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Original Latin text via Perseus.
Dumque ea per terras fatali lege geruntur Illa negat. Placuit quae sit sententia docti Arbiter hic igitur sumptus de lite iocosa |
English translation by poet A.S. Kline.
While these things were brought about on earth because of that fatal oath, and while twice-born Bacchus’s cradle remained safe, they say that Jupiter, expansive with wine, set aside his onerous duties, and relaxing, exchanging pleasantries, with Juno, said “You gain more than we do from the pleasures of love.” She denied it. They agreed to ask learned Tiresias for his opinion. He had known Venus in both ways. Once, with a blow of his stick, he had disturbed two large snakes mating in the green forest, and, marvellous to tell, he was changed from a man to a woman, and lived as such for seven years. In the eighth year he saw the same snakes again and said “Since there is such power in plaguing you that it changes the giver of a blow to the opposite sex, I will strike you again, now.” He struck the snakes and regained his former shape, and returned to the sex he was born with. As the arbiter of the light-hearted dispute he confirmed Jupiter’s words. Saturnia, it is said, was more deeply upset than was justified and than the dispute warranted, and damned the one who had made the judgement to eternal night. But, since no god has the right to void what another god has done, the all-powerful father of the gods gave Tiresias knowledge of the future, in exchange for his lost sight, and lightened the punishment with honour. |
So take that, Science Guy! A mere poet got there first! (I’ll have to leave it to Bacchus to explain how he manages to be born twice.)
But of course, since I’m characterized by Faustian curiosity I had to dig a little deeper into the case of Professor Komisaruk, and found that he actually has a potential technology coming out of his research which is using these fMRI images to learn to think yourself to orgasm. Using images of your own brain to provide feedback, you learn to do what you otherwise would have required actual frictive contact with your own body to do. He discusses the possibility in a short video clip I found online (look here if the video does not embed properly):
I really did go into the wrong academic field.
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Tuesday, October 19th, 2010 -- by Bacchus
I would be remiss if I did not link you to William Salatan’s article The Riddle of the Sphincter: Why do women who have anal sex get more orgasms?
The survey data is real; it’s the explanation that’s uncertain. So he lays out more than a dozen possible theories to explain the data, and it’s quite an interesting read:
9. Love and trust cause orgasms and anal sex.
One woman writes:
The more I love and trust someone, the more likely I am to have an orgasm while with him–and the more likely I am to be okay with pushing society’s “norms” with him. Similarly, the more he proves that he knows what he’s doing, the more likely I am to let him do something that could potentially really, really hurt me.
This is the most uplifting theory. It implies that the sample of women who report regular anal sex is heavily biased toward intimate relationships. The data strongly support this. Compared with women who are single and dating, women in a relationship are only about 50 percent more likely, at best, to report vaginal sex in the last 90 days. But they’re two to three times more likely to report anal sex. And women who live with their boyfriends are more likely to report anal sex–but not more likely to report vaginal sex–than women who don’t. Anal sex, more so than vaginal sex, seems to correlate with intimacy and commitment.
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Monday, September 21st, 2009 -- by Bacchus
This post has turned into a study in faces, as so often happens when I am left too long unsupervised with a set of porn photos and a cropping tool. What’s causing this intense internal conversation that Lilla Katt is having with herself?
The answer? Warm soapy water, and lots of it, with just a little bit of help from the power of gravity:
Images are from this Everything Butt shoot.
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Friday, December 12th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
How could I resist pointing you all at Danae’s account of her first sexual encounter with a woman? She opens with the first meeting:
My first relationship and experiences with a woman were when I was a freshman in college. I met a beautiful girl the first day of orientation by running into her. I was juggling books – looking for the piece of paper that told me where to go next and I literally ran into her…a beautiful girl with long wavy red hair, pale skin with freckles and green eyes. She was one of those people that walks in a room and the whole room stops talking and looks — she was that beautiful.
I of course wanted to sink into the crack of the sidewalk and melt way as I was totally embarrassed. But she was so nice. And made me feel at ease telling me not to worry about it as she remembered what it was like trying navigate the campus for the first time. She introduced herself….Morgan. We stood there and talked for a bit. And before we parted she insisted on trading info so that she could check in on me make sure I was finding everything.
Heh. Purely altruistic, I’m sure.
Jumping way forward in the story, and skipping the preliminary seduction, though you should not:
But on to the first time we had sex….It was hot too with her pushing me up against a stall of a bathroom in a club. We were dancing, kissing and touching and she lead me to the bathroom – into a stall and pushed me against the wall of the stall and pushed my shirt up and pull my tits above my bra and sucked and unzipped my jeans and worked her fingers into me. She told me to beg her to “let me orgasm.” The place was a club – grimy but it just made it even that much better. I begged and she brought me close many times but would always stop. Finally she stopped and told me I only got an orgasm at home where I would undress for her. I had been being shy to this point not wanting her to “see” me. So she worked me up so much that of course got what she wanted. Because she brought that slut side out – I wanted to do anything she asked and was willing to spread my legs or whatever she wanted me to do because I was so turned on. We went home and I undressed for her…
Sunday, December 7th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Over at Catalina Loves I found the longest and most detailed description I’ve yet seen about what it’s like to shoot for Kink.com. Model Coco writes at length about what her first shoot (for their Fucking Machines site) was like, and makes it sound like a lot of fun indeed. These are just tiny excerpts from a much longer piece:
TC the director came down to introduce himself to me and told me to meet him upstairs when I was finished. After some inspiring words I went up stairs to make-up. Isis Love the girl that pretty much got me this gig, was there to give me a thumbs up and wish me good luck. This made me even MORE nervous. I tried to calm myself down. There was a girl was in the middle of getting her make-up done and so I sat in the little lunch/waiting room. TC came in and asked me how I was feeling and if I had any questions. I started eating as he explained what would happen. He asked what I was nervous about. I said “all of the people that are going to be in the room, the more, the more nerve-wrecking” He mentioned there would be 4-5 people in the room. That must have gotten a surprised look out of me and he said, “If at any time you want to stop then we will stop and go get a beer. No harm, no foul and we’ll still pay ya.” That was relaxing. Haha. While the make-up artist was doing the other girls face, she told me I should “freshen up” I looked at her perplexed and after about 2 seconds I realized she was talking about douching. I have only douched a couple times before so I wandered my way into the bathroom. MY GOD! There was soooo much girl stuff in that bathroom, from hair ties, to douches to self enema thingys and like 4 different kinds of baby wipes and deodorants and razors, shampoos and just EVERYTHING you could think of that girls would need. So I did my deed.
…
So I was fixed on my back with my legs over the arm of the couch and the Satisfyher on it’s side. I was feeling SO ready to come and SO worked at this point I was excited and nervous. After getting warmed up quickly I just layed there and let it fuck me and took it all in. It was pretty fucking rad. Since I come faster from clitoral stimulation we decided to pull the satisfyher out and let it hit me on the clit instead of being inside me. TC manned the controls and we let her fly at 1800stokes per minute. All hell broke loose. There was no man in the world that would have stopped me from my orgasm at that point. I was sweating and shaking and moaning and right when I was in the middle of my orgasm I BROKE THE MACHINE. It just BUSTED. I have no clue I wasn’t watching it all I know is I came then I looked down and realized it was broke. OOPS!
After that I was ready for another orgasm and I was running around all energized and excited because everyone was saying how sweet it was that I broke the machine with my vagina. I felt pretty cool after that like a rockstar.
…
He happily handed over the new magic wand. TC assumed his position manning the drill and I had the vibrator. I was loose and ready. It was INTENSE. I mean getting fucked and playing with my clit usually gets me off, but this was fucking ridiculous. Every muscle in my legs and arms started shivering and aching and screaming MORE MORE MORE. It was almost too much. I was definitely overwhelmed. It didn’t take too long after that to send me into a screaming orgasm. And when I say screaming, I mean SCREAMING. I think I cussed more then anything. “oh FUCK” seemed to be the favorite of the day. I got fucked into a jerking moaning completely earth shaking orgasm. You know the kind that make you wanna write it down because you don’t want to forget that moment EVER. Ya that. I even squirted. I got some on the directors face. I was watching his face as he was watching my pussy and the look of amazement when I squirted made me feel even better.
…
After I got my paycheck, I went to my car and sat there and screamed. Screamed from how fucking cool it is to orgasm for a living. Screamed from doing something I’d never thought I’d have the balls to do. Screamed from being utterly brutalized in front of people I just met. I screamed for nothing and for everything.
And that is all I have to say about that. Take it how you want to. I know how I took it. HARD FAST and WITH EVERYTHING I HAVE.
xo-
Coco.
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Thursday, April 3rd, 2008 -- by Bacchus
One of the things I like about reading a diversity of sex blogs is that you get sexual accounts that are written in historic, rather than fictive, voice. Commercial porn is most often told in the voices we reserve for telling tales. Sex blogs, by contrast, are often written in the voices we use to retell our lives and histories. It can be refreshingly different, because it allows for real moments that would usually be edited out of the smooth story arc of competent fiction, but which are really the heart and soul and flavor of a good history.
Today’s example: Always Aroused Girl writing about what got up her nose.
“I want to come on your face.”
My head already hung half-way over the edge of the bed, so I quickly swiveled under him. “Give it to me,” I demanded, and I didn’t have to wait long. Before I could hoist my tits into what I thought would be the most attractive position, hot come splashed over me.
And then it obeyed the call of gravity, as fluids are wont to do. If I’d have moved I would have destroyed the tail end of his orgasm and possibly run head first into his nut-sack. So I laid still, but I couldn’t control my laughter as the come found its way into my hair.
And into my eyes. And up my nose.
He came to from the pleasure and noticed the state of my face. Immediately a stream of apologies shot forth from his mouth. I assured him that I loved – nay, lived for – being covered in come. “Can I get you a towel?” he asked, heading toward the bathroom.
“Yes please, and a nasal aspirator, if you have one.”
Wednesday, March 5th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
I knew at an intuitive level that there was something lame and false about the recent “scientific” news from Italy, where researchers supposedly determined that some women don’t have G-spots. I said nothing, counting on the fact that Violet Blue, author of The Smart Girl’s Guide to the G-Spot, would be along eventually to set things straight. Which she now has done. It turns out, the Italian dudes were a bit confused, and were using what Violet calls the “two-hands-and-a-flashlight” research method:
News flash to news outlets: The vagina ceased to be a mystery at least 40 years ago. The G-spot is a real, tangible thing, and you can even see it if you have a bio-vagina, or know someone who will let you take a G-peep. It is a real place inside the body, and you don’t need ultrasound to find it. And again, I’ll contradict the reporting and say that yes, some women find it to be incredible for orgasms, while others don’t like the sensation so much. It isn’t a “magic button” for all girls: But that in no way means a woman cannot have, enjoy, or break windows all the way down to Twin Peaks and back screaming in joy from vaginal orgasms.
Myths about the G-spot you’re seeing in these mainstream news sources:
* Not every woman has one.
* Every woman likes G-spot stimulation.
* There’s a test to find it, and only one “right” way to touch it.
* Touching it will make you incontinent, and female ejaculation is urine. (It is not.)
* Any other orgasms are inferior to a G-spot orgasm.
If you’re squeamish about female anatomy, skip the next two paragraphs, but if you want to know what the hell a G-spot is or why anyone wants to find one, read on…
Friday, January 25th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Offered for discussion, an excerpt from “Nicole Gets An Education” by Vulgus. It (the excerpt, not the story, which is very long and somewhat tedious in the common manner of free internet sex fiction) is a short fictional account of a woman who has her best orgasm ever while being raped, so some of you may want to pass it by:
I am very aware, however, that the second best orgasm I ever had was when Bill Harris was making love to me. He held my hands over my head in one of his strong hands and I felt totally helpless. He stared into my eyes and I felt well and truly taken. He was large and strong and I felt overpowered. It was very exciting.
My best orgasm, however, was when I said “No” to Tom Phillips. We had gone out to dinner and spent a little time at a club. I had to get up early so we couldn’t stay too long. He grudgingly took me home and somehow wormed his way into my new apartment. It was my only experience with ‘date rape’. He took control as soon as my door closed. We had been dating for a month or so and we had sex a couple of times. Tonight, though, I was not in the mood. I was tired and a little pissed at him for being such an ass.
