretched so tight it begins to deform and…oh, wait. Never mind.
Monday, December 2nd, 2002 -- by Bacchus
Thanks to the Reverse Cowgirl for linking us to AccordionGuy who, in turn, offers for your viewing pleasure two large pictures of scarves shaped like boobs:
Apparently the pendulous breasts scarf is all the rage in Japan.
Nope…not making this up. Couldn’t.
Saturday, October 26th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
“Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, free at last!”
Ananova reports:
Italian restorers working in a Roman church have unveiled two bare-breasted sculptures which have been covered for almost 150 years.
They were designed by Gian Lorenzo Bernini but covered by bronze ‘corsets’ in 1863 because religious leaders thought they were offensive.
“The figures were particularly feminine in their faces, in their nudity, and very voluptuous,” Ms Negro said. “Religious authorities thought they were not quite suitable for a church.”
Thanks to Daze Reader for the link!
Saturday, October 5th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
Thursday, October 3rd, 2002 -- by Bacchus
Can’t have a sex blog without some gratuitous public nudity:
Thanks Instapundit for the link!
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