Midget Night At The Strip Club

Overheard on the (virtual) street in an unlinkable place:

“His girlfriend finally agreed to go with him to a strip club. But here’s the catch: her rule is, they can only go on midget night…”

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Knife Play And Alcohol Don’t Mix

They thought it would be fun and sexy to cut each others’ undies off. With a knife. After several adult beverages. It didn’t end so well:

After having a few drinks together, the couple started to get intimate in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, the Expressen newspaper reports.

Not satisfied with traditional approaches to disrobing, the couple decided that it might be more fun to remove one another’s underwear using a knife.

After the 47-year-old man successfully sliced the stockings off his girlfriend, she gingerly gripped the handle of the knife and took a shot at cutting her boyfriend’s boxers right off his body.

Unfortunately for the man, the 36-year-old woman apparently lacked the same level of skill as her boyfriend when it came to handling sharp objects.

Rather than slashing through his underwear, the woman instead stabbed her boyfriend in the thigh.

“From what we understand, it was a sex act that went a bit wrong,” Maud Johansson of the VästerÃ¥s police told the newspaper.

Whoopsie!

Tender Fucking Moment

Don’t pay any mind to the dude in the background. Look at our lovers. He’s caressing her face, they’re gazing deep into each other’s eyes, she’s a little breathless, her mouth open anticipating a kiss…

It could be straight off the cover of your average semi-pornographic bodice-ripper romance. A proposal of marriage within twenty pages, a duel by the end of the chapter, eventually a wedding after necessary complications, happily ever after in due course.

Except, I cheated. I cropped creatively, and rotated the frame a little bit. Because what’s actually going on here is, she’s strapped down to a bondage table with her legs apart and he (it would seem) is taking ruthless advantage of her helpless situation:

Not that she minds. Indeed, I’d say they’re pretty into each other.

Her girlfriend / partner in crime is getting the same treatment in the background (on the floor!) from his buddy. The story is, the girls are druggies who got caught by a pair of rogue cops. Supposedly it’s all very exploitative and the ladies are being kidnapped and turned into “whores” for the bad evil corrupt cops, but everybody seems to having too much fun to remember the nominal humiliation/degradation agenda.

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Tumbled Cumshot Porn

I was running through a vein of Tumblrs this morning with a lot of cumshot porn that I can’t or won’t put here for various reasons. But then I thought, for what better reason did God in His Earthly Avatar Tim Berners-Lee implement the hyperlink?

• This one made me laugh. She’s got a zucchini to masturbate with, and she’s not afraid to use it. And judging by the mess, he really likes to watch.
• Two sleepy-looking girls in this photo are trying to lick the last drop of goodness out of this man’s cock. It’s the sort of scene most men figure they’ll never see even once in their lives. It’s not that you couldn’t arrange a threesome — that can be done if you’re some combination of smooth and handsome and lucky and rich — but setting a scene that relaxed and loving? Not easy.
• On the other hand, these two girls are just about to get the flavor and it looks like they are expecting something like liquified dog poo mixed with apple-scented dish detergent. Ladies, if you’re hating the idea so much, why are you there?
• There’s a ton of fake cumshot porn out there where the ladies are drizzled with various mixtures of condensed milk, cornstarch, and so on; you can Google fake jizz recipes. Something about these two girls makes me think they vamped themselves up in the kitchen and posed for this shot to torture an absent young feller. It’s just got that “I’m posing for my facebook and my head is turned because my arm is stretched out with the camera in my hand” feel to it:

  

• Here we have an over-capacity and overflow issue. And yet he’s still pumping!
• This right here is the ultimate “happy girlfriend” post-blowjob look. I’m not saying there isn’t a professional photog out there who can’t get a paid model to look like that (that’s why we call them “professionals”) but I am saying it’s why people put so much time and effort into looking for real amateur porn on the web.
• Aaaiiieeee! It burns!

I could go on like this for hours, but that’s enough to get started with.

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Clueless At Conde Nast

These days, ErosBlog gets a lot of PR emails, from folks with mainstream publications (whether still printed on dead trees expensively coated in glossy clay, or migrating rapidly from that sinking ship onto the cheaper high ground of the virtual internets).

There’s a few fundamental best practices for internet PR professionals. Mostly, they seem unaware of them.

One fairly basic politeness (that you’d think their mommas would have taught them) is to make an introduction. A PR professional ought to introduce himself or herself and say who they represent. They almost never do this; they just breezily offer up the link they are trying to promote and sign off with “Julie” or “Bob” like you are their close friend who never heard of them before.

This is a professional mistake, because the line between “internet PR professional” and “spammer” is dangerously thin. The only sure way to avoid crossing it is to actually forge a relationship with the people you’re marketing to. And relationships, as everybody should know who ever had a momma, start with an introduction. In meatspace, you walk up, offer your hand to shake, and say, “Hi, I’m Roger Eurace, I do PR for a couple of magazines and I like your blog, I think we’ve got some common interests.” In email, you can’t shake hands, but that first line “I’m Hugh Gepenies from Big Richard Magazine, and [eight words making it clear this is not a form letter sent to dozens of people]” is absolutely essential.

Why? Because if you open with your spam-ish marketing message, and it’s not individually tailored to the recipient, it’s a dead give-away that you likely did spam the same email to dozens or hundreds of people. And that makes you a spammer, and a spammer is a type of thief (thief of attention, thief of time, thief of computer resources).

Worse yet, by not introducing yourself as a marketing professional, and by breezily signing your first name as if the recipient of the email already knows you, you convey the impression that you’re hoping to pretend to be a friend, or another blogger. That’s petty fraud, or would be if it weren’t so annoyingly, transparently obvious.

No organization who hires a PR professional wants their brand associated with petty thievery and fraud. But alleged PR professionals often don’t understand internet values, so they don’t understand that their small deceits and attempted frauds work at cross purposes to their primary goal of getting positive internet attention.

Finally, a true PR professional doesn’t waste time trying to promote something that’s likely to actively annoy the target of the contact. Which means, spammy bulk mailings become impossible; the PR person actually has to read the blogs he or she is marketing to. That’s good, because spamming a blogger with a link that’s likely to annoy said blogger is more likely to get you mocked than it is to get a link to the client’s website.

Enter Stephanie.

This morning I get this email:

> Date: Thu, 15 Jan 2009 10:48:52
> Subject: ‘Flirting with Disaster’ in DETAILS

The subject line alone trips my bullshit filters. The word “disaster” suggests one of those breathless mainstream “the dangers of dating” articles — as a pro-sex sort of publication, Eros Blog doesn’t focus much on sexual disaster, especially when it’s portrayed (as it too often is) as the inevitable consequence of unzipping your zipper. Moving on:

> From: Stephanie Kim {Stephanie_Kim@condenast.com}
> To: bacchus@erosblog.com

Ayup. Corporate marketing. Conde Nast has some good titles, I’m still reading.

> Good Morning-
>
> Have you ever encouraged your significant other to explore their
> bi-curiosity?

Gosh, that’s kind of a personal question, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not totally beyond the pale; it’s fair coming from a personal friend, or somebody who is on my blogroll that I’ve exchanged emails with before. But from a stranger?

Note the utter lack of an introduction. Note also there’s nothing in this intro that would have prevented mass-mailing this email to a dozen or a thousand or ten million other bloggers.

Next we get to the meat-like substance in the can of spam:

> In the January/February issue of DETAILS, we share the surprising
> and unintentional consequences.
>
> http://men.style.com/details/features/landing?id=content_7783

Right ho, and you just proved you’ve never read ErosBlog. Spammer.

The consequences of “encouraging your significant other to explore their bi-curiousity” are deeply unpredictable. From an upside of endless wild three-ways to a downside of relationship-crushing rejection, you just never know until you try. If any of the possible outcomes are surprising, you weren’t being a clear-eyed sexual grown-up when you decided to take a whack at the bee-hive shaped pinata.

But we saw the “Flirting with Disaster” title, didn’t we? So we already know that this is a standard main-stream magazine “ZOMG, sexual adventurousness is dangerous” waste of time. Another in a long line of sex-negative propaganda pieces, all of which exist to prove that if you step out of your grey-flannel suit, you’re a doomed sinner who will surely suffer your just desserts of heartbreak, divorce, and damnation.

At this point the only thing we don’t know is how deep in the water this particular journalistic failboat will be.

Remind me again, why anybody who reads ErosBlog would think we might want to link favorably to an article talking about the manifest and obvious dangers of sexual openness and adventurousness?

Back to Stephanie, who (it turns out) has been winding up for a bit of fatuous condescension:

> Please be sure to link to our site should you post anything.

And you be sure to put covers on them magazines, it would sure be bad if they were flappin’ around on the news stands and nobody knew what their titles were!

Thanks for telling me how to do my job, lady. Thanks a bunch. I’ve been blogging since 2003 — how long have you been marketing dead tree magazines on the internet?

> Thank you for your consideration!
>
> Best,
>
> Stephanie

She might have rescued herself, from mockery if not from spammer status or mission failure, if she’d bothered to add a second line to her signature, something like “PR Assistant, Conde Nast Magazines”. But no, she’s come this far hoping I won’t think too hard about who she is, and she’s now trying to slide away from the contact without me ever noticing that she’s never said.

Enough about Stephanie. How full of fail is her proffered link?

Well, first of all, it’s important to remember that print magazines have lots of pages, so they can sell lots of ad space. And so, when they migrate to the web, they tend to take tiny little nine-paragraph articles and split them up across three different web “pages” to generate a bogus high volume of “page views”. It’s an annoying industry standard. Some magazines do this in print, too, splitting articles up with lots of jumps so you’ll have to page through the mag a lot of times. Recreating that physical pain in electronic form is just one of the many ways that the fading print dinosaurs are failing to adapt, and one of the biggest reasons why it’s a rare print magazine website that’s worth a bucket of warm spit.

Let’s move on to content. Remember the carefully gender-neutral hook in Stephanie’s email? “Have you ever encouraged your significant other to explore their bi-curiosity?” Well, ladies, have you?