But he started pushing me toward my couch and pulling my clothes off. I was fighting him off, but not screaming or trying to hurt him. Finally he got tired of it and he used the cloth belt from my dress to tie my hands behind my back and he pulled my dress down to my elbows and pulled by bra up over my breasts and roughly mauled them while he held me close and forced his tongue into my mouth. I was struggling and begging him to stop, but he just ignored me.
Finally he pushed me to the floor and bent me over the sofa. He pulled my dress up in back and ripped my panties off violently. Then he held me down while he unbuckled his belt and slid it out of his belt loops.
As soon as it was free he doubled it over and started beating my ass. As he was beating me he was yelling at me, “Don’t you ever say no to be again, god damn it. You fucking tease, you bitches are all alike. You just use men to get what you want and send them home with blue balls and think that it is just great fun. Fucking bitch!”
I was crying hysterically, but he didn’t care, he must have beat my ass for several minutes before he pulled his pants off and raped me from behind.
I knelt there helplessly, my hands tied behind my back, his hand holding my hair in his firm grip and pulling my head up so that he could see my face while he fucked me. His other hand kept moving under me and squeezing and pinching my by breasts and my nipples. It was horrible. And I came harder than I had ever come in my life! Over and over. I lost track of how many times I came. I had never been so aroused in my life. Some of those rape stories I read on the internet flashed through my mind as Tom violently raped me and I screamed in pleasure.
Tom finally came in me. He stood up and wiped his cock clean in my hair. Then he dressed and left without ever saying another word. It took me almost fifteen minutes to get my hands free!
I sat on my dress on the floor for a long time sobbing and sad and furious and confused.
Finally I got up and took a shower and as I washed my sore body I pictured what had happened tonight in my mind and as I washed my sore pussy I was on the edge of another orgasm. Well, I had no reason to disappoint me, so I rubbed myself until I came again. But then I was mad at myself for doing it.
This excerpt is a fairly stark and unequivocal example of a blindingly common meme — the meme of the woman who is overpowered by brute male force, raped with a modicum of violence, and, on a sexual level at least, enjoys it.
There are plenty of controversies swirling around this meme. Many men, for example, enjoy pointing out that it’s a predominantly female fantasy, at least measured by sales dollars — because, lightly prettied up, it’s at the heart (or somewhere lower) of an entire genre of commercial fiction marketed to and mostly consumed by women. In certain feminist circles, this fused grenado gets lit and tossed back over the wall by means of various arguments to the effect that the fantasy is thrust upon women or defensively adopted by them in response to the miscellaneous oppressive mechanisms of patriarchy.
But my interest is not in the question of whether the meme is prevalent — for it surely is — or whether it is popular with women — for it surely is that, also. Readers of this blog will know by now that I am predictable to this extent: memes expressed in erotic fiction, consumed and enjoyed as such, will attract no condemnation from me.
No, my question is: What do you think is the propagandistic effect, if any, of the meme? Do you think expressions of it are intended to convince (or, regardless of intent, do have the effect of convincing) anyone (male or female) that real world rapes are less evil or pernicious than they actually are? In other words, does fiction like this have the intent or effect of reducing the power of “No”?
Of course the forces of censorship — against which ErosBlog lives in opposition — are quick to say yes, and to assume that a “yes” should end the conversation. I think erotic expression is important enough to defend even in the face of real-world negative consequences, could they be established, so I will doubtless continue to oppose censorious impulses. But it remains an important question. Is there danger in the expression of such fantasies? And if so, what’s the appropriate reaction, given the toxic sexual pressure cooker environment you get when a society chooses repression and censorship?
Thursday, January 3rd, 2008 -- by Bacchus
I stumbled over these vintage shots of Ginger Lynn [update: or not] in a collection of old porn magazine scans. I thought her “orgasm faces” were pretty and fun and worth sharing:
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Wednesday, December 19th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
In which Fifi fails to use her words, but Monmouth figures it out anyway:
Fifi pulled away and lunged for the toy box, pulling out a small, flexible vibrator and a lube dispenser. She put her hands around my neck and kissed me, still holding these things. Then, cocking her head in a faux coy manner she held up the vibe and smiled prettily.
“What? What do you want me to do with this?”
“Um, my arse?”
“You want me to put this in your ass?”
“Mmhmm,” she nodded, eyes wide, and got back on all fours, wiggling her bum at me in a most applealing manner.
I lubed the vibrator thoroughly, enjoying the view of her open and waiting like that, the glistening pink of her pussy waiting for my cock to return.
“Oh fuck… mmmm.” Fifi was impatient. My cock slid easily into the wet tightness of her cunt. I began to fuck her slowly. Then, when she seemed to start getting a little frustrated, I twisted the knob on the vibe to the lowest setting and placed it against the pouting circle of her ass.
Pushing the toy in slowly, carefully, I enjoyed the vibrating sensation traveling down to the base of my cock. Fifi was quiet, concentrating on the spreading, tightening, pressing sensation filling her pussy and arse at the same time with throbbing, vibrating pleasure.
The soft vibe was bendy enough to fit up her bum without getting in my way while I fucked her. Once it was in as far as it went, the fat base resting against the stretched rim of her anus, I dialed up the intensity of the vibration. Fifi moaned deeply, burying her face in the cushions and pressing back against me, taking my cock in as far as possible. Her orgasm was building, and I couldn’t hold back much longer with the twitching tightness of her cunt clutching my cock and the vibrations tickling me all along the top. It was too intense to last.
Suddenly Fifi reached back with her hand and grasped the base of the vibrator. Firmly, rhythmically she began to fuck herself with it, in time with the thrusting of my hips.
“Harder… fuckfuck…” she growled, letting go of the buzzing sex toy to allow me to pound into her with the full force of my weight. Her orgasm seemed to last and last, rolling on with moans and whimpers, gripping my cock with an irresistible invitation to let go and come inside her.
I withdrew very slowly, removing both my cock and the buzzing toy carefully.
On our backs, recovering, Fifi sighed. “When fucking, it’s incredible how difficult it is to just say the simplest things, don’t you think?”
Wednesday, December 12th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
I mentioned last week that The Nymph always fails her saving throws against pink — a weakness I sometimes use to my ruthless advantage and to our mutual enjoyment. With your lady, though, the doomed saving throw might be different. Is her weakness, perhaps, pearl-like objects, or shiny things from Swarovsky?
If so, you might just need the Pearl Collar And Leash from Wild In Secret (matching pearl handcuffs and, for the especially daring, pearl thong, optional):
No need to be sexist about all this, though — I’m sure there’s a man out there wearing these and looking cute as hell. In fact, if he’s your man, and you have pictures, I’d consider publishing them.
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Wednesday, December 5th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
The Christmas Shopping Season is upon us, and I’ve begun to realize it’s time and past time to make my online shopping orders. The Nymph having an automatic “it’s pink? squeeee!” reaction that impairs her saving throws against my evil plans, I surfed over to The Twisted Monk to see if the long-awaited pink bondage rope ever made it into his permanent inventory. (Answer: yes. My evil plan is complete, muah ha ha!)
However much fun we might have with the Monk’s custom ropes (and you’ve got to love a bondage rope merchant who includes a free pair of emergency shears with every order) I have to admit that a shortage of bondage ropes (or any other sex toy goodies, for that matter) is not the biggest problem at Casa Bacchus. No, the biggest problem is that sex toys come rattling out from under the couch when a guest sits down on it, or there’s a leather paddle that came in the review mail sitting on the coffee table when somebody’s aunt shows up unannounced. In a word, I can never have enough discrete toyboxes, toy bags, and the like. Plus, I love wooden boxes, and old-fashioned containers of all kinds. (Sometimes I’m tempted to start a distillery, just so I can have all those lovely oak barrels.) So, naturally enough, the Twisted Monk 2007 Holiday Gift Box caught my eye. It’s a pine box with a lid (semi-discreet, in that it’s branded with the Twisted Monk bondage logo) that comes with a rope kit and a DVD of Monk’s instructional bondage videos. Monk calls them “boxes of potential orgasms”, especially after his customers started writing in and ordering other merchandise (bondage books, naughty undies) to be included in the gift boxes before shipping.
What, you think that sounds like good service? That’s nothing, nothing I tell you! You should read about the customer who wanted the Twisted Monk Boyshorts, but only if Monk would “maybe step on the panties” with his “sexy boots”. Result: one sexy (because the customer is always right) boot print:
And to think, I was just looking for a pretty bit of rope!
Thursday, November 8th, 2007 -- by Aphrodite
Awhile ago I had a birthday, one of those “milestone” birthdays that everybody likes to make a big deal out of. Everybody was telling me that my ovaries would start twitching and I’d get baby fever. I’ve never wanted a baby so I think my biological clock is broken…..that didn’t change but I have noticed something different. I’ve started obsessing about sex and fantasizing about it, like, constantly. Any guy that’s halfway good looking that I see, I wonder about his wood. When I see a really hot guy I think, “I’d ride that.” I have wet dreams (are girls allowed to call their orgasm causing dreams wet dreams?) at least once a week.
When I was younger the horndogs made me mad. All they talked about were tits and ass, and trying to score. It seemed like all they thought about was sex. I didn’t understand that and I didn’t like it that they looked at me like I was only good for sex.
Well, now I understand. And around the big mouthfull of crow I’m chewing on, I want to say I’m sorry to all those guys.
(more…)
Thursday, October 18th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
The thing about erotic story repositories on the internet that makes them so interesting is that they are structurally noncommercial. Which is to say, for the most part, they accumulate the sort of erotic fiction that nobody wants to be in the business of selling in print.
It would be easy to say more generally that amateur erotic fiction isn’t of commercial quality, but that’s a cop-out; it’s so hard to make money selling erotic fiction that, strictly speaking, virtually all of it that exists isn’t “commercial quality” if you define that as “you could sell enough of this to be worth publishing it.” No, I’m talking about thematic elements that would, at the very least, complicate any commercial distribution, themes and scenarios that make business people nervous and/or queasy. Rape, incest, sex at any age, bestiality, rare fetishes, social taboos, and every imaginable combination thereof: “I caught my teacher fucking her dog and blackmailed her with the photos, I made her wear sweaty rubber boots, call me Master, and suck my cock in the supply closet — and then I made her take my little brother and his Nintendo buddies on a field trip to the petting zoo!”
This, of course, is a specific instance of the general case, the root nature of the internet that makes it so wonderful and terrible. No matter how narrow your interest, you can get anything you want, but you’ll find it cheek-by-jowl with a million things that will raise your eyebrows until they ache.
Doubt me? Go have a look at The Kristen Archives. If there’s a better place on the internet to find sex stories, I haven’t seen it. But you simply must be adult about it. Skim the summaries; if a story’s not for you, don’t read it. For extra credit and true advancement toward mastery, cultivate the ability to appreciate what’s hot about a story while disregarding the elements (stylistic or thematic) that aren’t.
Your example for the day is Screwed, featuring an amoral attorney who’s clearly more excited by the financial screwing he gives his client than he is by the blowjob he enjoys from her. If you’re a professional of any kind, you might find yourself too outraged to enjoy the story. Which would be a shame, because there’s no law that says villains can’t be funny in the conduct of their villainy:
I wound my hand in her hair and jerked her head back and forth, each time forcing more of my dick into her mouth until she was almost choking, but she never pulled back. When she reached between her legs and began playing with her pussy as I roughly jerked her head onto my cock, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. She was getting off on the rough treatment. I would like to have experimented more, but the tremendous mental and physical stimulation pushed me over the top, and with almost painful jets, I shot a copious load of jism down her throat, my cock unbelievably huge and purple looking, the orgasm without a doubt the best I’d ever experienced in a woman’s mouth, making it feel even better.
I collapsed backward onto my elbows, basking in the after-glow, my cock still twitching in her hand as she licked her lips and swallowed the remains of my wad. Then, squeezing up the length of my cock, she forced up a final dollop of sperm, and looking at me, and squeezing the huge drip onto her tongue, she let me watch her spread it around her mouth and slowly and with a sensuous grin, swallowed the entire thing. Then, as though not yet satisfied, she sucked my cock clean of every last drop of cum, kissed my balls tenderly and sat back in her chair with a brilliant smile, rearranging her skirt, giving me a shot of her unpantied beaver before dropping the skirt primly into place.
I let my head drop back onto the desk, eyes closed, trying to regain my strength. I’d never had a head shot like that. The woman was a vampire — she positively loved cum. I glanced at the clock and with a shock realized that she’d sucked me for almost 20 minutes, and that we were almost through the lunch hour. Quickly, I refigured her bill. I’d need to get paid for that extra hour now, and — what the hell — she’d just had her lunch on me! I tacked $50.00 dollars onto her bill. That would make it $350.00. But then I realized that she’d probably dicker with me, so I threw on another $100.00 to give me something to work with, for a total of $450.00 less her discount. I’d just gotten paid $150.00 for blowing my wad down my client’s throat!
As I watched her repair her lipstick, I thought about the glimpse of her hairy cooze I’d gotten as she’d pulled the skirt down. I was still excited and the thought of fucking this ‘respectable’ mother of two made my cock start to stand up again. I didn’t bother to put it away.
“Well, Karen, that was great — you certainly have talent — but now there’s the matter of your bill.”
Well, of course, she’d expected that the entire bill would be forgiven based on her performance, but I gave her a lecture on overhead travel fees, etc., then made my pitch for the discount. But before I did it, a perverse streak caused me to quote her $550.00 as my bill to see what she’d say. She seemed taken aback, but I pointed out that I’d done a lot of research before we’d gone to court. I gently explained to her that just because she’d assumed that I’d dismiss the whole bill didn’t constitute a contract because we’d had no discussion beforehand. Then I asked her what she thought her services had been worth. Just as I thought, she undervalued them-obviously low self esteem-and dubiously quoted $100.00. I could have backed her down, but I had another plan in mind. I accepted her offer, and generously knocked off another $50.00 to show good faith. That term always gets them, even though it meant nothing in this case. Now we were down to $400.00.
She had brightened appreciably. I then offered her a chance to knock the bill down another $50.00 if I could fuck her — and I said it just like that. She acted as though the very words turned her on. But, believe it or not, she was getting bolder, and came back with $100.00. We finally settled on $75.00. I was on a roll, and I could have gotten her down to $50.00 — but, what the hell, I’m not totally devoid of conscience!
Friday, August 24th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
The naked man wrestling seemed to be a big hit, so here’s some more, only this also has women in it and erect penises and a prodigious ejaculation. Don’t see how I could possibly go wrong with a modest orgy in a vineyard:
I don’t know a thing about the art or the artist or the context, but I think it’s safe to say it’s old and French. (I say French because it’s a detail from this, which has French words on it.)
Monday, August 13th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Gentlemen, if you’ve got a modicum of self-confidence about your skillz with teh butt secks and you’re pretty sure you’re not hurtin’ the lady or anything, yet she still seems unduly and persistently reluctant, it may help to remember that women, or at least Always Aroused Girl, sometimes worry about odd things at odd times:
For all the apparent confidence I might seem to have about buttsex, there have been times that it has completely terrified me.
Not because of the pain aspect. It’s never felt painful. Instead, I worry about poo.
Rationally, I know my bottom is simply confused. It’s so conditioned to interpreting that particular sensation as needing to use the facilities that I get panicky when I’m first entered. I worry that poo will make an appearance, even though I know there’s none there. I worry even though I know that my partner would still like me even if we had a minor poo-tastrophe.
I know those things, and yet I do more than my share of panicking. However, the longer I have successful buttsex, the more my confidence grows.
Not directly related to the above point, but I’m going to quote from later in the same post just for fun:
I gushed, and then I came in earnest. It was one of those orgasms that froze me in place and clenched every muscle in my pelvis. Apparently it felt pretty good to my friend too, because he wrapped his hand around my throat, clamped his teeth on my earlobe and moaned hard.
I nearly lost an earlobe and an eardrum but I didn’t care.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Sunday, August 5th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
From the Red Sneaker Diaries, we have this description of what it feels like for a woman to fuck another woman with a strap-on:
This was one of the first few times I fucked Anna with the feeldoe strapped on — and this time, it felt natural. Strap-on sex has a learning curve – much like any other sex act, really. The “strap-er” can’t be expected to fuck like a Casanova the first time out of the gates, but after some awkward first times, it gets easier. And after it gets easier, it starts to feel natural. When it feels natural, you’re there — no more flubs, no more hesitation, no more mistakes. Just good, hearty strap on sex
Coupling the feeldoe with a harness is truly brilliant. The feeldoe will stay in place on its own, but only with decently closed legs. This limits its usefulness. Strapped into place, its stays put — perky, firm and ready to fuck. In fact, even though the straps felt awkward at first, the fact that they allow the feeldoe to cradle so firmly into me makes me forget that they’re there. Void of distracting worries of it falling out, I am free the let the feeldoe become part of me, to become an extension of my cunt. The silicone is inert, but it allows the quivers and shakes and strokes of a fuck to channel deep within me, fueling the the burning desire of my sex.
It’s a real trip, you know, fucking a girl with a strap on. My inert cock, spreading sensation to me, elicits reactions from her. Everything is delayed, sensations conveyed by proxy through the blue silicone cock between my legs. Her body tenses under me — I see her orgasm before I feel the jolting of the feeldoe on my gspot. For the briefest of seconds, I am simply an observer — watching transfixed as her orgasm washes over her. Then, suddenly, my world is flooded with that feeling — my own thighs flutter in response as I thrust again.
(I think she’s using the word “feeldoe” in reference to this product.)
Friday, June 8th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
I’m not one of these people who is a “fan” of actors and actresses. But I do, as Jon Stewart might say, like-ee me a pretty face in a movie. And I’ve always thought Meg Ryan’s face was exceptionally cute.
So of course it seems worthwhile to me to share a few grainy frames from her famous faked orgasm scene in the movie When Harry Met Sally:
Similar Sex Blogging:
Sunday, May 13th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
If you’ve seen Warm Water Under A Red Bridge, you’ll know the Japanese understand their shio.
If you haven’t, you’ll be going “Shio? What’s shio?”
Apparently, that was Momo’s question also. Fleshbot has a skilled cross-cultural operative to explain it all to us:
Fleshbot operative KokuRyu … reports:
“I came across an unknown Japanese word today in a YouTube video that appeared to be a high school chemistry lesson conducted by a sexy Japanese porn startlet named Momo (Peaches) wearing nothing but a frilly pink bra, perhaps from Peach John.
“I knew the word, shio, means “tide” or “salt water” in Japanese. But what was the shio in the glass beaker? I asked my wife, who’s Japanese. Instead of getting angry with me for looking at porn, Mrs. KokuRyu smirked and said, ‘It’s when a woman, goes puri puri, like the spout of a whale. You know, shio fuki. It’s when a woman squirts.’
“Suddenly the YouTube clip made sense! Glowing with post-orgasmic serenity, Peaches admires the clear liquid–her liquid — collected in the beaker. Peaches then decides to analyze her shio. She sniffs it, reports it doesn’t smell, and proceeds to tests its consistency; Peaches says her shio feels silky smooth. When litmus paper is produced, shio is determined to have alkaline properties.
“Next, gripping an elaborate, slightly phallic spoon, Peaches measures the salt content of her shio. Apparently, it’s less than 0.6%. Peaches then delicately inserts her slender index finger, moistened slightly with the liquid contents of the petri dish, between her lips. She finds that shio is basically tasteless, and not a little slimy. Peaches concludes by saying she enjoyed the opportunity to investigate her shio.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Saturday, April 28th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
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.
Wednesday, April 11th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
There was enough interesting in last week’s fisting post I thought I’d post this bit from Kaya on the sensation of fisting the way she and her master do it:
There’s a point when the widest portion of Master’s hand begins it’s slow but forceful entrance where I think I can feel tissue tearing, a sharp blooming pain. I can see it in my mind’s eye, the skin stretch so tightly, so thin, that it’s almost transparent around His fist. Though I don’t know if I have ever ripped, or if it simply feels as if I should have.
It’s at that point that I want desperately to quit, to snap my legs together with my hands cupped around my poor battered pussy and breathe the pain away. But I don’t. Not only because I can’t, but because I know what pleasures lay over this agonizing hump.
Once my skin reluctantly grants His hand passage, there is a transfer of pain. What was once highly concentrated on the ‘ring of entrance’, now rolls and fills the whole of my vagina. A deep pressure, a pressure that shifts along with the movement of His hand and fingers, sometimes sharp if He pokes a spot, sometimes dull when He rubs. But constant, always.
He likes to poke and prod, to press up as far as He can get, until my eyes pop open in stunned panic, half-believing that He’s attempting to tickle my throat. He likes to pump, a genuine fist-fucking, so hard and so fast that I no longer control my own breathing. I’m forced to exhale when He pushes in and up… and I gasp in air when He pulls back and out.
The pressure and the pain slide and mix together to create the delicious blend that is pleasure. I can’t think beyond my cunt. I’m nothing more than one giant pulsating vagina, with no thoughts outside of His hand and the throbbing need to cum.
I much prefer to be allowed to stimulate my clit when He’s fisting me. Otherwise, the intense sensations are too overwhelming. It’s system overload to the max. But give me a clit to manipulate, to direct the course and timing of the orgasms and I’m one incredibly happy girl.
Orgasms while being fisted are sensational. They’re the strongest, deepest, whole body consuming orgasms that I ever have. I don’t know if it’s because He’s in there touching and rubbing and slamming on spots otherwise left unstimulated, or if it’s because my cunt is so full, so stretched by His hand and wrist that there is no room left in there for my cunt to spasm so it shoots it out, sending it zinging across the whole rest of my body. It brings cerebral orgasm to a new meaning.
Orgasm recovery time is lengthy. My eyes do not want to uncross, my mouth doesn’t want to close. My toes stay curled, fingers clenched. Milk that orgasm for all it’s worth, twitching still against His arm.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Monday, January 15th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
By all accounts, Seattle’s lucky to have the The Wet Spot, a sex-positive community center that hosts all manner of adult events and classes. But you know, somebody has got to have the keys, and use of the facilities after hours. That somebody, it turns out, is Executive Director Allena Gabosh, who writes on her blog about
…a great evening a few weeks ago with my boy, alex. He’s such a “cat”. Sometimes he’s in the mood, sometimes he’s not. This time he was. His masochist came out to play. At my request he wore sexy disposable clothing and after I tied him up over a spanking bench, I slowly cut off his clothes and bit, licked, spanked and caned each body part that I exposed. And that was just his warm up.
Later I had him on the bondage bed (we were at The Wet Spot after hours.) After beating his ass with his least favorite toy, I turned him over and played with his cock, wrapping it in his favorite leather cock ring and attaching it to my tens unit. Every time I turned up the tens unit he jumped and I sucked and kissed his cock. Pretty soon his pain and pleasure responses became all jumbled up. :) This got me super horny, so I climbed on top of him and he gave me a great orgasm while I continued to torture his penis.
Then the Grand Finale! Two needles through his nipples. Then the best part, cuddling and making him feel good again (he doesn’t like needles).
Hmmm. That was a fun night.
Via the Electrosex Blog.
Saturday, January 13th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
From 1000 Orgasms:
My beloved woke me up pulling my pants down this morning. When his pants came down his cock pounced up and popped in from behind. Ahhh lovely, lush and sweet. We rocked there as waves of pleasure and sweetness rode the edges of my body. Up went the pants and our eyes closed for another few hours of sleep.
Later that morning I’m tugging at his pants, and pull them down around his hips. I plunge my lips over his cock, and suck him and jerk him until he’s hard as a rock. He’s moaning so fine. Phone ringing, kids on their way, I grab a condom out of the drawer. I take his cock in my mouth again, until he unwraps the condom. Riding my baby brings me the sweetest pleasure! We’re fucking fucking fucking loving sweet, and I come over and over. The one to mention is when he rocks me pushing my ass up and down on him. He turns me over and grinds hard, and comes. Another beautiful day, I say…
Tuesday, December 19th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
For me, a Christmas stocking just isn’t a proper Christmas stocking if it doesn’t have some kind of sexy toy in it. Not even if it’s vinyl and has a heel:
So anyway, I had high hopes of doing a substantial and official ErosBlog sex toy Christmas Guide this year. But, sadly for my grand plan, I found myself responsible for some unanticipated family care-giving this December, and the big sex toy blogging plans have suffered. Suddenly I discover it’s December 19, I haven’t done any Christmas shopping at all, and the ship-in-time-for-Christmas dates have passed at almost all of my favorite online sex toy emporia. Drat!