Sorry, that was bait and switch. Stephanie has apparently heard of bi-curious men, but the reader of the article she’s promoting never will. The subheader under the “Flirting With Disaster” headline makes that clear: “Want your girlfriend to try a little sapphic action? Be careful what you wish for.”

There’s not a single word in the article about bi-curious men. “sapphic action” (lack of capital letter in original) sets the tone. Here’s a little word cloud of lovely phrases from the article:

“sapphic action” “conjugal bed” “Owen’s wife dropped the pink bomb” “lesbian awakening” “lesbian-obsessed guy” “do a shot of the Tila Tequila punch” “give girl-on-girl a try” “walk on the wild side” “Sapphic-themed sex” “chick-on-chick action”

I look at these things so you don’t have to. Sorry, Stephanie, it’s not worth a link.

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“That Old Tattooed Lady”

There’s an old folk song out there, sung by the Kingston Trio and many others, that goes a little bit like this:

We came to town to see
that old tattooed lady.
She was a sight to see,
tattooed from head to knee.
My uncle Ned was there.
He came to gape and stare.
“I’ve never!” he declared
“seen such a freak so fair.

And on her jaw
was the Royal Flying Corp
and on her back
was the Union Jack,
now could you ask for more?
All up and down her spine
marched the Queen’s own guards in line
and all around her hips
sailed a fleet of battleships.

And over her left kidney
was a bird’s eye view of Sidney
but what we liked best
was upon her chest:
My little home in Waikiki!

And which point a voice shouts in surprise “What did you say?” And the whole song starts over. You can sing it all day if you like.

If you’ve heard the song, you’ll recognize the mental voice in which I thought “What?” when I saw a mention on Fleshbot of a woman with a ring of writing tattooed around her anus.

“What did he say?”

Also: Ouch.

Apparently the writing does not, as has been suggested elsewhere, say (in Elvish runes or otherwise): “One ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.”

Aside: I know a guy who would fall over dead from sheer nerd joy if he had a girlfriend who (a) liked anal and (b) had that tattooed around her rosebud.

Sadly, no; what porn star Adrenalynn actually has tattooed on her asshole is (reportedly) the phrase “Jarrod’s Little Fuckdoll.”

Jarrod is her husband, and I heartily hope the tender sentiment has the same effect on him as the runes would have on your average 19-year-old anal-loving Tolkien fan.

For the curious, there’s a fairly clear view of Adrenalynn’s anal tattoo in the twelfth picture from this gallery. The last ten seconds of the fourth video clip here also gives you several good views, if you’re fast with the pause button. Adrenalynn is pretty cute, so your time won’t be wasted!

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Wiretapping Your Phone Sex

Any time you are tempted to believe the bland assurances that government wiretapping (or any other broad surveillance) is strictly for purposes of national security, think about this story and remember that government employees are the same kind of monkeys the rest of us are — snoopy, gossipy, voyeuristic, and inclined to disregard “the rules” whenever it seems likely that we’ll get away with it. Which means, they will listen to your phone sex if you let them listen to anything that they don’t have to justify (individually, specifically, each and every time) to a skeptical judge:

Despite pledges by President George W. Bush and American intelligence officials to the contrary, hundreds of US citizens overseas have been eavesdropped on as they called friends and family back home, according to two former military intercept operators who worked at the giant National Security Agency (NSA) center in Fort Gordon, Georgia.

…

“These were just really everyday, average, ordinary Americans who happened to be in the Middle East, in our area of intercept and happened to be making these phone calls on satellite phones,” said Adrienne Kinne, a 31-year old US Army Reserves Arab linguist assigned to a special military program at the NSA’s Back Hall at Fort Gordon from November 2001 to 2003.

Kinne described the contents of the calls as “personal, private things with Americans who are not in any way, shape or form associated with anything to do with terrorism.”

She said US military officers, American journalists and American aid workers were routinely intercepted and “collected on” as they called their offices or homes in the United States.

…

Another intercept operator, former Navy Arab linguist, David Murfee Faulk, 39, said he and his fellow intercept operators listened into hundreds of Americans picked up using phones in Baghdad’s Green Zone from late 2003 to November 2007.

“Calling home to the United States, talking to their spouses, sometimes their girlfriends, sometimes one phone call following another,” said Faulk.

The accounts of the two former intercept operators, who have never met and did not know of the other’s allegations, provide the first inside look at the day to day operations of the huge and controversial US terrorist surveillance program.

…

Faulk says he and others in his section of the NSA facility at Fort Gordon routinely shared salacious or tantalizing phone calls that had been intercepted, alerting office mates to certain time codes of “cuts” that were available on each operator’s computer.

“Hey, check this out,” Faulk says he would be told, “there’s good phone sex or there’s some pillow talk, pull up this call, it’s really funny, go check it out. It would be some colonel making pillow talk and we would say, ‘Wow, this was crazy’,” Faulk told ABC News.

The Two Dollar Girlfriend

I’m sure it’s never been easy being the girlfriend of a stage magician — if you’re not double careful, before you know it you’re chained in a glass box wearing a thong and two pasties, being sawed in half in front of an audience of strangers. But unexpected sexual practices? In a word, yes.

In the July issue of Harper’s magazine, professional magician Alex Stone has a long article about his trip to the World Championship of Magic, where he competed in the “Olympics of Magic” against the best stage magicians in the world. Earlier in the article, he mentions his new girlfriend Rachel, whose frequent attentions kept him from practicing his routine as much as he perhaps ought to have. Then, he begins to describe his own competition routine, and gets to talking about the practice of palming coins:

After the vanish, I press the coin with the middle and index fingers into the center of my palm, where it’s held in place by a slight contraction of the muscles. This is the Classic Palm, the most important concealment in all of coin magic. Read the coin worker’s bible, J. B. Bobo’s Modern Coin Magic: “This is one of the most difficult of all concealments to master but one of magic’s finest secrets. The layman cannot imagine it possible to conceal a coin in this way.”

…

Part of mastering a palm involves learning to conceal objects while the hands are otherwise engaged. Following the advice of the masters, I go through much of my daily life with coins classic-palmed in both hands — on the subway, at dinner parties, and even during sex.

Emphasis added.

As I said, it must be a challenge to be a magician’s girlfriend. Some women, you come to bed with a dollar in each hand, they aren’t going to take it kindly. I’m just sayin’.

Ix-Nay On The Man Junk

Some time back, whilst discussing The Great Craigslist Sex Personals Massacre Of 2006 (don’t forget to pronounce it “mass-uh-cree” like Arlo Guthrie Jr. does) I wrote:

Speaking to all men, let me say this: Mailing a potential female sex partner an unsolicited picture of your dick is not appropriate, it’s not smart, it doesn’t work, it brands you as a vulgar idiot, and it makes all men look bad by gender association with your fucked-up self. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. I repeat, don’t do it. Man law, got it?

Now, via Viviane, here’s a link to Junkbuzzed, a sharp-tongued blog named after this dumb-assed behavior and devoted to exposing “the grime, grit, humiliation, and degradation that goes into trying to find someone to fuck you online.” They have a LOLcat:

And they have stuff to say:

Yes, on to the man-junk. Look. We know you like the sex. The sex is the bomb. We understand this. I myself am a big fan of it. But a little discretion goes a long way. Put the man-junk away unless it is specifically asked for. Pictures of man-junk are like Vienna sausages at a 4-star restaurant: it only gets served on special request.

Then this very same Junkbuzzed post moves quickly along to another vital bit of advice, which can be summarized briefly as “write like a human being, you moron!”

I have, In The Name Of Science, dutifully read through many a day’s postings from the men to the women. After the first 10 or so posts, it all starts to read like LOLcats….

“o hai! lick mai taint plz i gots 12in srsly 420 kewlâ€?

This is not the phrase one employs in the pursuit of True Love (or To Blave). It is not the phrase one employs even if one is trying to get one’s taint licked (South Carolina, I’m looking at you).

Having a sense of humor helps. Displaying a sense of humor is even better. And not in a “I broke my last girlfriend’s jaw cuz she was a bitch lolâ€? sort of way, either. The ladies, they don’t go for that sort of thing. Just trust me on this one. Ain’t gonna play.

Lots of fun, and that post is #3 in a series.

Make Your Own Girlfriend

Hey, when you’re a wooden boy and your father is a woodcarver, isn’t it only natural that you’d just chisel out the woman of your dreams?

From the cover of a Screw magazine from 1979.

All Women Are Beautiful

Some long while ago, when I was a young and bookish and entirely virgin lad, I stumbled across the old truism “all brides are beautiful.” Being a literal sort, my first reaction was “that’s nonsense!” I’m not sure I’d ever even been to a wedding at that point in my life, but I was confident I’d seen unattractive women who would surely marry. However, as I grew older and wiser and more experienced, I came to appreciate the logic of the thing, especially its similarity to that hoary old chestnut and maxim of firearms safety: “There’s no such thing as an unloaded firearm.”

With a particular bride or a particular firearm, it might be possible to raise a literal objection; there are, in a literal sense, firearms with empty chambers, and there might be, in a literal sense, brides whose beauty cannot be limned by describing their physical attributes. But the social utility of the claim, in either case, must entirely overwhelm and sweep away any crabbed literal objections; and the man who cannot understand this, ought not to be allowed near a firearm or a woman, either one.

Having reached that stage in my moral and social development, the notion then struck me: Why do we limit this maxim of beauty to brides alone? No obvious reason presenting itself, I resolved that there must, indeed, be no such thing as an ugly woman. And for the most part, I’ve found it to be true.