However, all is not lost. My favorite online purveyor of sex toys ships so fast that there’s still plenty of time, if you don’t dawdle. Better yet, every year they have a “SeXmas” sale. It’s always got good discounts, too.
You can (of course) go kinky if you want to — how about a satin blindfold in Santa Claus Red?
But kinky is not required. They have every imaginable sex toy to tickle your fancy (or hers, or his).
Kinky not required, I said. But if it’s kinky you want, this place is the undisputed king of kinky. Forget crops and whips and leather cuffs. Did you ever imagine what you’d get if you took one of those paper Chinese finger trap toys and re-engineered it, using stainless steel wire, as a device for imprisoning penises?
Of course you did. Or maybe not. They think of these things so you won’t have to.
Anyway, behold! The Wire Cock Trap:
That’s not something everybody with a penis to play with is gonna want, no. But it would fit nicely in a stocking. And think of the the fun when he pulls it out and holds it up, all puzzled, and says “What’s this thing, and what’s it for?”
“Hold still, dear, and I’ll show you.”
Fair warning: you might wind up late for Christmas dinner at dear old Grandma’s house. And aren’t happy delays like that the best Christmas present of all?
Wednesday, December 13th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
This post-orgasmic photograph reminded me of my Two Smiles post. Isn’t she pretty?
We’re looking at model Annette Schwarz, and to obtain that smile she’s been playing with the fucking machines at FuckingMachines.com.
Sunday, November 26th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Er, like, so totally NOT.
I’m talking about a character sketched by Girl With A One Track Mind:
This was, after all, the man who when his orgasm was achieved, would stand up, put his clothes on, and tell me he had to leave. When I pointed out that I was pre-orgasmic, and needed some relief, he responded with,
“I’m sure you can sort yourself out.â€?
Well yes, of course I can, multiple times over, but that’s not the fucking point, is it?
No. No, it isn’t.
A sad day for all manhood when this feller’s parents neglected to drown him in the slop bucket.
Wednesday, September 27th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
…so we can see he must have studied.
Ah, studying. Being, as I was, one of those bookish lads who got all his theoretical sex education out of books long before he got any hands-on training, I’ve got a soft spot in my heart for the sexual self-help book. But rarely do you hear such a positive testimonial as this one from Pretty Dumb Things:
“What do you think of this?â€? Donny said to me, waving the shiny book in front of my face.
What is it? Ten bucks? I asked. Get it if you want it, I said, feeling unimpressed by the cover and the title and the book’s general slick ambiance, and yet wanting to encourage Donny’s erotic education. So buy it he did.
Apparently, he’s read it. I first noticed a seismic shift in Donny’s Headsmanship the night I returned from Fire Island. Donny, an engineer, had always tended to just head immediately for my clit, apparently assuming the shortest trip between him and my orgasm was a straight line to my most sensitive bits. This time, however, he nibbled, he nuzzled, he licked and he toyed with my labia. He worked slowly and teasingly toward my tiny Greta Garbo reclusive clit and when he finally, finally got there I was goddamn ready and willing to open up and go all Ah! all over.
That wasn’t the only change, however. Donny had discovered rhythm. He did clever little change-ups, but he stayed with a beat long enough that I could enjoy it. He didn’t fumble all frustrated and fruit-fly attention-like with my clit. He had assurance. He held a stroke long enough for me to ride it and then, amazingly, he switched to something even better. He played me like he liked it and like he felt confident.
The Berlin walls tumbling down did not indicate a greater change than this sudden ability of Donny’s to lick my pussy. Ok, perhaps they did, but in my world, this moment was epic. Under the open, knowing, sucking and tongue-twiddling mouth of my lover, I came with the intensity of a joyful natural disaster.
At first I chalked up the crashing success of the experience to our having been away from each other for a week. But he has done it, and done it again, and done it once more, each time with new techniques and an ever-ascending crescendoing level of skill.
Last night, splayed on Donny’s bed, my orgasm did not hover as it usually does like a flotilla of rose-petal weather balloons. It did not, creeping in on cat’s paws, cover me in a rosy pleasure fog. It did not crash like a tsunami or rise up like a fjord or shoot like a nova.
It rose with the intense beat beat beat of hundreds of birds, an immense fluttering flock of wings taking off together, their crazy primal synchronicity pounding the air to rise fluttery upward, up, up, up in the beat beat beat of their wings upward, out and beyond.
Saturday, September 9th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
I know I’ve been quoting Susie Bright a lot recently, but then, Susie always has been a woman with a lot to say. Her latest big essay grabs firmly ahold of the seeming paradox of women and their rape fantasies:
I didn’t acknowledge having perilous fantasies until I was in my twenties. In a women’s studies college course, our teacher asked us if we had experienced arousing “rape fantasies”?
One girl tearfully raised her hand and said this was true for her. My heart beat so fast it was all I could do to stay put. I was just as ashamed as she of these fantasies, but I would never have admitted them. Our professor was quite kind to her, if misinformed.
Our professor comforted the girl by saying that, as women, we had been brainwashed by the patriarchy to eroticize our subordination to men. She said these fantasies were very common, which is true, and that we could “overcome” them by exposing our fantasies to feminist analysis and by our increasing self-esteem.
She was wrong on that count. In fact, I knew she was wrong later that same night. Despite my assertive self-confidence, rock-hard feminist analysis, and weekly shift at the rape crisis hotline, I could still crawl into bed and successfully masturbate to the same disturbing fantasies that had aroused me since I was a child.
Feminism and self-esteem had no more effect on my erotic hot spots than the communion wafers I used to take every Sunday, hoping they would wash away the devil’s seed inside of me. Clearly, religion and linear politics were useless in explaining the unconscious and subversive quality of eroticism.
…
It’s normal, it’s common, to fantasize about the bizarre– the things that in real-life circumstances would trouble us, frighten us, or maybe just make us laugh. Erotic fantasies take the unbearable issues in life and turn them into orgasmic gunpowder.
…
In our fantasies, no matter how much we struggle to deny it, we control every frame. Whether we stand tall in thigh-high boots or kneel breathless on the ground, it’s a matter of our well-lubricated chosen position. We run the fuck in our minds, the exact amount of ambivalence, the perfect timing of climax. When did that ever happen in a real sexual assault?
These are just the tiniest of highlights; there’s much much more. Complete with bonus analysis of Nancy Friday’s “My Secret Garden”!
Thursday, September 7th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Anybody in the blogging world is by now familiar with the tired old newspaper column written by a journalist who’s decided it’s time to say “I don’t get blogging, blogs are dull / stupid / inane / written by geeks.” Well, now a British journalist has trotted out that weary formula and plugged in “sex blog” instead of “blog”, writing Sex Blogs: Why Bother? A few sample paragraphs:
I can always just go and pick another of the thousands upon thousands of sex blogs that seem to be girding their loins and penetrating the blogosphere; because let’s face it, they all read the same. It’s all “tensed muscles” this and “moist undercarriage” that: graphic details of the precise curl of some anonyknobber’s merkin and five hundred variants on the concept of “sweaty”.
…
Other personal bloggers choose to write about tube trains and cats and cheese sandwiches; why shouldn’t you write about your own – and I apologise for this in advance – rides, pussies and yes, the contents of your very own lunchbox? Especially, and this must be said, especially when, for a bunch of geeks, you all seem to have rather unbounded sexual proclivities.
Perhaps that’s it. Perhaps I just can’t stand to read because I’m jealous. I’m jealous that a growing community of bloggers want to stand on a table, face the world and shout “Look at me! I’ve got a stiffy!”. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to say in return, except perhaps “Well, good for you.”
Sometimes I’m tempted to start up my own anti-sex-blog-blog. None of these glistening thighs and unbelievable multiple orgasms that go on for hours, pits that smell like flowers and sex that never goes wrong – it’ll be called “Fanny-Farts and the Jackhammer Rhythm” – and be a group blog full of tales of bloated post-takeaway sex, grumpy come-on-we’re-supposed-to-be-at-my-mum’s-by-now sex, and sex that you regret as soon as the first button is shucked but do it anyway.
Because what the world needs is more bad sex, described by people whose sexual proclivities are safely and boringly “bounded”. Capital idea!
Saturday, September 2nd, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Writes Susie Bright:
0h, sodomy. . . It doesn’t come as naturally as the puritans would like to fear. We stumble and fumble and watch dirty movies for tips, but there’s a lot to the details that doesn’t get talked about.
Ah, but they do get talked about, at least when Susie’s around. And that’s a good thing.
In this case, she’s using the word sodomy in the American-legal-system sense, where the word encompasses not just your traditional penis-in-anus buggery, but all manner of transgressive sex that doesn’t lead directly to babies. And she’s specifically referring to that bugbear of the clueless male hetero idiot, the aggressive answer to the unimaginative whiner who asks of lesbianism “But what is it that two women could possibly do?” In fine, she’s talking about fisting:
Unlike some women whose favorite fisting movement is a slow clenching and unclenching, Donna preferred circular, massage motions. She showed me where to put extra lubrication around my gloved hand. When we got closer to our trial run, I suggested she bring her lover, Carrie, for bedside reassurance. Our rehearsal went smooth as silk.
The next afternoon, sixty women crammed into an airless room for the Vaginal Fisting Workshop. The tension was so thick you could have wired your home with it. I passed out my rubber gloves, condoms and dams, with a few words on safe sex techniques. Rubber or vinyl gloves are really superior for fisting over naked hands. They grease up better and give a smoother surface going in.
…
Another woman brought up that the peril isn’t necessarily for the fistee, it’s for the fister. She once had a lover orgasm while her hand was curled up inside, and the contractions broke a small bone in her hand.
Her experience prompted a lot of handy hints on how to get out of a woman’s vagina in a hurry when your hand is caught in a vacuum.
Methods include: pressing gently on her lower abdomen, or using a finger on your free hand to pull a little on the vaginal opening, thereby breaking the suction.
Simply relaxing, until her muscles loosen, is the simplest method. Don’t panic, or you’ll have a funny time telling people why your hand is in a splint.
I’m the squeamish type when it comes to public situations of potential awkwardness — a platoon of naked harem girls holding bottles of forty year old Scotch couldn’t lure me to any sort of public sex workshop or demonstration. Wild horses? Couldn’t even find me, much less drag me to it. But I’m all in favor of good sex information and education, and brave folk like Susie have done a lot of amazing stuff in that cause.
Wednesday, August 2nd, 2006 -- by Aphrodite
What can I say? J and I talked a lot, he gets the orgasm thing (thanks for your help there) but the sexblogger thing has squicked him. It’s been alot of back and forth, he’s definitely interested in some kinds of exploring but he’s a smalltown boy and this is a small town we live in…..and there are issues from his ex-wife that he’s trying to deal with. Including some sex stuff. So I think it’s all just too much for him. He says he “sees somebody different now” when he looks at me, and doesn’t know who that is.
Before anybody gets all down on him like happened here and here, J’s attitude is just fine in alot of ways, he says he couldn’t tell that I came at all that day, he’s a real sweet guy that’s just got too much to handle right now. We may end up together some time down the road…..but I’m not counting on that. I’m thinking I need to get out of Lutheranville. So I guess it’s back to Sssh.com for awhile.
So, next question is, when should the sexblogger subject come up in a relationship? It’s a trust thing for me, I don’t talk about this dirty little habit with most people because it just isn’t their business. And telling a guy too early will probably give him a whole barrelfull of wrong ideas.
Wednesday, July 19th, 2006 -- by Aphrodite
Wish I could tell you it was a hot mashup of pleasure and pain, but it wasn’t. Just a stupid fight between J and I, helped along by alot of bad information.
J got back from a long business trip on Monday…..a very long trip. So we were both eager to get together and have some fun. He’s barely in the door of my place before his hands are caressing me…..stroking my flanks and gently tugging my t-shirt out of my shorts.
After he does that, his hands beeline for my breasts…..My nips are really sensitive, and he loves to tease me with nipple play. And he’s really good at it, his hands are marvelous. I don’t remember how we got there, but we got to my bed and he pulled up my shirt and started nibbling my nips….alternating between them and using his hands to keep the other nipple happy too. And I came from J’s breast play, a nice uncommon surprise.