Which brings me now to the latest barrage launched by Violet Blue against the tirelessly undead troll armies of the Internet. I’d hate to have people think that I’m just YAVBF (that would be Yet Another Violet Blue Fanboy, and yes, I have been accused of this by my own small half-platoon of trolls), but I am often in awe of her unique brand of combative courage. This time she takes on all the morons who enjoy what I’ve called crapping all over beauty, and she pulls no punches:

Every woman on the Internet gets called slutty and ugly and fat (to put it lightly) no matter what; all we have to be is female. In dinner conversation, my friend Lori reminded me of the Oscar Wilde quote, “Give a man a mask, and he’ll tell you the truth.” I restated it for the Internet, replying, “Give a man a mask, and he’ll slit your throat.” The application here is, “Give a man (or a woman) an anonymous account, and he’ll eviscerate your self-esteem.”

The problem is, with so many women I talk to, the trolling is effective. The number of times I’ve talked down a crying girlfriend after she’s been trolled in her comments about being fat, ugly, skanky, slutty or stupid is higher than I can count (no matter what she writes about). Trolls watch too much mainstream porn and TV, and believe stereotypes are real; they slap us with it and then we believe it, too. We compare ourselves to overly thin models, actresses, and porn stars, and it messes with our self-image and our ability to express ourselves sexually, and especially to enjoy sex.

She also quotes Margaret Cho:

In Margaret Cho’s “Beautiful” tour, she talks about recently being on a radio show and having the host ask her point-blank, live, on the air, “What if you woke up one day, and you were beautiful?” When asked, he defined beautiful as blonde, thin, large-breasted, a porno stereotype. Cho says, “Just think of what life is like for this poor guy. There’s beauty all around him in the world, and he can only see the most narrow definition of it.”

Poor guy, indeed. Has he not seen the way Margaret Cho can fill a leather jumpsuit? I’m no LOLcat, but I known a NOM NOM NOM scenario when I see one.

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Porn Versus Activism In The Troll Ecosystem

Just in case you missed it, Violet Blue did a talk at the big Etech 2008 shindig, a talk that ranges widely across the big topic of sexual identity online and how we construct it, shape it, and especially, defend it (and ourselves, where there’s a difference) from online trolls, stalkers, and haters of all sorts. Here’s Violet Blue about her talk, here’s the transcript.

It’s juicy chewy idea-rich media, the sort of thing that makes me worry about the decline in printed magazines, because I like to buy printed magazines with this sort of info-dense article in them (Wired used to do a lot of this) to read when I’m traveling and have a lot of time to read and think. Just pulling out a random useful and true paragraph:

I’ve been a blogger and occasional full-time editor at Fleshbot.com almost since its inception, a job when full time requires me to scour the internets for explicit sexual content of reasonable quality. We endeavor to cover a wide range of sexual expression and all genders and orientations; one of our regular features is the Sex Blog Roundup. When I did it weekly, I had upwards of 300 text-only sex blogs written by individuals worldwide in my RSS reader — outside the 50 or so usual suspects of variety sex blogs, mainstream media news, linkdumps and sex news blogs. Every week I’d have to cull for new blogs to add to my feeds because invariably a handful of sex bloggers who were blogging “anonymously” had to quit blogging — meaning they were for one reason or another, no longer anonymous. It was such a regular occurrence I developed a snarky attitude toward the anonymous sex blogger, even though they often offered up the juiciest and most explicit posts about sex. Time and again, they are a sure bet for being outed or discovered, have the shortest life span, and are the least reliable for following as a human narrative.

(That paragraph is also nostalgic for me, because I compiled the first of Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundups, and immensely enjoyed doing them until I ran out of time to keep up with the extra work. Sadly, I don’t think I understood the full power of RSS back then, or I might be doing them yet.)

One thing that struck me about Violet’s talk, however, was that it describes a dangerous-sounding online world for sex bloggers, full of hatred and weird jealousies and stalker trolls and malevolent creeps, so much so that she’s got an entire array of procedures and tactics for defending herself and returning the fight to her attackers. And that’s bizarre to me; in more the five years of blogging, the worst I’ve seen from that list is ranting commenters who are deeply threatened by a world — the world I advocate — in which no sexuality is condemned or forcibly closeted or judged by any standard other than who gets hurt. Death threats she gets? It’s been months since I so much as got one of those “you’re going to burn in hell” invitations to attend church services.

So, why the difference? I trust Violet innately — as far as I’m concerned, she’s one of the most honest voices on the Internet — so she’s not exaggerating or being oversensitive or doing anything else from the “there there, little lady, don’t be hysterical” laundry list of excuses for men to ignore surprising and unwelcome female narratives. Of course, she is a woman and I’m not. And equally of course, she’s got ten thousand times more skin in the game, literally and figuratively. She doesn’t use a pseudonym, she’s active in print and broadcast media, she lives and works visibly in a vital and media-connected city, she talks about her real and actual life, she gives people handles by which to grab for her, and she bares experiences online that actually matter to her, stuff her enemies can use against her.

Whereas, I sit in my undisclosed location in Red-State America and upload an endless stream of pointers to, and scanty commentary on, sexually entertaining stuff that’s happening somewhere else in the vast internet information ecology. When I started this blog, I didn’t even have a personal sex life to blog about. I was temporarily unemployed and sitting in a studio apartment sharing badly microwaved nachos with an unsympathetic parrot who perched on my shoulder and chewed holes in my undershirt while I blogged. (I know that sounds sad, but I was actually enjoying life quite a lot, apart from the “no girlfriend” thing.) By the time I fell in with The Nymph, I was comfortable with my pattern; sex blogging is something I do about other people, using information they’ve already made public. It makes things much safer and more comfortable, and (combined with the male versus female thing) explains a great deal of the difference between Violet’s and my experiences of the sex-blogging life.

So, that’s a lot of the explanation, but is it all of it? While pondering the matter, and reading reactions to Violet’s talk, I found Ethan Zuckerman’s blog and especially, his notes from his own Etech talk on The Cute Cat Theory Of Digital Activism. He was apparently at Tripod back in those dark ages where most folks needed a service like Tripod in order to “have a web page”, and he formulated the theory that

Any sufficiently advanced read/write technology will get used for two purposes: pornography and activism. Porn is a weak test for the success of participatory media – it’s like tapping a mike and asking, “Is it on?” If you’re not getting porn in your system, it doesn’t work. Activism is a stronger test – if activists are using your tools, it’s a pretty good indication that your tools are useful and usable.

Reading that paragraph was an “ah-ha!” moment for me. Because another huge difference between Violet and me is that, although we are both sex bloggers by any reasonable definition, I’m more of a pornographer and she’s more of an activist.

We both do stuff that blurs the lines, of course; sometimes I make posts that have at least a whiff of activist sentiment in them, and often she links to pretty pr0n pictures. But at any given blogging moment, my first thought is “will this amuse, entertain, or turn somebody on?” And, while I can’t speak for what happens in Violet’s thoughts, she’s clearly got causes — like sex education, to name just one — that animate and drive her blogging, her published writing, her public appearances, whole swathes of her professional life.

Perversely, I think her activism makes her sex blogging even more interesting and entertaining than my detached approach, so it’s not like there’s a sharp division between entertainer and activist. It’s just that — and this is the not-very-startling hypothesis you’ve waded through many long paragraphs to hear about — activists are more threatening than entertainers. They upset more apple carts, gore more oxen, get more done, make more enemies because they threat more status quos. Activists piss people off. Their fans and enemies alike are more animated and engaged.

And that, maybe, is why Violet Blue needs police contacts at the SFPD, while I make do with a lightly tweaked comment moderation plugin for my WordPress install.

Dynamite Fumetti

I’m not a comics guy, so I don’t know much about fumetti comics except that the vintage ones I keep stumbling over tend to be Italian and feature sex and violence combined in shocking and politically incorrect ways.

Lately I have several times run across the Groovy Age of Horror blog while doing Google image searches. It’s a resource for all manner of vintage pulpy wonderfulness, but the excerpted fumetti comics (complete with high quality scans of every panel) are one of the best features of the site. Example: all the good parts from Macho #3 as reprinted in Pecatti #1. You really need to follow the link, because while I’m “borrowing” Jaakko’s dry commentary in the block-quoting below, I’m only reprinting cropped and reduced details from a few panels of the artwork; the commentary-plus-complete-panels is a much more vivid experience. As Jaakko tells the story:

It’s called Il Clan Dei Centurioni (The Clan of Centurions), and it teaches us a new, fun way of defusing a stick of dynamite stuffed into a bodily orifice. Watch and learn, kids! First the bad guys chain Macho to the roof. Then they rape him, much to his delight. Then they stick a dynamite stick up his butt. Fortunately Macho is bisexual, and his girlfriend soon rushes to help him.

Wait a minute, what the hell?

Apparently this girl really loves using her mouth.

And thus, when Macho’s gay friends arrive, they find a horrifying sight: Macho is getting a blow-job… from a woman. Oh, the humanity! The End.

Getting His Rims Polished

It will come as no surprise that men will lavish amazing amounts of money and attention on their rides. Still, my mind boggles at the amount of effort it must have taken for this car’s owner to train his girlfriend to do this:

(And now I have to run, The Nymph is chasing me with a couch cushion and yelling something about male pigs and dogs. I guess that means I’m not getting a topless car wash as a Valentine’s Day present?)

What A Cleaning Lady!

Hypothetical question: if a fellow had a maid who looked and cleaned like this, would he even need a girlfriend?

There’s a business model in there somewhere, but it might turn out to be legal only in rural Nevada.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• The Domestic Arts
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Noisy Neighbors

From Heretic Spire, via Whatever:

It began as just a Downstairs Neighbor with the Visiting Screamer, aka his girlfriend. But then a few weeks ago, the Visiting Screamer became the Live-In Screamer.

…

I swear, this woman is not to be believed. She howls, yells, moans, throws things around, and so help me God — she narrates.

“… OH MY GOD I’M HITTING MY HEAD ON THE HEADBOARD AHH AHH AHH YOU’RE KNEELING ON MY HAIR OOH OOH OOH I’M COMING OH GOD OH GOD HARDER HARDER MORE MORE MORE YOU’RE GIVING IT TO ME GOOD AHM AHM AHM OHH OHH OHH MY NIPPLES ARE SO HARD AHH AHH AHH I’M SCRATCHING YOUR HAIRY LITTLE THIGH OOH OOH OOH I’M LYING ON A WET SPOT AAH AAH AAH MMM MMM MMM …”

It’s like living upstairs from a Phillip Roth audiobook. I mean, I’m glad you’re having a good time, sister, but it’s summer. People have their windows open, you know? Maybe muffle it just a tad.