Clothes came off, and I straddled J, teasing him with tongue and cunt, spreading my wetness over his cock….then I shifted to rub my clit against his penis and had another orgasm. Not a big one but still alot of fun.
After some more teasing J finally takes me the way I like it best, slow and teasing, and alternating deep and shallow thrusts. It doesn’t take much of that and I’m coming again, a slow motion build and release just before he comes too. He looks happy, I’m sure happy…..and everything seems great for a few minutes.
But then when some blood starts returning to J’s bigger head, he starts complaining that I didn’t “come properly.” I finally figured out that what he meant is that I didn’t have a huge, earth-shaking, When Harry Met Sally-type production. Um, no…..I don’t always have those, mostly because I can’t create them and I don’t always want to try to. Sometimes they happen and sometimes they don’t even though they might be expected to. But I come easily and usually come often, and that keeps me a happy girl.
So I start trying to explain to J that when I have sex I’m all about the coming but I can do that different ways. And he starts saying stuff like the only real orgasm is the Big-O kind, and that other stuff is kind of like faking it. Well, that made me mad, and I guess some of the things I said got him mad too….maybe he thought I was saying he’s less experienced when all I was trying to say is that I’m a woman who knows my body and loves to come, and how can he not like that?
He left and we haven’t talked since then. I haven’t told him about being a sex blogger yet, mostly because I’m not very good at it and a good way to start that talk hasn’t come up. But this might be a good way, because I don’t think I can convince him myself and I know I’m not the only girl out there wired this way. Sisters, can you help me out here?
Tuesday, May 30th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
…and writing, erotica that is, moreso. So sez Chelsea Girl:
I’m accustomed to reading books and finding my girlparts moist. The act of reading, after all, has a kind of inherent eroticism. A generally solitary activity, reading is just you and your quiet hands and the fantasy that the words play out in your mind. It’s just one swift hand below your waistline away from masturbation.
The eighteenth-century birth of the European novel was heralded with all kinds of fear that reading would unreasonably inflame the senses of the young with what one critic has termed ‘one-handed reading.’ And justifiably so — by the middle of the century, John Cleland wrote the first piece of English pornography to help him get out of debtor’s prison.
To get out, and one might suspect, to get off, because let me tell you that writing porn makes a person seriously body-needy.
I’ve been writing a couple of commissioned porny pieces: the first for an American soldier stationed in Iraq narrates a soldier’s wife’s experience of her husband’s return and her waking up from a long sexual nap. The second, for an international poker player, gives the story of a secretary being anally punished for habitual lateness.
Who knew that in a pinch binder clips work as impromptu nipple clamps? Me, that’s who.
I’ve found it incredibly hott-making to get inside these character’s heads and bodies. To inhabit the life of a woman who has by necessity put her sexuality on hold and then to find it smacking it upside her fanny was incendiary. It was hard, literally, a hard little wet knot in my g-string as I sat on my desk chair typing, typing, typing this story of this woman’s learning about what she wanted and how she wanted it.
When I finished, the story a crescendo of simultaneous orgasm and multiple penetration, I felt as if I knew her.
And now, immersed in this office fantasy, the rolling chairs, the drawers of pointy staples and rolls of tape, the shredded gossamer of good-girl pantyhose and the imminent threat of discovery, I find my delicate sensibilities inflamed. (Today, while writing, I had to take a break, discover the painful joy of my nipple clamps and come hard and long with my bullet vibe, groaning louder than I’d expected.)
Ah, the joys of literacy!
Tuesday, May 2nd, 2006 -- by Bacchus
It’s news to no one that the female orgasm can sometimes be a slippery and elusive critter. Kaya finds it’s easiest to catch one when she uses her nipple clamps:
Every once in awhile, orgasm eludes me, even with my pocket rockets, the hitchi and my imagination. I’ll be deep into a fantasy, humming along industriously and all of sudden, 10 or 20 minutes have passed and I’ll realize I’m contemplating the next American Idol cut. Or planning next week’s menu. So I mentally shake myself, refocus my head back to cages and whips and cocks….. and “wake up” some 10 or 20 minutes later designing my dream house.
Now, I don’t give up on an orgasm. That’s a road of despair that I am not willing to travel just yet. Seriously, it starts with just one. One time, you lay the vibe down and decide you just can’t cum tonight. Then it’s twice. Pretty soon, cobwebs and moths have taken up roost in your cootchie. No. Nuh uh. Not me. If I start it, I will finish it. And trust me when I say I’ve battled it a time or two. Stinky, sweating, cramped legs and arms and fingers and a sore, battered clit. But I won. My clit waved the white flag and spit out a pathetic little orgasm because I.will.not.be.defeated.
That’s bothered me a time or two. That seems an unhealthy obsession in the light of day. But let’s not go there, ok? :P
My most favored way of grasping a wayward orgasm is nipple torture. It amazes me how quickly I can cum once I start seriously hurting my nips. Because it’s so easy, I don’t do it every night. I don’t want to ruin that. I love it too much. (The marathon battles mentioned above would not take as long if I’d get my lazy ass out of bed and get the clamps out the toy box.)
I like when I get into a place where I just can’t hurt them enough. A clamp doesn’t cut it. Several clamps might. And then only if they are pulled off numerous times and reapplied. Twisted and yanked and pulled. When it’s really good, I don’t even need the vibe. Once the pain gets high enough, sharp enough, all I’ve got to do is touch my finger to my clit and I pop.
One of those mind-blowing orgasms that stretch out forever… and leave your mouth gaping open and your eyes crossed for awhile.
Friday, March 10th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
This week’s Pillowbook has a few words about a man with a hair fetish. Including a variant hair sex practice that may surprise even you, the sex blog readers who have seen it all:
let me briefly share with you an observation on the kinkiest hair sex i’ve had. so far.
it’s not really about pubic hair, but i still think it’s worth mentioning.
i had this guy once (well, quite a few times, actually), who was so besotted with my hair (head hair) that he wanted me to get on all fours over him and use it to stroke him to full erection, every single time we fucked. all over his body i’d stroke him, like he was a billiard table and i was sweeping him prior to a game or something. i would have to sweep him like that for however long it took for his cock to be standing fully to attention. which was usually about ten seconds, but could go on for a lot longer, depending on whether or not he wanted me to bypass penetration altogether and hair-sweep him to orgasm, as he sometimes did. then he’d shoot his load into my hair, and i’d have to go to sleep with a wet spot next to my cheek…
but that’s not the kinky part. that’s just normal.
you and your partner probly did that very thing last night.
no, the kinky part was when he wanted me to peel back his foreskin, take a single strand of living, still-attached hair, wrap it around his glans in a spiral from the base, roll the foreskin back over it, and then – ever so gently so that the hair didn’t break – pull away from him, dragging the hair out from beneath his foreskin like a rock climber’s line playing out of his ropebag.
the thing was, my hair is so fine that sometimes it *would* break, and then things would turn ugly.
let’s not go there.
but, if it didn’t break, he would end up so aroused that, when i tried to then mount him for penetration, he’d usually have come in my hand while i was still trying to place him against my slit.
we did that so often that my head hair was well and truly fetishised. i’d be sitting in a sidewalk cafe with him and the wind would riffle my fringe onto my face, and, when i went to brush it away with my hand, i could tell that he was boning up beneath his latte.
Monday, March 6th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Over at It’s Fun Being A Bastard, LoveableBastard talks about planting his seed:
Blowjobs are great. For me, they are a wonderful prelude before I start the main course. It dawned on me recently why it is that I rarely cum from a blowjob.
It has to do with planting my seed. I am wired not just to fuck and cum, I need to want to plant my seed.
And then I realized why some encounters are better for me than others. I can be with the most beautiful woman and, if there’s no connection, I don’t really get into things. To get that connection I must feel the need to possess and plant myself in her. To mark her with my cum. To plant my hot seed not in the sense of making babies. To plant my seed as an animal staking my territory. To claim that which is mine. To be with a woman who makes me want to possess her.
…
Now I know why I want the women I want – because being with them makes me want to do more than just rub my cock in them or against them and spurt with an orgasm. I want to plant my seed.
Monday, February 27th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
CeeCi over at Giardino del Piacere got herself a good shave with one of them newfangled vibrating razors. And then when the thing was done, it was time for the next course:
After finishing my shave, he treated me to a bit of fun. He popped the cartridge off the razor, turned it on, then turned me on. The little vibrator he had in his hand was a delight. He knows precisely where my most delicate spots are and gently placed the tip there. If he applied too much pressure I wouldn’t feel much, so he would tap me gently. He told me later that when he placed it directly on the tip of my clit, my eyes bugged out like Jim Carrey’s did in “The Mask”.
Before I could become over-sensitized he stopped teasing me with our new found toy. He turned off the overhead light and placed the table lamp on the floor. Taking a hand towel, he tucked it into the neck of his shirt like a napkin then pulled himself to the table to feast upon my pussy. Within moments I had my first screaming orgasm. I was a rather emotional release as I found myself crying once the spasms began settling down. I reassured my darling I was fine, just got a bit overwhelmed.
Tuesday, February 21st, 2006 -- by Bacchus
From Rollertrain comes the depressing observation that “In the backward world of porn genres, female orgasm is a niche – not a given.” Supporting text:
Sativa, freshly waxed and moaning, looks lovely on the screen. The vibrator is buzzing at a low hum, making soft little surging noises as she pushes its tip against her clit. Sativa has beautiful skin, luscious tits and the kind of lips that cost hundreds of dollars. She’s awesome to behold so close up, but this isn’t anything I haven’t seen before.
“What’s awesome?” I ask. Isabelle turns up the sound. “Watch,” she says, and I listen. Sativa, movie-sized tribute to blessed Pussy, fills up all forty-two inches of Isabelle’s TV. Her face starts to look far away. She bites her lip and her cheeks flush. Her moaning falls into short pants of air and whimpering. The vibrator is working. Sativa’s entire vagina contracts six or seven times, like a giant heartbeat. Her pussy is shimmering. Sativa is clearly having an orgasm.
“I think that’s the first time I’ve actually seen a girl really cum in a porno,” says Isabelle.
Saturday, February 18th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
This is a post about two smiles:
Those are the two smiles of the lovely Sarah Blake, who does bondage modeling for Hogtied.com. I want you to look at those smiles and study the differences between them. No matter if you’re kinky or vanilla (but especially if you’re vanilla) I want you to remember those smiles the next time you hear a preacher or a politician ranting and raving against the evils of sadomasochism, sexual depravity, and sadistic abuse. He’s talking about Sarah and her delicious, joyful smile.
All the pictures in this post come from this shoot, which you can view for yourself if you want to see Sarah tied up and, er, entertained, in some astonishing ways. I’m not going to reproduce those pictures here, although I will be describing the entertainment. All I’m showing you are her smiles (and one gasp of ecstasy.)
Let’s start with the first smile:
This is the “before” picture, taken at the beginning of the photo shoot. It’s a pretty smile — Sarah’s a pretty woman — but it’s a professional model’s smile. A little bit forced, a lot posed, and as artificial as a flower arrangement. This could be the yearbook photo, the portfolio photo, even the drivers license photo. This smile started when Sarah was young, and you can still see in it the obedient girl who learned what to do when the nice man behind the camera told her to smile.
Sarah covers a lot of kinky miles between that smile and the next one.
If you view more of the shoot, you’ll see Sarah with her ankles crossed and tied in front of her chin. Her miniskirt has puddled around her hips, but her panties are still on, so it’s a fairly innocent bondage image. Sarah’s wild ride is just beginning.
Moving rapidly along, we soon see her in the same pose without her undies, with a glass vacuum jar firmly secured to her tenderest bits. The ride accelerates; in another view, she’s on her knees wearing a heavy wooden set of stocks, with her pony tail tied back to — is there a nicer word for this device? — a butt hook that’s securely hooked in (you guessed it) her butt. The rear view of the same scene shows some welts where she’s been caned.
Moving along. In the next view, she’s been stood up, and a metal-pipe-and-ball-gag arrangement has been affixed to her wooden stocks to complicate her life. Some nipple clips with heavy round lead fishing weights are being clamped onto her nipples. When the cameraman steps back, we can see that she’s balanced on tiptoes, with a pole-and-dildo arrangement to encourage her to stay there.