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• Ginger Lynn In Bondage
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Women Become Sex Tourists

Sex tourism in the modern world takes three forms. The first is a sort of legitimate jurisdictional arbitrage — traveling to a place where something (usually prostitution) is legal, from somewhere it isn’t. Amsterdam and rural Nevada are just two of the places that see this sort of sex tourism.

The second sort you could call “illegitimate jurisdictional arbitrage” — seeking out jurisdictions where illegal behavior is more likely to be overlooked. There’s some disgusting and terrible stuff in this category.

Third, and by far the most common, simply involves taking advantage of the fact that “money talks” in the game of sexual competition, by means of travel to jurisdictions that are relative poorer than one’s own. Many a prosperous young man traveling in Eastern Europe has had a babushka ask him if he needs a wife, or had a devushka in a club make a similar but more immediate proposition. Certain places in Central America are notorious among Norteamericano “players” — who’ve learned that, if they show up for a winter vacation flush and ready to party, it’s not hard to attract a stunning and friendly girlfriend for as many days as the party lasts. And so on. Friendly local girls coming out of the woodwork wherever a (relatively) wealthy traveler goes are, frankly, as old as travel itself.

Normally, however, one thinks of sexual tourists as being men. Which brings us to this Reuters report on women traveling to Kenya to enjoy the company of younger men:

MOMBASA, Kenya (Reuters) – Bethan, 56, lives in southern England on the same street as best friend Allie, 64.

They are on their first holiday to Kenya, a country they say is “just full of big young boys who like us older girls”.

Hard figures are difficult to come by, but local people on the coast estimate that as many as one in five single women visiting from rich countries are in search of sex.

Allie and Bethan — who both declined to give their full names — said they planned to spend a whole month touring Kenya’s palm-fringed beaches.

…

The white beaches of the Indian Ocean coast stretched before the friends as they both walked arm-in-arm with young African men, Allie resting her white haired-head on the shoulder of her companion, a six-foot-four 23-year-old from the Maasai tribe.

He wore new sunglasses he said were a gift from her.

“We both get something we want — where’s the negative?” Allie asked in a bar later, nursing a strong, golden cocktail.

She was still wearing her bikini top, having just pulled on a pair of jeans and a necklace of traditional African beads.

Bethan sipped the same local drink: a powerful mix of honey, fresh limes and vodka known locally as “Dawa”, or “medicine”.

She kept one eye on her date — a 20-year-old playing pool, a red bandana tying back dreadlocks and new-looking sports shoes on his feet.

He looked up and came to join her at the table, kissing her, then collecting more coins for the pool game.

…

Obvious in the bars and on the sand once the sun goes down are thousands of elderly white women hoping for romantic, and legal, encounters with much younger Kenyan men.

They go dining at fine restaurants, then dancing, and back to expensive hotel rooms overlooking the coast.

…

Many of the visitors are on the lookout for men like Joseph.

Flashing a dazzling smile and built like an Olympic basketball star, the 22-year-old said he has slept with more than 100 white women, most of them 30 years his senior.

“When I go into the clubs, those are the only women I look for now,” he told Reuters. “I get to live like the rich mzungus (white people) who come here from rich countries, staying in the best hotels and just having my fun.”

At one club, a group of about 25 dancing men — most of them Joseph look-alikes — edge closer and closer to a crowd of more than a dozen white women, all in their autumn years.

“It’s not love, obviously. I didn’t come here looking for a husband,” Bethan said over a pounding beat from the speakers.

“It’s a social arrangement. I buy him a nice shirt and we go out for dinner. For as long as he stays with me he doesn’t pay for anything, and I get what I want — a good time. How is that different from a man buying a young girl dinner?”

Breast Physics

Here’s some serious scholarship on the state of T&A in today’s videogames. My favorite passage:

Nowadays, you almost wouldn’t bother to ship a game without some kind of T&A angle; serious people use the phrase “breast physicsâ€? without irony. Female leads are common–and if they tend heavily, if not exclusively, toward an adolescent bondage-fantasy aesthetic, well… is “fetish pinup ninjaâ€? not an improvement on “kidnapped girlfriend?â€?

Do I really have to choose? Why can’t I have both?

Bad Date (With A Homeless Pirate?)

Ok, so that first get-together with the new internet prospect can be real awkward. We know this. But there are clues:

The constant signing of emails with master so-and-so was a huge fucking clue.

The request to call him sir after three email exchanges and one phone conversation was a clue.

The ridiculous comment that “even though I haven’t met you, I miss you — do you miss me?” was the motherfucking clue of clues.

Showing up to meet her in a public place with a fucking parrot (yes, a parrot…did I fucking stutter or something?) on his shoulder was a clue.

The couple sitting next to her who were gossiping…”

Stop! Whoa! All ahead stern! Screech! Stop the music! Nobody move!

Did she really say “parrot”?

Parrot? As in, like this?

In all the ink (real and virtual) that’s been devoted to “what not to do on the first date”, I don’t think anybody ever considered the need to write “Wait until the second date to introduce her to your parrot. Do not under any circumstances take take your bird when you go to meet a woman for the first time.”

Consider it written now.

Don’t get me wrong, I actually quite like the feathery little bastards. I bought one for a girlfriend once. I don’t miss her, but I sorta do miss that bird. And, like any pet, they can be pretty good company when you’re lonely.

Remind me, why were we going on that first date again? Oh, yeah, to find another freaking human to bond with / fuck / enslave / spend time with / preen my feathers. Which of these things is not like the others?

Why do pirates take their parrots everywhere? Because they don’t have any secure place they can leave the bird without it flying away or following them. Which is the same reason they carry all their doubloons in their underwear, or bury them in a sea chest on a moonless night (not such a good option for parrot housing).

If, like a pirate, you suffer from lack of a permanent place to park your parrot, it’s best you try to conceal this factoid from your new prospective internet submissive for as long as possible.

That is all.

Well, almost all. If your internet date brings a parrot to your first meeting, you know it’s going to wind up like this:

Yarrrr!

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• Pirate Wood Is Hot
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Adult Relationships

Sometimes, in the middle of a noisy room, you’ll hear something fun. I overheard this at Naked Loft Party:

“Now that I’m getting married,â€? I was telling Porno Jim, “I need to have adult relationships. No more girlfriends for me – they’re my mistresses now. Doesn’t that sound so much more sophisticated?â€?

Hurting Him

You’ve got to love any essay on kinky sex that starts out:

I didn’t just want to write a wank post. There are plenty of posts on the internet about how kinky sex is all whee and shiny and woah, just look at me go!

I. Win. At! Perverted! SEX!

I didn’t want to write one of those. But I wanted to write something that was as real and close and true as I could get it.

That’s from What it Feels Like to Hurt a Man Until it Makes You Have an Orgasm. (Thanks to Bondage Blog for the link.)

From the essay:

I rush the start. The shortest sharpest route to hurter and hurtee. Most often: hair pulling. I love hair pulling. It hurts, you can move the head around, it’s dehumanising. It has everything. It always seems to make the mouth go squooshy and limp. Open and aroused. That mouth thing again.

There is only one problem with hair pulling – aesthetically I love the shaved head look on a guy. It’s that stupid submissive+masculinity fetish I have. Imagine my dilemma. Oh, the quandary. Shaved-head vs pulling-hair. The trial of my life. Who’d be me?

Anyway, so if he has no hair or a super short crop (mmm, joy/frustration/joy), I’ll twist his nipples or find some other hair to pull. ‘Cause he’s naked, right, you knew that? I’m probably not naked, but probably not dressed. And certainly not *dressed* *up*.

Oh, and this stage is really *the* *best* if he is on a chair, in the cuffs and I am on his lap. *The* *best*. All interrogationy – and super hot to the power of motherfuck.

I like to kiss him while I hurt him. I love kissing. This type of kissing is compulsory. Some guys seem to like cold and calculated. Not actually visibly turned on. With me no kissing is a deal breaker. I mean that for real. I have stopped a thing before it started because he had a girlfriend who was fine with play but not kissing — or so he said — and that was probably a lucky escape.

Anyway that icy thing, that isn’t what you get with me. I get very turned on very fast. I am usually more turned on than the guy I am with from quite early on. And doing most of the panting and moaning.

…

I get a lot turned having d/s sex (that being mostly the reason why we are all here) on and when I am turned on I like to kiss. Mouth fetish. I like sticking things in men’s mouths. My tongue is my favourite of those things. These pain flavoured kisses while he’s *hurting* are the best kisses.

I like it when he screams into my mouth.

Like?

I *adore* it when he screams into my mouth

I often keep going with the hurting and kissing until he can’t hold it together to kiss me back anymore. Assuming he’s a submissive or a masochist he’s usually very hard at this point if he wasn’t already very hard, like, you know, when I met him at the railway station.

I often put clamps on him now and if he doesn’t scream really fucking loud, I take them off and put them on him again. And that’s really painful.

And then there’s the hitting:

The hitting, I think, is kind of the equivalent of your earth foreplay. It’s not instead of kissing or fingering or oral — ’cause I might do any or all of those things too. But it’s kind of like that. Another layer. Sometimes more than one body part is required — but most men have more than one body part.

This — I want to be clear — is where it is. This is the point where I know who I am and what I am with absolute abiding clarity. Whatever else I say. All my other fancies and frills. You could take them all if you left me this. I hurt a man and I feel the most intensely pleasurable sensations I think my body is capable of. There is no intrigued here. No one else could have made this of me. I live here. This is home. This I know.

I am a sadist. I get turned on hurting people.