The next couple of photos show a new scene, with Sarah on her stomach in a tight hogtie on two butcher-block tables. Her hands and feet are pressed and tied together, there’s a suspension rope around her elbows pulling her up in what have to be uncomfortable ways, and she’s wearing a red ball gag in a harness that’s making her drool.
*CLICK* Now she’s on her side, in rope bondage, with clothespins on her nipples and a big vibrator working her tender bits.
*CLICK* Now she’s in suspension — an astonishing upside-down posture that looks like gymnastics, only much sexier. Still with clothespins on her nipples.
Moving on. The website describes and explains the next scene thusly:
Sarah also has a tragic secret, she cannot stop cumming if she is stuck on a vibrator. So viewers, be warned! The last scene is a long intense forced orgasm scene until Sarah is vibrated senseless.
What we see is a hard wooden chair with a big vibrator duct-taped to it. Sarah’s strapped onto the chair (and the vibrator) with some well-worn and very-impressive-looking leather belts. She’s clearly enjoying herself, if a bit lost in the sensation:
So what’s been the point of all this lurid description? Quite simply this. Unless you’re a serious bondage fiend, someone who plays hard and invests serious time and money into your dungeon equipment, I’ve probably described more than you’re comfortable with. If you’ve got no interest in bondage, if you’ve never even seen a pair of fuzzy handcuffs, you might be pretty horrified by most of what I’ve described. If you’ve played at bedroom bondage, own one pair of cuffs and a riding crop, you might be fascinated by some of the pictures but scared or repelled by others of them. If you’re seriously kinky and have a home dungeon of your own, you might appreciate most or all the photos, but even then there’s probably something that’s not quite your cup of tea, or that’s too risky or troublesome to be worth trying in your book. But, whereever you fall on that spectrum, and however sincerely you might say of one of the depicted activities “that’s not for me”, I want you to focus on the last picture in the photoset, Sarah wearing nothing but her rope marks. Here’s Sarah’s exhausted-but-exhilarated second smile:
That’s not just a smile, it’s a grin. There’s more joy and enthusiasm and life in that photo than there is in a dozen of the professional smiles we saw at the top. Sarah, despite having suffered through some intensely uncomfortable bondage positions, has had a wonderful time.
And that visible joy, my friends, is what the Grundies want to kill when they rail against “sadism, masochism, and abuse.” I suppose they don’t even know about the joy — they may honestly think it’s all about objectification and degradation and money and feelthy perverts — but I don’t want you, dear readers, to have the same excuse. You’ve seen the two smiles. Now you know.
The next time you hear somebody railing against the feelthy perverts, you’re to remember the smiles. Even if the specific activity under discussion grosses you out, because it’s not your kink and you can’t understand why it could be anyone’s, remember the smiles. Remember Sarah’s visible joy. We don’t need to understand or appreciate a kink to understand that smile.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Monday, December 26th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
I put together a Sex Blog Roundup for Fleshbot a week ago, but for some reason they didn’t publish it. So I thought I’d put it here for you to enjoy. Without further ado, here it is.
Feels Like Home from My Not So Secret Self:
“I tugged at my honey’s shorts and within moments he was naked, his cock–already hard from the warmth of my breasts rubbing and pressing against his flesh–was standing tall in the warm glow of the bedroom. I hesitated for a moment before stripping my own panties off and joining him in nakedness.”
Purple Silk Boxers from Urban Gypsy:
“He strides over to where I stand; lets his tongue bathe my lips and then nuzzles his face into my neck, licking that most sensitive area that seems hot wired directly to my clit, eliciting soft moans. A greater whimper escapes my lips as he grabs my hair at the roots, pushing me to my knees so that my mouth aligned with his cock which so insistently pushes the purple silk towards me. ‘Suck,’ he says simply.”
Head Hanging Over the Edge of the Bed from Always Aroused Girl:
“In the distant past, I had the pleasure of sharing the bed of a young man who (among many other things) loved to come all over my breasts. I think if I were a man, even for a few days, ‘come all over lover’s breasts’ would have to be on my list of Manly Things to Do.”
Fantasome from Emerging On The Other Side:
“Tonight, my husband made sweet passionate love to me. As did my lover and muse. Simultaneously. Except my husband was unaware of his presence, since a threesome involving two men and myself is not his idea of bliss. But it’s definitely one of mine.”
Storming The Fortress from Late Starter:
“When we got to the castle around midday it was fairly deserted, with probably no more than half a dozen visitors…. The room was dimly lit by daylight coming through a very small slit window…. We’d started to kiss passionately and to loosen one another’s clothing when we heard the couple from the floor above coming down the stone staircase. We hastily made ourselves as respectable as possible in the few seconds available, but we were both red-faced and breathing heavily when the couple reached the open doorway.”
Candy Cane For Des from Desireous:
“I sucked him and licked him and sucked his tasty freshly shaven balls. I had him moaning and squirming beneath me. I love that! Nothing like making a man moan, it?s one of my favorite things! He had his hands in my hair holding tight. I sucked him good. I know I had him pretty close to orgasm a few times but he held back and kind of distracted me, sneaky guy!”
Tranny Surprise from Bad Sex:
“I was at the Cat Club in San Francisco, I think it was Bondage-a-go-go that night, I was in latex, my first outfit. I think it was second or third time out in rubber. I was having an OK time, but not really getting any attention….”
Midwest As Seductress from Kiss and Blog:
“A month into living together, we acknowledged our sex life was stale as Noah’s doggie bagels and pledged to liven things up. One night, about an hour after we’d gone to sleep, I woke up with a plan to spark the embers. Rolling toward Nathan, I began lightly nibbling his ear. He swatted me away.”
Saturday, December 17th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
If you thought Red made playing with a cattle prod sound like fun, you might also like this shoot from the first and best electrosex porn site, Wired Pussy:
Wednesday, December 14th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
This is a pretty challenging bit of sex writing — challenging to read and to appreciate. It’s very vivid and real, but possibly disturbing as well, depending on how you do with potentially degrading master/slave sex. Kaya writes:
I was put under the desk. Getting put under there is just as you imagine it would be. On my hands and knees, ass in the air, in the space where the chair should be. And while Master does His thing online…He’s fucking me. Sometimes brutally, sometimes not. Because He’s not really concentrating on fucking, or cumming, this can last for a really, really long time. He mostly ignores me under there, except to occasionally tell me to stop moving, or to remind me of how I am a cunt, a filthy slut, a dirty bitch…good for little more than a place to dump His cum.
The floor is linoleum and most times I’ll be awarded a pillow to put under my knees. Sometimes, just a towel. Sometimes, nothing…and the fact that my knees are hurting as He rocks me back and forth is appealing to Him. If I can orgasm it’s no concern to Him. He doesn’t care if I do or not, as He reminds me that it’s about His pleasure, not mine. I often try not to orgasm (which isn’t too hard since He isnt trying to make me anyway) as a way to hold on to a tiny bit of myself, control myself, unwilling to give Him the satisfaction. But if He wants me to, if He tries to make me, I can’t stop it. And that pisses me off to no end. All it earns me is some disparaging remark about the “mess” I make on His cock.
It’s very cramped under there (and though I make a conscious effort to clean there, it gets dusty and dirty). If I’m lucky I’ll have already had my hair in a ponytail. Otherwise it’s in my face, being sucked into my mouth and nose, in my eyes, and just generally a pain. My hands go numb from holding myself up, or my elbows get sore if I rest on those. And I am constantly having my head banged into the back of the desk. Purposely. It’s His attempt (I think) at making me press backwards against Him. And it works.
It’s stuffy down there…very little airflow. It’s hot. My pussy dries up and depending on how much it’s hurting Him, He’ll get some lube. Depending on how much He enjoys that it’s hurting me, He won’t. Sometimes He adds nipple clamps, which hurt like fuck when your tits are swinging and swaying, and the time they are on is typically long. If I remind Him they are there, He yanks them off quite cruelly. I’ve learned it’s best to suffer through them, and ask to remove them myself after He cums. He’s in a much more friendly mood after an orgasm.
You’ll feel about that…however you feel about that. To me, the interesting question is how Kaya feels about it:
It’s another one of those “I’ll love it tomorrow” things. And I do. Thinking about it after the fact, makes me twitch and squirm and generally soak my panties. I like being used, I like that He is pleased. I like that He uses me to please Himself, that is my job after all. Sure, I like being used in other, funner (for me), ways to please Him better but that’s not my choice. And I like that I have no choice about it. I’ve yet to be able to talk Him into something else when He swats my ass and points under the desk. And I have tried.
…
The stuff my fantasies are made of. Be careful the things you wish for.
Tuesday, November 22nd, 2005 -- by Bacchus
There’s a heck of a rantish sex essay over at Rollertrain, covering many sexual topics, but this little bit jumped out:
Every straight guy has a magic cum button: That amazing little spot tucked just inside the most feared orifice of mankind. If I was the boss of Sexyland, I’d start an ad campaign:
Prostate as Male Clitoris; No Longer Just a Dude’s G(ay) Spot.
Have your lover get a manicure, lube up a finger, massage your sphincter and gently penetrate that scary place, one millimeter at a time. Ask them to bend their finger into the famous “come hither” curve until they feel the firm bump of your prostate. Let and feel them tease it till your man-clitoris get bigger and harder, which leads me to the campaign’s tagline:
It works kind of like your boner! And feels just as good.
Ask them to suck your cock while they’re at it. This tip leads to the customer benefit points:
Orgasm is a physical inevitability when you mix prostate stimulation with fellatio.
There are three key issues to deal with before you grant ass access to your lover’s pointer finger. First, shit. Second, wash. Third, stop being so fucking gay. The more afraid you are, the more you’re going to love it, and the sooner you should figure out how to try it. Prostate play feels too good to pass off as something that shouldn’t be enjoyed. Life is short, gentlemen. Get over your ass. Encourage your lovers to do the same thing.
Thursday, September 1st, 2005 -- by Bacchus
Sorry, folks. I know that enemas are not universally considered sexy. But they are a commonly fetishized activity. And if you don’t like the enema portion of these transcripts of Marilyn Monroe’s conversations with her therapist, there’s always her comments on orgasms or spanking to enjoy.
Marilyn on enemas:
“I don’t understand this big taboo about enemas. Most of the actresses I know use them, even some who won’t admit it. Mae West told me she is given an enema every day and she has at least one orgasm a day. Mae says her enemas and orgasms will keep her young until she is 100.
Peter Crawford says the Queen and noblemen of the court of Louis XIV were give frequent enemas by special servants called apothecaries. The purpose was to give them peaches and cream complexions. Something about intestinal toxins getting into your blood. So there you are. Those ladies were doing the intelligent thing.
Yes. I enjoy enemas, so what!”
Friday, July 8th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
In the recent long Wired article on the science of female arousal, I learned for the first time of ladies who can “think off” or achieve orgasm without any external stimulation:
Getting good images of the aroused female brain is easy. It’s orgasm that’s the problem. In the doughnut, the slightest head movement ruins the scan. Even if a test subject holds her head perfectly still while masturbating, the parts of the brain responsible for motor control are switched on, muddying the picture. “You’ll see vaginal sensory input to the brain,” Komisaruk says, “but you’ll also get motor activity of the arms and hands, as well as sensory input from them.” To get clean data, he needed to find someone able to achieve orgasm without touching herself.
Vicky – not her real name – is one of these women. A California college student, she can climax by “thinking off.” She contacted Komisaruk after hearing about his work from one of his other test subjects at a party.
“It’s amusing to tell people that I jack off in an fMRI for science,” says Vicky, quickly adding that the process is more like work than sex. A typical day of research begins with Vicky lying on the fMRI machine’s bed; Komisaruk and his team strap down her head. Then she’s fed into the doughnut and the machine begins taking pictures, a process Vicky describes as “loud and clunky.” She stimulates herself by contracting her vaginal muscles rhythmically and controlling her breathing for 26 minutes.
Vicky and the imaging team worked out a hand signal she can flash when she starts to orgasm. “Basically, my head was strapped to a board in an extremely loud machine, and I had to let them know when I was about to come, so they could mark it on the computer,” she laughs. “Whoo – so sexy!”
“We got excellent data from her,” says Komisaruk, who adds that Vicky is one of 12 women in his study who can “think off.” “Because there is no distraction related to movements and sensory input from arms and hands,” he explains, “it illuminates the brain activity involved in producing the orgasm.”