I like pain. I like it quite simple. I don’t want to be distracted or have my concentration focused outside of my body. I don’t do anything flash. I’m generally uncoordinated and clumsy. I know there is little point in me trying to be all fancy with whips or anything too clever or hard to handle. I’m not dexterous. I can’t put on a show. I don’t insert things in his urethra or breathe fire. I don’t tap dance. I miss sometimes. The first ten are always practice. I lose my grip. My skill set is tiny. What I do is often unaesthetic and messy and awkward. But I’ve been doing this a while and what I do works. It hurts and it doesn’t rupture internal organs. It turns me on and I am now at point where I know that that is fine. That hurting men can be something that is decidedly not performance art and that is fucking damn okay. It’s sex, not cabaret.

Gamer Girlfriends

In a MMORPG forum I frequent, there was the usual bitching about unfixed game bugs, and the usual tired “I can’t wait until [Hot New Game] comes out so I can put this crap game behind me” complaint.

To which one fellow responded:

Just like breaking up with a girlfriend for the little things. The next girl will have the same problems. {laughing}

I liked the response from the next poster:

Euch! The next one’s gonna smell of cheese and have a hairy chest too?

Wife Spanking

Wife spanking? Bonnie is for it.

So much so, that she’s put together a handy list for other women who want to be spanked, but are having a little trouble convincing their menfolk to get with the program:

Fifty Reasons to Spank Your Wife or Girlfriend

Reason #50 made me laugh:

#50: If she didn’t agree, she wouldn’t have shown you this list!

Thanks to Spanking Blog for the link.

Former Supermodel I’ve Never Heard Of, Nude

Ah, and now — after my link tip post below — the fruits of one of the triggering tips. Frank from OMG Blog sent me a Helena Christensen nude spread tip. Turns out Helena Christensen is not (presumably) his girlfriend; she’s a “former supermodel”. Whatever, she’s pretty and she’s nude:

Thanks, Frank!

Link Tips And Celebrity Nudes

Here’s a little tip for folks sending me link tips. In the last week I’ve gotten a handful in this format:

[Female Name I’ve Never Heard Of] nude photos: {link}

To which my reaction is: “What, is she your girlfriend or something?”

Typically I don’t even bother to click. I’m not a celeb watcher, I don’t read People, I don’t know who Baby SueMe is or why she’s got twenty pages in Vanity Fair (I heard that on CNN while failing to click past Larry King fast enough).

There are people nominated for Oscars that I’ve never heard of. Their names won’t even get a “What, isn’t she some kind of actress?” from me. When it comes to modern celebrity culture, I’m clueless.

So here’s the tip: If you want to send me a link tip like this, make sure you include a hook. Say: “Nude pictures of So-and-So, you know, the girl who got caught with Meatloaf on the observation deck of the Space Needle wearing nothing but a latex bra.”

Pearls of Ecstasy

In which Femme Fatale demonstrates why girlfriends have nothing to fear from strippers:

To return to the moment: the moon is outside my window and my sleepy mind is fuzzy as I think about strippers and lap dances and how I must be better than a skanky exotic dancer. But how can I show him? How can I prove my worth not only as a good, loving girlfriend but as a versatile sexual being with so much to give? My mind slithers over possibilities in my sexually creative head, my voice is soft, sweet, yet full of need and unbridled interest,

Babe, I’m into cock-bondage. Don’t worry, its not the crazy kind, just the fun kind and I promise you’ll like it.

Without waiting for a response, I reach behind his head to my jewelry rack that hangs on the wall of my currently being-re-decorated room and take my 35 inch strand of antique natural pearls. His waiting cock is standing forth like a monument to the night and to all his little sex driven mind can conceive. Delicately and with small, soft hands, I wrap the pearls around his cock, starting at the bottom of his thick shaft and twining up, completely encasing his hard flesh in pearls. When at last the pearls were in place, I took both ends and pulled gently, flicking the head of his cock with my tongue.

His reaction was palpable as his hand covered his mouth, his breath coming harsh and thick, fast. His cock too was reacting, pulsing and swelling against the pearls. With each surge of his flesh, the pearls ripples into it exciting him even further. As I sucked and licked away at his sensitive head, he became like stone inside my mouth, harder and thicker than he’s ever been before, the head showing red and swollen in the blue tinted light of the dappled moonlight.

His breath was coming harsh and his comments rippled forth like curses to God as his body tensed and he writhed on the bed,

Oh baby, this is the best sensation I’ve ever felt in my entire life, I swear. Oh my god. It just feels so awesome.

I smiled gently with satisfaction as my mouth luxuriated over his cock, his body, his mouth and his pulsing cock giving me feedback that only increased my need to make him come hard and finalize his grand sensation.

Without warning I pulled the end of the pearl strand up and over his cock and away, the pearls rubbing him as the streamed upwards, massaging his already maniacally aroused cock. He moaned and his body tensed the nth degree, his words only grunts and a long streaming moan issuing from his mouth followed by a laugh of sheer pleasure and amazement.

His moan was even deeper as I slid his whole length into my mouth, letting the tip of him touch the back of my throat before sucking upwards. After a few moments and his fingertips sliding at the base of his engorged cock, his hips bucked before he came with a force that nearly drowned me, his come hitting the inside of my throat and causing me to hold back gagging as he came stronger than he ever has.

Dating Advice For Gamers

From the notorious gaming blog Kill Ten Rats comes some dating advice in terms that gamers will understand:

If you are reading this, there is a good chance that you are a single, introverted, heterosexual male. As a public service, we are pleased to present some advice for gamers on Getting the Girl. You can get lots of dating advice out there, much of it conflicting, but you come to Kill Ten Rats because you know you can trust us. Also, we are tired of hearing you whine in guildchat about how you cannot get a date.

…

Let’s talk equipment. You will not be wearing anything on your shoulders, nor a cape, nor a tabard. Leave the sword at home, too, no matter how cool it looks. While some people can successfully combine mix-and-match armor, you will just end up hideous and ineffective. If your closet is full of t-shirts from anime and They Might Be Giants, we have a problem. Luckily, there are many shopkeepers who can help you get equipment with the right bonuses.

If you need to read this, let us assume that you have little idea about fashion. Conveniently, shopkeepers are quite happy to sell you entire outfits at once. They even arrange them on headless mannequins around the store. Pick your level of formality and buy three. You are just starting out here, so do not trust your intuition on what goes with what; follow the template exactly until you get more experience. This is like when you tell the new guy at the raid to shut up and do what he is told; unless you can solo this raid, take the advice of the corporate shills, since they have spent thousands of hours working on this stuff.

If you are in doubt, ask a female who works at the store for a recommendation. Your future girlfriend/wife will be telling you how to dress for the rest of your life anyway, so start getting used to it now. Do not be embarrassed about asking for help; that is her job, she may be on commission, and who knows she may think it is cute that you are admitting vulnerability and asking for help. No, don’t hit on her. If necessary, write down which garments go together, especially if you want to try these slacks with that shirt.

This may cost a fair number of gold pieces. Luckily, you will not be out-leveling your IRL clothing anytime soon unless you are eating too much. This brings us to our next point: buffing.

Dating Advice Fragments

Here are two micro-fragments of dating advice from Smitten that strike me as particularly worthy:

Beware of any man who calls an ex-girlfriend or wife “that bitch.” … A man like this is guaranteed to be calling you by the same name, or something more innovative, later on to his next girlfriend who will stroke his arm and say, “I’m so sowwy she was so mean to you.”

…

Beware of men who think that every woman they work with is either stupid, a slut or la piece de resistance, a stupid slut, as there is not a chance deep down inside that they don’t think the same of you.

Complex Seductions

Here’s another lesson from Naked Loft Party on the intricacies of complex seduction situations:

Les excused herself to go find the restroom. In the meantime I practiced leaning back in my barstool and appearing nonchalant. The raven-haired beauty turned around and smiled at me across the expanse of Leslie’s vacant seat. I immediately recognized her as the very same woman who’d smiled at me shortly after we’d arrived at the bar. I returned the favor, nodding slightly as if to say: “Your move, babe.”

She inched closer, leaning over the stool between us. “So is she your girlfriend or what?”

For the monogamous man the answer is straightforward: you decline the beautiful stranger’s invitation and then titter nervously, quietly cursing yourself over never having been approached by beautiful women when you were single. But for those of us who tempt fate the answer to this simple question is fraught with complications. If you answer “yes” without qualification she’ll likely assume the door is closed. If, on the other hand, you immediately launch into a discussion concerning the particulars of your dating life you risk coming across as a threesome-obsessed sleazebag. Which is not to say that I’m not a threesome-obsesses sleazebag, but there’s a time and place for everything.

And so, feeling a little bit like a time-traveler trying to explain my strange customs to the ancients, I took the latter route. “Well yes,” I said, “but we also see other people.”

Girl Fisting

Mistress Matisse’s latest column offers instruction on The Gentle Art of Girl Fisting:

I vividly recall the first time I ever had my whole hand inside a woman’s pussy. I was 19, and my girlfriend was a sexy butch woman with an appetite for deep penetration. One night — we were on the living room floor, I believe — I had all four fingers inside her and was fucking her as hard as I could, trying to match the tempo of her fast-pumping hips. In our thrashing tangle of limbs, my hand pivoted from the usual thumb-to-the-clit position to a diagonal approach. I instinctively pressed my thumb against my palm so my fingernail wouldn’t jab her. As I did, she thrust herself against me like a roller-derby queen butting aside a competitor, and to my surprise and momentary alarm, I felt my whole hand slide into her.

“Baby, are you okay?”

“Don’t fucking stop!”

So I didn’t.

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• A Catalog Of Perversions
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The Insufficiently Ex Girlfriend

I’m going to do something I rarely do, and quote another blogger’s post in its entirety. I don’t think Violet Blue will mind, because it’s an important message that’s not readily excerpted:

So I escaped my sex writing hamster wheel for a few minutes and went out with this guy the other night. Things went swimmingly. We made tentative plans to see each other again this weekend. The next day, there is a message from him on my voicemail, telling me that his ex-girlfriend doesn’t want him to see me again.

Um… I hate pointing out obvious things. But it seems to me that the ability to label objects is such a crucial life skill that it is one we learn in childhood and perfect long enough to outwit natural selection. Labeling is the basis for navigating the world. It is the essence of being able to call things what they are. Confusing that, I think, leads one down a road that eventually has one confusing the labels “Drano” and “Pellegrino”.

I’m just sayin’.

Stripper Rant

I found this posted without an author credit on an adult webmaster board. It was presented as if it were supposed to be funny, and acclaimed as such by a chunk of the online-pornographer audience. Me, I didn’t find it so — it encapsulates a lot of the reasons I never could find much value in the strip club experience. Of course I know of folks in the blog community who’ve stripped (or who are still stripping) and who present a much more nuanced view of the profession. But still. Strong and unpleasant stuff, it seems to me:

1) Hey you over there, holding that one dollar bill in your hand with a death grip and waving it around at me like it’s the fucking deed to Trump Towers… what the fuck do you want me to do, grow another pussy?!? It’s a fuckin’ dollar, put it down on the tiprail and blow my world away already.

2) You losers that come into the club for a lapdance with NO underwear or boxers and thin-ass, nylon shorts, so we slip and slide on your hard-on (which always feel like a sharpie pen ~ fine point)…fuck you.

3) You with the thick-ass jeans, this was an impromptu visit, eh?

4) Don’t pull my thong up during a dance and ask me if it felt good. IT DOES NOT FEEL GOOD.

5) Hey you, Loser, the one counting out the 20 bucks in one dollar increments, rubbing your fingers between each one to make sure you are giving me just that one dollar. Yes, you.

6) No I will not just let you “slip it in real quick” for $50 more bucks.

7) Yeah, my tits are real. As real as my affection for you.

8)If you cum in your pants, you have to tip me an extra $100 for being a lame-ass who can cum in their pants from a lapdance.

9) Stop asking me out. You’re a smelly, fat loser and the only reason I’m smiling and cooing at you is because I want your money. Outside of the club I wouldn’t even fart your way.

11) Stop bitching at me about the goddamn two drink minimum. First of all, your breath ranks (what’d you have for dinner, garlic and shit?), you’re about 172 lbs. overweight, and you look like Jay Leno. More importantly: I don’t give a shit.

12) Don’t bitch at me about the $10 non-alchoholic beer either. Hide a bottle of Jack in your coat pocket next time like everyone else does.

13) My horniness is in direct proportion to your income.

14) No, you CAN’T SMOKE. Dumb. Ass.

15 )Boys, don’t sit in the front row with your “homies” and act all engrossed in some deep conversation during a girls performance because you want to look like you’re too “cool” to notice the hot, naked girl in front of you. It’s a clear sign that you ain’t getting any.

16) DON’T SIT IN THE FRONT ROW IF YOU ARE NOT GOING TO TIP. Fer chrissakes!!!!!!!!!!!

17) “So what do you guys do when you’re on your period?” Answer: I lap dance with guys in dark pants.

18) STOP trying to grab my tits!!!!!!! That’s extra.

19) SHOWER FIRST, you nasty fuck!

20) I had a feeling you weren’t going to tip me, so I took extra care to rub my lip gloss on your collar and wear extra glitter lotion and obnoxious perfume before our dance.

21) Hey cheapasses: please don’t come to my work. Just stay home and jack off to “Desperate Housewives” instead. It will save us a both a lot of unpleasantry.

22) Stop asking me why I do this job and try to get all psychologically analytical on me. For the money, you moron, that’s why.

23) No seriously, my real name is Sparkle.

24) NO, I will not take a dime sac for payment. I can tell it’s oregano anyway you stupid mutherfucker!

25) Sorry, I don’t do that. Ask the ugly girl at the bar with the black roots and overbite.

26) I can see it’s your first time at a strip club. Let me explain the dynamics to you. If you want a fuck or a blow-job, go to the ugly chicks. Hot girls don’t have to do “extra services.” I can give you some recommendations for a small fee.

27) It is not okay for you to bounce me on your cock like a baby on a knee. Not okay.

28) Stop complaining about how short the song was. It felt like the fucking maxi-single to me.

29)Yes I will fuck you, but only for 10 grand. More if you’re ugly. So basically, more.

30) DO NOT come into the club looking for a girlfriend/date. It’s like me going to PETA looking for a steak.

31) Girls–what’s with the pole smell? Can we do a little hygiene check? Nothing than worse than twirling around the pole and getting a whiff of stale pussy.

32) Girls–stop lip-syncing to the song you’re dancing to on stage. Especially if you don’t know all the words.

33) Girls–if your toes curl and hang over your platform shoes a la’ Fred Flinstone, you need to go up a size.

34) Girls–drowning yourself in Angel perfume is just as bad if not worse than the BO you’re trying to cover. Take a goddamn shower, you smell like lapdance funk.

35) Hey DJ! You suck!

36)Girls–may I suggest complete sobriety before getting tatted up? Tattoos should be meaningful, or at least semi-meaningful, or at least semi semi-meaningful. That fucking dancing llama on your ass is so lame.

37)Girls–some songs just should not be stripped to. Please. No Disney soundtracks (you know who you are, you fucking weirdo), Sade, Boys II Men, or Bjork. For the love of God, Please.

By the way, if this was ripped from a blog or website and you know the original source, please drop me an email so I can credit it properly. No links in the comments, please.

Sex In The Tent

So, there was this girlfriend once. I took her tent camping to a spectacular place in a fairly cool climate, and I made sure we had two new sleeping bags that zipped together into one big one. My first hint that the relationship was in trouble was when she refused to let me zip them together. It was all downhill from there.

Somehow, I don’t think it’s going to be cool (metaphorically or otherwise) in this tent tonight:

Picture is from Usenet.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Zipped-Together Sleeping Bags, Demonstrated
• She Balked At The Zipping
• A Grand Day Out
• Teenagers and Sex on the Beach
• Have That One Bathed And Sent To My Tent

Half-Naked And Happy To Be There

The realist in me knows that most “public nudity” photos floating around the internet in places like alt. binaries. pictures. erotica. voyeurism are commercially produced porn; no matter how hard the photographer tries to sell “I just snapped this shot of my girlfriend being playful on the way to Dennys”, I’m generally not buying. But every now and then the pornographer’s art creates a shot that invites belief. Something about this girl’s absolutely brilliant smile makes me want to believe that she’s (a) having the time of her life and (b) more interested in the photographer’s arousal than in his checkbook.

Lame Reasons For Wearing Clothes In Bed

It’s been a long time since I teased Halley, but I have to tease her now about her Ten Reasons Women Aren’t Sleeping In The Nude. I know she’s trying to explain rather than excuse, but still. I once had a girlfriend who (as things began to sour) started coming to bed wearing a huge full-body “sleeper” (like the ones little kids get zipped into, only without the feet) made out of thick flannel. Then, once she’d settled on the new man, but before she’d bothered to tell me about him, she bought a special blanket made out of rough waffle weave fabric (like thermal underwear only scratchier) and she’d wrap herself up in a cocoon in the scratchy blanket.

It didn’t help when I started to tease her about “setting the anti-submarine nets” while she was wrapping herself in the blanket.

Halley’s reasons for not being nude in bed, summarized and assesed by me:

1) Body self-consciousness. Assessment: Lame. We’ve invited you into our bed, we like your body well enough.

2) Wearing fancy undies. Assessment: Acceptable. We’ll be happy to help you take them off, though.

3) Risk of kids jumping into bed. Assessment: Acceptable. But not strictly necessary. Lots of kids have no problem with the idea that Mommy and Daddy don’t wear clothes in their bedrooom.

4) Don’t want to be nude in case of disaster. Assessment: Lame. Odds are too low.

5) Too many random folks in sleeping environment. Assessment: Acceptable. But fix it already! Or move. Or go naked anyway; it’s possible they will move if it bothers them.

6) Clothes required to be cozy in bed. Assessment: Ultra-lame. Get better bedding.

7) Too much touching when sleeping naked. Assessment: Now the truth comes out. That’s not a bug, it’s a feature. That’s why you should sleep naked. And that’s why your man may object if you won’t. Why are you sleeping with someone you don’t want touching you, anyway?

8) “It’s hard to keep your own hands off yourself sometimes.” LOL — welcome to our world. See above for assessment.

9) Arms get cold. Assessment: Lame. Again, get better bedding. Or snuggle.

10) Feels too libertine for our Puritan heritage. Assessment: Hah, you know that’s lame. Dare!

See, wearing clothes in bed is almost as crazy as wearing clothes to go swimming. No, wait, everybody does that… I’m so confused now.

Your Printer May Be Spying On You

Have you ever used a color laser printer to print a dirty picture? Or photocopied some porn on a color photocopier? If you’re male and have had routine unsupervised access to such devices, you know you have. No point in trying to deny it.

But did you know that the spiffy new porn steaming in your output tray is secretly encoded with your printer serial number and other info that could be used to identify you?

That’s a function your government got snuck into your hardware, ostensibly to catch counterfeiters. But nobody knows what else they are using the secret markings for. If you print subversive fliers or protest literature, it might be smart to worry.

And if you want to know more, what do you do? Which machines are spying on you? And what data are they writing on your documents? Is it just color laser devices? The Electronic Freedom Foundation (EFF) is trying to find out for you. And they need help. Money is always good, but they also need more data. Details here.

Me, I don’t like the very idea of having government agents pressure tech companies into putting sneaky “features” into their products. Does your DVD burner secretly encode every disk you burn with its serial number and the name you gave Windows when you set up your email account? Does your video camera secretly encode your treasured first-person footage of your girlfriend’s cum-covered face with date, time, and the camera serial number that’s in your customer records at Best Buy? Probably not. But in a world where things like this happen, is it paranoid to wonder?

Oral Sex Is Standard Equipment

Throughout my adult life, I’ve noticed that a standard question for sex advice columnists is the “my partner won’t orally pleasure me, what should I do?” question. And for years and years, I’ve been seeing the same sets of tired suggestions for cajoling him/her into it, leavened with the occasional “learn to do without if you really love them” advice.