If guys could routinely do this, we’d never have clean underwear.
Wednesday, June 8th, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
So, there might be a genetic basis that influences women’s orgasmic propensities. And check out the hot picture that accompanied that story in the Chinese tabloid Xinhua!
Monday, May 16th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
Folks, I’ve got a guest blogger to introduce. The next two weeks for me are set to be a whirlwind of travel and (fun but hectic) turmoil, with few opportunities to blog and little time to do it in. Aphrodite should be putting in some appearances with any luck, and I’ve implored The Nymph to post once or twice — but I’d hate for you to grow bored.
No fear of that. Not any more.
Your new guest blogger has volunteered to do some guest sex blogging under the handle “Dionysus”, and I jumped at the chance to have him. He’s an experienced blogger whose intense sex writing has been known to make my jaw drop. But like many bloggers, even psuedonymous ones, he’s become — to an extent — a captive of the expectations of his regular readership. Guest blogging here, under a new name, should let him really cut loose. Whether he plans to tell stories he dasn’t tell where they know him, or whether he plans to turn the intensometer dials to eleven, I couldn’t tell you (because he hasn’t told me). Who knows? Perhaps he plans to write tender tales of young lesbian love, full of flowers and unicorns and fluffy cotton-candy orgasms. We’ll all find out together.
Welcome, Dionysus!
Saturday, April 23rd, 2005 -- by Bacchus
OK, you knew the sex life of the Moonies had to be a bit eccentric, what with the mass arranged marriages in the stadiums and all. But I had no idea just how eccentric until I read this article from Nerve (link via Spanking Blog, because — I am not making this up — there’s a wedding spanking ritual). There’s an actual handbook for consummating the marriage (years after the wedding) and it’s got some very odd elements:
Two years after our wedding, I gathered our checklist of items for the Three Day Ceremony, the consummation of our marriage:
1) Two Holy Handkerchiefs. These were to wash our bodies prior to intimacy, then to collect the fluids produced by our final union in the ceremony; they were to be kept “eternally.” [Ewww! -ed.]
…
I pulled the pamphlet of instructions out of my bag. We showered separately, never having seen each other naked. After he emerged, I took my turn in the steamy bathroom, then put on my new underwear. Our undergarments had to be new for each day of the ceremony; black satin felt luxurious after the baggy cotton underpants I’d been slouching around in for years. I dressed in my ivory wedding gown, and over that my white holy robe. The sash of my robe was decorated with pink beads, Gabriel’s trim was green.
…
In the first part of the ceremony, the woman had to be on top, symbolizing the restoration of Eve’s act of love with Lucifer. After two minutes of foreplay, I guided him inside me. Instantly, I felt the emotional disconnect. It was the first time I had felt a man inside me for four years, and it felt good, but there was no holy passion, no divine ecstasy. I moved on top of him, concentrated on bringing him to an orgasm, then removed myself and lay next to him. Our ritualistic act of love was over in ten minutes. We wiped the fluids onto our Holy Handkerchiefs.
The official handbook said, “Go to sleep in peace. Sleep in pajamas and nightgown. Do not have a physical relationship outside of the content of the ceremony.” We lay on our backs next to each other, not touching, nor speaking.
Of course when reading accounts like this, it’s good to remember that there’s a long journalistic tradition of writing very loosely about the sexual practices of unpopular or unusual religions. (The technical term for this style of journalism is “making shit up”.) I’m not saying this account isn’t 100% accurate; I’m just saying that, like anything else you read on the internet, some healthy skepticism couldn’t hurt.
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Thursday, April 14th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
So I was looking at this random adult blog, trying to decide whether to do my usual link-and-quote. The blog itself was mostly a porn blog, with a list of affiliate links six times bigger than the blogroll, plus a lot of random porn pictures. Some of the articles were interesting, but many of them had a fakey “this-reads-like-it-was-written-by-a-man-even-though-the-author-name-is-female” feel. Then I got to an article which purported to be a how-to on the fine art of fingering a woman.
It looked promising. Started out strong, with several hints and tips I’ve used myself to good effect. Lots of advice on finding her G-spot and making it go all bumpy-happy. So far so good.
In the middle part, the advice got a bit questionable. Not the substance of it (obviously if she’s dry, you’d better stop rubbing like a madman, unless you are trying to give her a burn) but the tone. (Was it really necessary to call the reader a moron?)
And then I got to the punchline. After paragraphs and paragraphs of how-to material, the breezy warning (paraphrased): “Of course your lady won’t ever get an orgasm from this, but who cares? She’ll love it anyway.”
Gasp, sputter. She’s not supposed to come when I do that? I must have been going about it all wrong.
It must be true: them as can’t do, teach.
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Tuesday, January 25th, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
Rori finds the most interesting stuff. In a recent post she tells of discovering Liquid O, described on its site as “high octane fuel for your sex life.” Interesting….but what really caught my attention is the graphic she included in her entry. It’s a stuffed flamingo with a penis.
Yes, in addition to selling Liquid O, stuff so powerful you simply apply one drop directly to the clitoris, then “relax and enjoy the unimagined orgasmic experiences,” they sell Weenie Babies. That link goes only to the animals still in stock–another page shows all the Weenie Babies, including my favorite, Bondage Kitty (in two varieties, no less!).
Bondage Kitties are all sold out, alas…..so I guess I’ll have to settle for Ice Pube instead:
Don’t worry, Nymph, there are two other Weenie Baby bears to choose from too. :D There’s probably enough time for Bacchus to procure one for Valentine’s Day.
Tuesday, January 11th, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
[Continuing my story….. Here’s the first part, Unexpected Reunion, in case you haven’t read it.]
I awaken the next morning in a lingering, warm glow from R’s and my passion. I feel more rested and energized than I have in a long time….then I slip in to wondering what will happen next between us. Was that it–one night of hot sex–or is there more in store for us? If there is, what will it be like? Reliving the crazed teenage lust was fun, but that won’t–can’t–last.
As I’m sitting at the kitchen table, having a cup of coffee and talking with Mom, someone raps on the front door. It’s R.Mom knows some stuff about the unrequited feelings between R and me in school, and she’s been kind of charmed by him too. Now he stands at her door, well-dressed and smiling that smile, loosely holding two white roses in one hand. After they hug, he presents her with one rose, then sees me and his smile widens. R asks Mom for permission to see me, which she enthusiastically gives. He steps in to the kitchen and offers me the other rose. It’s exquisite in both appearance and heady scent.
In response to my mother’s questions regarding how he knew I was home, R coolly covers our chance meeting at the store. He makes the entire encounter sound totally innocent, as if his interest is solely in re-establishing friendship with a longlost bud…but there’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye that I wonder if my mom sees. Talk then turns to catching up between them…..like any well-meaning mom, she’s probably thinking matchmaker thoughts and a lot of the talk focuses on what he’s doing, and how well he’s doing at it. Turns out he’s doing quite well as an executive for a fairly big tech company. Not Mr. Millionaire himself, but he’s well-paid and he has a lot of corporate perks available to him. As they talk, I observe…..and see that, while R’s being genuine, it’s also obvious he’s mastered a lot of people-handling skills.
R’s visit concludes with asking my mom to take some of the family’s already-limited time with me over the Thanksgiving weekend so that he and I can catch up. Utterly charmed, she says of course he can spend time with me. R turns to me, green eyes ablaze with impish sparks, and asks if I’d like to go for a walk with him tonight. I agree, and the date is set.
——-
What a “next move”! I think to myself afterward. I decide to try to ride the youthful-lust energy for one more night. When R appears precisely at the appointed time, he sees me in my best attempt to recapture my typical high-school appearance…..soft flannel shirt, tight jeans, my hair caught in a ponytail (much shorter than back then), even my old high-tops (thanks, Mom, for not throwing them out!)….a sharp intake of breath signals a momentary lapse in his poise. My composure is similarly thrown off. He hadn’t used the “wayback machine” like I did, but is just gorgeous in a simple white turtleneck sweater, light blue jeans, and black leather jacket.
As we stroll to the park, I notice that few people are out….it’s a cool night for the locals. R and I aren’t saying much–more general talk, filling in all those missing years–but he’s taken my hand, and caresses it as we walk. I sense real caring from R, and an undercurrent of passion, in both his touch and talk. Forgetting my decision to let him lead, I impetuously steer us to “The Wet Spot”….a small clearing in an overgrown corner of the park, long rumored to be a hot spot used by teens and grownups alike for furtive encounters.
I stop in front of it and turn to face him with my question: “You ever make it with anybody here?” The unexpected challenge brings a lovely flush to his lightly-tanned face, and as he tries to stammer a reply I press on with, “Ya want to tonight?” and crawl in without waiting for his reply.
He follows immediately, surprising me with a bite on the ass as he does. I yip, then wheel around so that he can see my face as I peel off my clothes. The moonlight lends its soft glow to my skin, and R greedily drinks in the sight. At last I’m naked, cool but comfortable in the night air….and R finally breaks his spell with a murmur of something like, “You’re better than I dreamed …” Then his warm hands are upon me, stroking and exploring in a way that seems almost worshipful to me. Awed, I slip out of the teenage tart role and enjoy his attentions.
With a muffled growl, R abruptly changes the pace, pulling me to him hard, then kneading my ass as his tongue fills my mouth. His taste and scent fill my head…the heat of his erection warms my belly even through his jeans…..and we’re back in passion’s thrall, squeezing, sucking, tasting, teasing….exploring and riding the heat more fully than we did the previous night.
After getting my first taste of R’s cock and fluids, bringing him almost to orgasm with my teasing tongue, he pushes me down onto my hands and knees, then moves behind me for entry. We both groan at the immediate pleasure of filling and being filled….with just a few flicks to my clit and a couple of pumps, I’m shuddering with the intensity of my orgasm. R’s only a few moments behind me, gasping as my vagina squeezes around him. I collapse to the ground, R blanketing me, both lost in the twilight of pleasure.
Finally, R chuckles and pulls out. “You’re quite the sexpot, sweetie, but this carelessness really isn’t a good idea.” I laugh and agree, and we have the sex-history and protection talks. Even though tests taken during his marriage some years back indicated he has a low sperm count, we agree that tempting fate isn’t smart, and work out a contraceptive arrangement. Through the conversation our hands continue to explore each other’s bodies, ultimately causing our talk to falter.
R’s incessant pinching and teasing of my nipples is enough to bring me to another, small orgasm. I decide to reward him in kind, with a blow job….and end up in the most amazing 69 session I’ve had. R comes first, shooting a decent amount of fluid for having already come once. The lull in action while he orgasms serves only as a tortuous tease for me….so when R resumes his oral attentions I’m easily brought off again by his hot, deft tongue. He barely allows me to climax before rolling atop me and filling me again with his still-hard member, pounding me as wave after wave of pleasure pours through me…..finally ending in his orgasm.
Much later, as we’re walking back to my parents’ house, we agree to not get together the next day…..but it’s clearly understood that we’re both enjoying this….whatever it is, and want it to continue.
Monday, January 10th, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
I’m gonna borrow the DirtyTalkinGirl’s serial format for telling this story, so that I can focus on the bits and pieces of it, and so that it won’t be one huge blog splat to read through. (I see she’s started another series, the vixen. :D ) I also thought about pulling out the best parts of our story, and creating a story out of them….maybe a site like Sssh would buy it….but my writing needs lots of improvement before I’d be able to sell something! Anyway, I promised to tell the story to you first, so here we go…
Looking back over the ErosBlog archives, I see that I didn’t provide alot of detail about our Thanksgiving adventures. Since the story really starts there, that’s where I’ll begin today.
R was probably my first serious romantic interest. My hormones were just starting to percolate when he started talking to me in school. It was all innocuous stuff, sports and homework and music, but he was friendly, and cute….and I noticed that I was feeling new things, caused by his attention. Even though I liked talking to him, I’d often get distracted by his appearance, or his yummy smell…..that happened pretty regularly when we’d be doing something together. The new twitchings and longings happened more when I’d think about him, especially as I was lying awake in bed at night, trying to fall asleep. It was a mystifying, maddening, yet delicious torture! As I said in my first entry about R, we never were able to hook up throughout school, though we both wanted to. And we both thought about it a lot over the years. That made our unexpected reunion pretty predictable….and explosive.