Leave it to Dan Savage to put all the cards on the table and acknowledge that the head train has left the station. It’s a new century, folks, and standards are higher. The old hangups just won’t fly. Sez Dan, in a pair of word-for-word identical responses:

About time somebody said it.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Brutally Honest Talk From A Married Man
• It's Better With Cookies
• Shedding The Burden Of Virginity

Porn Nonsense In Time Magazine

There’s a long article about porn in Time Magazine that I haven’t read. And why didn’t I? Because the first paragraph pissed me off:

“In hotel rooms where pornography is available, two-thirds of all movie purchases are for pornos; and the average time they are watched is 12 minutes. The image instantly summoned is of the traveling businessman who wants a smidge of sexual exercise before retiring, but who is too tired, timid or cheap to summon a call girl.”

The image instantly summoned in my mind is one of pity for the hypothetical wife or girlfriend of Time columnist Richard Corliss, who wrote that last squalid sentence.

Horny travelling men who don’t “summon a call girl” must be “too tired, timid or cheap”, eh?

It must surely suck to be married to that man.

Whew, What A Relief!

I am so not making this up. I’ll give it to you in the exact words I found it on Boing Boing:

The British Office of Communications cleared Channel Five of any wrongdoing for airing an episode of reality TV show TheFarm in which David Beckham’s ex-girlfriend gave a handjob to a pig.

Who says government bureaucrats don’t have enough to do?

Post House, Ergo Propter House

“J” from The Orgy indentifies a speculative link between buying a house and decreased blowjob frequency:

My friend J2 mentioned that, since he and his girlfriend have bought a house, he’s noticed a marked decrease in blowjobs received.

I half-expected him to pull out a flip-chart with a graph on it.

Given the increasing infrequency with which I receive oral sex, I can’t imagine what might happen if the wife and I buy a house of our own.

How about it, all you real estate magnates out there? Has this happened to you? And have you got a chart to prove it?

The Best I Ever Had

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.

NOT Buying Sex With Diamonds

From a random thread about the domain name speculation business, this post fragment made me chortle:

I dropped over $300k in the past 6 months building my [domain name] portfolio. and my girlfriend’s not too happy….

Her: “Do you know how big a diamond you could’ve bought instead?”
Me: “Yeah, but the domain name is an investment in my future.”

Doghouse!

Dessert Pornography

No man can resist a woman who likes her food this much. It’s such a refreshing change from the “I’ll have the odor-of-lettuce salad” girls:

The dessert menu announced donut holes, and we had ordered them before I could even consider how full I was. They came in a basket, wrapped in a piece of cloth, still warm, made of the lightest dough, with the crispiest exterior coated in the best cinnamon sugar ever. A bowl of strained strawberry sauce was put out to dip them. When I broke one open, I found inside a piece of melted bittersweet chocolate. Melted. Bittersweet. Chocolate.

“I’m going to stick my tongue in it.”
“No,” he taunted me.
“Oh, I will you don’t believe me?”

And I did. And the gooey warm chocolate ran all over my mouth. The warm dough clung to my tongue. The strawberry sauce made me roll my eyes back. I was somewhere else.

When I came to, he was staring at me as if I were a specimen of unquantifiable mystery.
“You think I’m weird, don’t you!”
He smiled.
I flushed with angst, “You think I’m crazy! You think I’m cuckoo. You can’t believe I just jammed my tongue inside a donut hole in a restaurant. You ordered a girlfriend of the non-whackaloon variety and you got stuck with me. You want to trade me in for a sane model. You ”

“I think you’re adorable.”

And so I stuck my tongue back in it again.

From Smitten.

National Penis Month Continues

As the letters flow in, it becomes increasingly clear that I have for too long allowed my own fascination with the female form to obscure the longstanding ErosBlog editorial policy of inclusiveness. A subset of my male “readers” have apparently come to expect the nekkid wimmin and nothing but the nekkid wimmin. Some of the efforts to distract me from the parade of penii (note to commenters of a pedantic bent: the use of bogus latinate pluralii for humorous effect has a long and venerable pedigree) have now descended to the level of attempted bribery, as witnessed by this email I just got:

Dude.. enough with the penises,,,,heres a pic of my girlfriend taken last nite with a verizon phone

The pic itself is a grainy-but-attractive close-up of a bare pussy, and I ain’t talkin’ feline here. Nice try! But (even leaving aside the unresolved question about whether my comma-loving friend saw fit to tell his girlfriend about his public generosity with her pubic lips, and notwithstanding the fact that Verizon must die, this is National Penis Month, and I shall not be distracted until the crusade of rectification is at an end. There’s supposed to be something for everyone here at ErosBlog, and it would appear that I’ve been neglecting pictures of penises for too long.

Don’t worry, boys, this too shall pass. But meanwhile, a ghost penis spotted at Wisarts and sent in by an enthusiastic and supportive female friend:

One of THOSE Conversations

The latest Ross in Range column (Advice to Women About Men, or JR Uses Your Wristwatch to Tell You the Time) contains this utterly hopeless conversation. Men, you might want to start banging your heads on your keyboards now:

Here is a true exchange that occurred between people I know. See if you can learn something from it. It’s bedtime and the couple is undressing for bed:

Wife, a former beauty pageant winner who had gained 80 pounds in the three years since marriage: “I’m sooo fat.”

Husband, who had been hoping to get laid and is dismayed by this development: “You are terribly sexy. You’ve got great curves.”

Wife, not letting it go: “Tell me: Am I the fattest woman you’ve ever fucked?” [Question for readers: What is the proper response to this? I can’t imagine.]

Husband, wishing she would think about something else: “No, not even close.”

Wife, who knows his two previous girlfriends had good figures: “WHO has been a lot fatter than me? Tell me the truth! Who?”

Husband, thinking the truth will be the best policy: “Well, there was this girl named Mary. I forget her last name. It was maybe ten years ago. She worked in the same office as my girlfriend at that time. My girlfriend said Mary hadn’t had sex in several years because she was so fat no man wanted to. She asked if I’d have sex with Mary, you know, as a favor. Something nice you’d do for someone who needs cheering up.”

Wife: “So, you had a date with her and then had sex?”

Husband: “No, she came over with my girlfriend, and the three of us had some wine and listened to music. Then my girlfriend said ‘Why don’t you two go into the bedroom?’ So we did.”

Wife: “And you had sex with her?”

Husband: “Yes.”

Wife: “Did you like it?”

Husband: “I liked the fact that I was making her feel good.”

Wife: “But you were repulsed by her weight?”

Husband, thinking back to that night and how it had made three people feel good about themselves: “Well, I tried not to think about what she looked like. The lights were low. My girlfriend looked kind of like Renee Russo, and I imagined I was with her, but with some big pillows squooshed around her.”

Wife: “So you WERE disgusted by her weight!”

Husband: “Not the weight itself, exactly, but what it did to her. I mean, she had trouble walking, and that was painful to watch. And no way could she support herself on her hands and knees.”

Wife: “Trouble WALKING? How fat WAS she?”

Husband: “According to my girlfriend, she stopped weighing herself when she got over five hundred pounds.”

Wife, appalled: “So what other fat women have you had sex with?”

Husband, now utterly fed up and seeing no point in being tactful: “She got the gold. You get the silver.”

In my opinion this man made a mistake by answering his wife’s questions, but I’m not sure how I would have handled it differently. Refuse to speak? Pretend to have diarrhea and run to the bathroom? Feign an epileptic seizure?

Second Guessing A Sex Columnist

Sasha, the sex columnist who writes Love Bites, is an unflappable non-judgmental sort, whose level-headed advice is surely a comfort to her readers and question-askers alike. But I guess I’ve become addicted to Dan Savage’s willingness to pass judgment, especially in cases where the seeker-after-wisdom is sorely in need of a swift kick-in-the-pants reality check.

An example. Someone asks Sasha a question that starts like this:

My girlfriend of three years has all the signs of vaginismus. Needless to say, there hasn’t been much funky lovin’ going on, and though I sure wouldn’t mind some, it’s not my primary concern — sex has been ruled out for other health-related reasons.

Ooh, sympathy begins to set in. Vaginismus and some other unspecified-but-surely-vile health problems that are none of our business. What, paralysis below the waist? Fibroids the size of grapefruits? Rampaging uncontrollable full-body yeast infections? We’ll never know, but it must be true love if it’s lasted three years nonetheless.

The question goes on:

It does concern me, though, that she’s never seen a gynecologist.

Well…yah. That’s putting it mildly.

So much for true love. This woman claims to love you, but she’s got health problems so severe she won’t-or-can’t make love to you, and she won’t even go to see a doctor?

Yeah, right. Sorry, buster, but you are being strung along. There’s just no other reasonable explanation.

The questioner goes on to request info on finding a doctor who knows about vaginismus, which info Sasha provides deadpan. She never even raises a metaphorical eyebrow to suggest that there might be some problem with this relationship beyond the purely medical. She just accepts this deeply implausible situation at face value.

Dan Savage would never have been so gentle.

Animalistic Nudes

If you’re bored and have mad photoshop skillz and you just don’t find your normal woman animalistic enough, you can always morph her into a critter. I hear you asking “why?” but I can’t possibly help you there.

Me, I wonder how many of the gallery examples have the faces of the artists’ ex-girlfriends.

Conversation With A Stranger

Just had one of those odd little conversations with strangers where you learn more than you expected. A new face behind the deli counter – a personable and well-spoken young man – made a polite inquiry about the weather as he handed over my egg rolls. I replied, and from there our conversation went something like this:

Him: “They warned me when I moved to this town a month ago that the weather would be like this.”

Me: “What brought you to town?”

Him: “My girlfriend.” No noticeable enthusiasm on his face or in his voice.

Me: “I hope she’s worth it.”

Him, sounding glum: “Yeah, I hope so too.”

Ouchies!

He Puts What, WHERE?

Someone, who would be recognizable to you loyal sex blog readers if I were to fail to preserve their requested anonymity, was so cruel as to send along this link to a directory of disturbing photographs. Perhaps it would be best to let the captions of the photographs speak for themselves, while I go away into a corner and clutch quietly at my genitals.

Photo Sequence #1: “Ever want to know how to shove a Gummi worm up your dick?” Uh, no.

Photo Sequence #2: “Line the worm up with the hanger and slide it in….”
Just for the record: “OUCH!”

Photo Sequence #3: “Stay away from the green ones, for some reason they burn after a while….” Hint: If you didn’t grip yourself so firmly in order to expel them with the brute force of your semen, perhaps the burning would be reduced?

Photo Sequence #4: “You may notice that your cum becomes like syrup, and takes on flavor and color of the worm. My girlfriend loves my cum afterwards!” Why yes, we can all see her lapping it up right there in the picture. No, wait, no we can’t.

And just in case you haven’t had all the fun you can stand, he also does nails and pencils.

2014 update:The original links have long been broken, but a collection of these photos has been obsessively reassembled and published at the Dickworms tumblr. I think I recognize a kindred spirit. Halp?

Toys And Baggage

Two responses so far to the question below. One correspondent assures me that cuffs (and paddles) are not like sex toys — as long as they are clean, she avers, a guy is safe to keep them and use them serially.

Another lady writes in with the sensible proposal that toys kept should be only those which were and are to be used on or in the person doing the keeping. If a guy had a buttplug that his last girlfriend used on him, and wanted her to carry on the tradtion, she wouldn’t freak; but if he had a vibrator that…well, I’ll let her speak for herself:

“But if he produced a vibrator that he’d used to insert into his previous girlfriend, would I want to have it inserted into me? Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww! No thank you!!!!!!!! I don’t care
how many times you’ve washed it! Icky baggage!”

Just so. Unfortunately, this lady isn’t much help on the cuffs question and other toys where the distinction between his-n-hers is less clear. As she puts it: “Don’t ask me what to do with the sex sling. :-)”

A Tricky Question

Tara and Jeff (more horny Canadians!) at Naughty Secrets have asked an interesting question:

When you buy sex toys in a relationship and then break up, who gets the toys?

They go on to say “Obviously the woman” (which I’m not so sure about, depending on the toys) and then ask more questions:

Should she keep the toys? Should she bring them to the next relationship? Do toys have baggage?

From time to time I’ve pondered that very question. See, I happen to be possessed of a quality set of Velcro-fastened fuzzy-lined wrist and ankle cuffs with handy D-rings for attaching to things. She bought them for me as a gift – and of course the real gift was her wearing them for me. We had some fun with them, too. (It’s good that I don’t have any photos of her wearing them, or the blogging reflex to link one to “we had some fun” would be overwhelming.) And then of course we split up and I kept the cuffs — after all, they were mine.

However, every time I’ve moved them or seen them since, it’s caused me to wonder: “Why am I keeping these?” Seriously, if I met another lady who wanted to play that way, wouldn’t it freak her out to be tied up with lightly used cuffs? Lightly used, that is, by the ex girlfriend? They’re clean and they don’t smell, but still. I am not wise in the ways of women, but my spidey sense is giving me hell over the idea. Possibly not the smartest move, Lothario.

I hate to say it, because it means I should throw away that perfectly good set of cuffs: But yeah, I’d say toys have baggage.

Don’t Worry, It Will Ride Up With Wear

Here’s Fairy Butch with some advice on choosing the right sized dildo:

Many times in my years as a sex toy salesperson has someone presented me with his or her partner and asked, “Which size dildo should we buy?” Ahem.

Now, Pumpkin, from gazing upon your partner I may be able to ascertain her race or her ethnicity, and if she’s wearing political buttons, I might even be able to get a handle on her creed, but you can bet your bottom dollar I won’t be able to judge a good fit for your girlfriend’s butt based on her taste in weekend wear.

Similar Sex Blogging:

• Biggus Dickus (He Has A Wife, You Know)
• "What's A Dildo?"

Because You’re Doing It Wrong You Dunderhead!

I just stumbled over a fascinating series of blog essays entitled “Why Your Wife Won’t Have Sex With You.” If this is a topic of interest to you, as it was to me during a six-and-a-half-year doomed relationship, you’ll want to set aside a couple of hours and read through the whole series.

G’wan, do that now, before I poison it for you with my opinion.

Back already? Gosh you read fast.

Anyway, it’s a very thoughtful series, clearly written by a woman with a level head, an introspective disposition, and a lot of good will. Her observations are useful and interesting and I wish I’d had a chance to read them before my girlfriend, who I loved quite a lot but who had serious sexual issues, got rid of me and picked another man not to have sex with.

That was supposed to be funny.

Moving rapidly along. So I’m reading this excellent series of essays, nodding and agreeing and going “Hmm, that explains a lot” and generally getting myself edified, when suddenly it struck me. There’s a unifying theme to the whole essay series, and it’s this: “Your wife won’t have sex with you because you’re doing something wrong or failing to do something right.”

Yup, it’s all about you, buster.

And I suppose, in a weird definitional way, that has to be true. If getting it right as a man is defined as doing whatever it takes to get laid by your chosen woman, then by definition if she’s not willing to be intimate you need to get your act together.

Still, I’m concerned by the way this approach utterly disposes of the concept of an intimate partnership between two responsible adult humans. If it’s never about the woman, if there’s never any concept that by cleaving unto a partnership relationship she undertook some responsibility for maintaining the intimate part of the relationship, then there’s no partnership. There’s just another pea hen watching from the sidelines, waiting to see whether any of those strutting peacocks ever manage to wave their tail feathers just the right way to make her tingle.

Maybe that’s the way the world is. But I was raised to afford women a bit more humanity than that. I’m concerned that this essay series dehumanizes women by, effectively, absolving them from any responsibility for intimacy.

Go read the essays. If nothing else, you’ll learn to be a better peacock.

2012 Link Update: The original Salon.com link went 404 in 2009. I’ve replaced it with an archives.org version. The author also moved much of her Salon material to an archive blog, possibly with some curatorial changes: Why Your Wife Won’t Have Sex With You.

A Hard Day’s Picnicking

It seems that Bacchus no more gets invited to the good picnics than he does to the good costume parties. Here’s a tranquil scene, as the sun sets over the (mostly) abandoned picnic grounds covered in folding chairs, empty beer bottles and (oh yes!) someone’s drunk, passed out, topless wife or girlfriend.

The Female Mind

Saith the Punning Pundit’s girlfriend:

“Look, just because I am horny and showering you with kisses does not mean that I am trying to seduce you.”

All righty then.

Fair Enough: The Blowjob Rule

The November print edition of Maxim magazine (you know, Cosmo for guys) contained a long list of rules “from the sacred code of conduct binding all men.” Silly stuff, for the most part, and this is no exception:

“If your girlfriend wakes you up with a good-morning hummer, you must obey her every command until sundown — c’mon, that’s more than fair.”

But silly or not, speaking as a guy Bacchus can confirm he caught himself nodding and thinking “Yeah, that’s not out of line.” Ladies, you have no idea what you could get away with.

Cooperative Multiplayer Gaming

This story about a console game that ships with a “trance vibrator” attachment is old news, apparently, but the link from Mt. Molelog is fresh.

What’s topical for ErosBlog is the, er, cooperative potential:

We sat side my side on our makeshift couch, I with the trance vibrator and Justin with the controller. As the levels got more advanced, so did the vibrations… revving up to an intense pulsing throbbing…

[later]

“But don’t you think this trance vibrator extension is so your girlfriend can get off while you’re playing the game? Or so a girl gamer can get off while she’s playing the game?”

“It was a bit odd,” said Justin, “my fingers were working the controls, but they were also kind of working you.”

Don’t Touch What You Ain’t Gonna Buy, Though

The lovely and mysterious Babs explains a sure-fire strategy for a woman to get a man’s attention:

When Babs asked her friend why she was so sad, she told her that her boyfriend was doing beer bong hits and totally ignoring her. Babs didn’t have any sage advice at the time, so she summoned Trevor, one of her closest guy friends, for help. After talking with him for a few minutes, the depressed girlfriend started to grin and wandered off to find her brew-swillin’ dude.

Babs caught up with her friend in the bathroom about fifteen minutes later.

“You’re pretty happy. What happened?”

“Oh, Trevor just told me to go unzip my boyfriend’s pants. It worked. Now he has eyes only for me.”

“Dr. Atkins, Your Girlfriend Called”

Kim Kelly wants to lose some weight. So she’s going on a 100% man juice diet. Or so the promotional press release reads:

For the entire month of December Kim Kelly will diet by eating nothing but cum for an entire month!

Beginning December 1st/2002 BBW Live’s “Queen of Princesses” Kim Kelly will be attempting to add her name to the star-roster of “Sexual World Record” holders by sucking down a minimum of 90 cum enriched meals… and probably a number of “snacks”. That’s a diet of nothing more solid than cum, at least three meals a day for a month!

However, she’s quoted as saying she also plans to eat “plenty of banana smoothies” because “I’m not going to kill myself for this.”

Sphincters On Red Alert, Captain!

I just stumbled across an amusingly-written weekly sex advice column called Love Bites that comes from Toronto’s weekly, The Eye. Here’s a sample:

Q. I have a girlfriend who would like to have anal sex, but she is afraid it will hurt a lot. We were wondering if there is any kind of cream or some product that would relax the sphincter, allowing an easy penetration? Any collateral negative effects if this is used?

A. There are several products on the market designed to numb the sphincter, but they are generally considered a bad idea by ass-fucking authorities. One of the things your ass does when you’re doing something it doesn’t like is warn you in a way that’s hard to ignore. You do not want to Roofie your sphincter. You want your sphincter on red alert. If your ass is numb, you might do something that can really fuck it up, so to speak. Best to take things slow. Tristan Taormino’s The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex for Women (the book, not the film, which is awesome but really just a jazzy porno) is a much wiser prelude.

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