So, I’m standing there in the store trying to decide what liquor to buy, when the jangle of the bell announces someone’s entrance. I hadn’t been paying any attention to that before, but this time I look up, and my heart flips. It looks like R!! Nah, it couldn’t be, I tell myself, he wanted to get away from this hick town as bad as I did. It’s wishful thinking. But I couldn’t pull my eyes away….the walk, the hair….it’s him. At about the same moment I decide to approach him, R turns and sees me looking at him. He seems to have none of my doubts–his face blooms into the big, happy smile that I’d burned into my mind all those years ago. Seeing that dissolved my uncertainty that it was really him….and suggested he was as happy to see me as I was him.
Our purchases completed while making reconnecting chit-chat, we step outside, and each of us exhales deeply. Neither wants to say goodbye, but who wants to make a move? Remembering how he liked my wackiness, I strike first. I say something like, “I so do not wanna go back to the oldsters yet. You got somewhere to be, or do you want to cruise with me?” He says that sounds like fun, and we choose his bigger SUV to drive around to all our old cruising places.
As he drives we’re still catching up on news and stuff, and I’m not paying a lot of attention to where we’re going until he stops the car. It’s Lover’s Lane (yes, that’s its real name), but it’s even better now because it’s just as deserted and the trees and bushes along the old curvy road are bigger…..and after he stops the car, R turns to me and softly says, “I never stopped thinking about you, or wanting to find you.” I answer by launching myself across the seat and delivering a kiss that tries to make up for all we hadn’t been able to say or do back in school.
He’s surprised but recovers almost immediately, and returns the kiss enthusiastically. Then we start giggling….then talking and kissing and giggling more, as we shed any lingering shyness and spill the things that remained unsaid for so long. Pretty soon, the talking slows……then the giggling follows suit, and our kisses become more….intense. They’ve all been intense, but it’s clear what we’re both wanting to happen next.
I begin to caress his body, stroking lower down his flanks each time as his enjoyment of my touch is obvious. He responds by grabbing both my breasts at once in typical high-school-hornboy fashion, which provokes an outburst of giggles that is smothered by hotter kisses, and gasps of pleasure from me as he massages my breasts. My hand dives to his crotch, and finds an ample reward. Even through the thick cloth of his jeans, I can tell he’s rock hard….and pretty large. He softly moans his pleasure at my strokes.
What happened next is kind of hazy in my mind. Somehow we shifted from the front seat to the back, and we’re going at it like two crazed teenagers–no taking clothes off except to uncover the bits that so crave attention, no safe-sex discussion or precautions, no what-happens-afterward talk, no attention to techniques and tricks–just heat and wet and the all-out explosion of pent-up passion. And I do explode, again and again…..R is very generously endowed in both length and girth, and he fills me and rides me hard, lasting a surprisingly long time before his orgasm overtakes him.
He remains inside me for a bit, as we catch our breath and regain our faculties…..neither of us seems embarrassed or uncomfortable with what just happened. Finally we separate, tidy ourselves up a bit, and with some more general, comfortable conversation, he drives me back to my car at the store parking lot. There, R gives me that big, irresistable smile again, along with another mind-melting kiss.
Once I get home and take a swig of the hooch I’d bought, I decide that since I had been such a forward lass, the next move would be up to him. I suspected it wouldn’t be long in, er, coming … and I was right.
Wednesday, January 5th, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
Bacchus’ post on increased-ejaculate spam and concerns prompted a pleasant stroll down memory lane for me, with an interesting twist–I compared my experiences with various lovers, with the hope of coming up with something helpful from a female perspective. Don’t know that I’ve accomplished that, but I’ll still share my thoughts.
Bacchus is dead right that what goes on inside can be, er, hard to measure. But if a lady is tight enough, and paying sufficient attention, she can feel something that correlates, apparently, to the force of her partner’s ejaculation. At least I can….or could. (Not having a steady sex life, partner-wise, I’ve lost some muscle tone. :( ) I’m sure I’m not alone in having that ability.
Where it might become more of an issue is externally-oriented play, as some commenters focused on. While shooting a huge load is probably highly desirable for bukkake, and sometimes on other occasions, there are definitely times when a gal doesn’t want to have to be concerned about telltale white streaks on skin, clothing, or in her hair. (But then again, there are definitely times when it’s part of the lingering fun after sex to wonder if anybody can put the clues together and figure out that you’ve just had some naughty fun!)
Where I’ve noticed volume the most is in fellatio, no surprise there. I’ve had gushers and dribblers, and you know what? The amount of the ejaculate never seems directly tied to how much my partner seems to be enjoying himself. That’s even true for those male actors out there who like to give the impression that every sex act is the ultimate thrill, never to be topped [big yawn].
What really gets me off is knowing I’m getting him off–genuine pleasure, not the going-for-the-Oscar type stuff. The slow, subtle increase in muscle tension in his abs, thighs, and butt muscles…..the pelvic thrusts (if he’s in a position that allows ’em)….the changes in his breathing…especially the ragged breathing as he gets close to coming…oh my, is it getting warm in here? Hearing that breathing gets me going so much that I don’t care about load and velocity, I just want the explosion!!!
And last, I do enjoy giving prostate stimulation–only from the outside so far for me, no heavy-duty milking–to guys who aren’t hung up about being touched there. It seems to always add to the intensity of his orgasm, whether or not it increases his ejaculate. And if it’s better for him, it’s better for me! :D
Wednesday, November 10th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Visiting adult toy websites can be a most educational experience. The ungently-named Joy Rider Fuck Machine is a celebration of the pervy things that can be done with “ultra refined medium density fiberboard”:
It’s said to be a very versatile machine:
Grab onto the silver handle and fuck yourself to orgasm! The Joy Rider has an articulated seat specially designed to make it easy, fun and safe for people to experience penetrative sexual pleasure. The Joy Rider is smooth, stable so you can concentrate on the pleasure you deserve. The machine relies entirely on your body movement to do all of its thrusting. There are no motors to plug in or breakdown, and no noise. More importantly, because Joy Rider responds only to your movement, you have complete control so it’s like a lover that can read your mind.
The Joy Rider has a seat which rocks in response to your movement. As the seat assembly moves forward or back in relation to the base, the thrust control arms move the pivoting thrust arm assembly upward or downward in relation to the seat. … [It] features thrusting controlled entirely by your movement, so the speed and depth of penetration is easy for you to vary and bring yourself to orgasm as quickly or as slowly as preferred. [It] is perfect for anal stimulation. That part of the body is full of nerve endings and can be a wonderful source of pleasure. Because the Joy Rider is easy to control you won’t have to be worried about being penetrated too hard or too fast.
So, has anybody out there actually tried this thing? Inquiring minds want to know.
Monday, September 27th, 2004 -- by Aphrodite
I thought that someone would call me on my poorly-phrased comment in a recent post:
As someone who’s never had a need for sex toys (but that day is getting closer) …
Sure enough, TwiddlyBits gently did it, stating, “‘Need’ is such a relative word….” So now I’ve a good reason to elaborate.
I don’t have anything against sex toys. In fact, I’d love to have some nipple jewelry (no piercings for me, for weird health reasons). But I will confess to being somewhat bemused by the fondness some individuals seem to have for vibrators and such. It is a hard stretch (pun intended) for me to see how they can be better than sex with a person. I know, I know — they never get tired (or if they do, you can just pop fresh batteries in), they can do things humans can’t, and you don’t have to talk to them to try to get them to do exactly what you want — you just flip the switch or turn the dial, or whatever, and presto, the desired setting automagically takes one into orgasmic ecstasy.
I said I’ve never had a need for sex toys (meaning vibrators and dildos, specifically) because until now, I’ve never been without a willing sex partner for a significant period of time. Now that I am, and it seems likely to be that way for a long time, maybe some of you would be willing to educate me as to what I’m missing, on this subject.
Wednesday, September 15th, 2004 -- by Aphrodite
Goodness. I didn’t realize that my post of yesterday would prompt such a response. Several comments deserve a more prominent response than just a follow-up comment … So, strap yourselves in, and have barf bags at the ready if you get squicked by talk of fluids and fucking. (Or, don’t peek behind the “more” link.)The first commenter posted:
All you say makes sense, but I don’t know that you’d want me to put my bleeding cock in you.. would you?
No, but that comparison confuses the issues. Menstruation is a normal, natural part of a woman’s body functioning — a bleeding penis isn’t. And yes, CID, there can be a difference in the “feel” of sex, menstrual fluid being thicker, if one plunges in without allowing time for natural lubrication to occur (or even if you do allow for that, just ’cause that other stuff is present too). I was somewhat tongue-in-cheek pointing out an advantage of having sex during menses.
Another individual commented, in part:
HOWEVER, I do have a problem with a lady, who after I go down on her refuses to kiss me… :boo hiss:
Boo hiss indeed! I’ve had a similar experience from the other side, so to speak. That is to say, a gentleman reacted with shock and displeasure when, after I’d admitted him to my “sacred sanctum” and he withdrew prior to orgasm, I went down on him. To me, the taste of commingled male and female fluids is scrumptious … but he apparently didn’t agree.
I’m not out to belittle anyone who has tried some of these things and not liked them. What I was challenging is the idea (which seemed to be implicit in Wanton Male’s blog entry, and I apologize to him if I read more into it than was intended) that there’s something inherently wrong/bad/harmful/unpleasant in menstrual sex — or, for that matter, enjoying other normal bodily fluids that happen as part of the sexual process.
If you’ve tried it, and not liked it, well, good on ya for trying. We all gotta follow our bliss, and thank the goddesses, there are lots of ways to do that. But if you’re among those who absolutely reject something relatively benign like this …. well, consider yourselves challenged by me to reconsider. “Try it — you just might like it!” :)
Tuesday, September 7th, 2004 -- by Aphrodite
I forgot it was the Labor Day weekend! I’ve been busy the past few days getting the place squared away before fall’s chill begins kissing the land — it happens early where I live. I also took the opportunity to freshen up my bedroom. I painted it a deep blushing-pink almost-red shade, and it’s gorgeous. It looks like a spectacular sunset all the time (and when the sun does come into my room, in the late afternoon and evening, it’s all the more dazzling).
Seeing the paint going on and drying, and being even prettier than I had hoped when I selected the shade, got me thinking about what an even nicer love-making nest this room will be in its new color scheme. And that got me to thinking back on past good times … and the best time I’ve had, sexually speaking, so far.
The guy wasn’t a great love of my life; I can’t even really say that we were boyfriend and girlfriend. He was in a college class with me. One night I saw him at a bar, and he was the only guy I knew there so I started talking to him. We hooked up that night, and it was pretty good … but that’s all.
We got together occasionally, but our schedules never really lined up well to get together a lot. As it happened, our last time, toward the end of the semester, was far and away the best sex of my life …J and I always had fun together, joking and laughing, even during sex sometimes. I told him after class one day that I always seemed to have thoughts running through my head — not just consciousness of what I was doing, but “word-based stuff” in my head. I’d tried meditation to help clear my mind and focus it, but it hadn’t succeeded. That was hard for him to understand, and he declared he was making a project of helping me clear my mind. For weeks afterward, he’d do silly things to try to jolt my brain out of thinking. Nothing worked, but it was fun anyway.
On an early December Friday night, I was getting stressed out by projects and upcoming exams, and decided to go for a walk. My college town was small, and a short walk from the edge of campus was all it took to get to the farmers’ fields that surrounded the town. A half moon grinned through platinum ribbons of high cloud; a few corn canes clattered in the occasional push of chill air. My pace was slow as I soaked in the quiet and cold, both soothing my mind.
Having gone about a mile down the road, I was surprised to hear footsteps behind me — not hurried ones, but deliberate and measured, like mine. Glancing back, I recognized the gait as J’s, and slowed to allow him to catch up, if he wanted.
He did. We walked for a bit in amiable silence. Finally he murmured, “Getting away from it all too, huh?”, and I nodded. We approached one of my favorite spots on this walk — a small stand of trees that huddled together, cornered by a small stream and ancient fencing. J inclined his head, and I easily leapt a low spot in the barbed wire, the spot he’d indicated being one I frequented as well.
We lay on the ground, which was not yet as cold as the air. Even so, I was thankful for the long coat I’d chosen. J’s kiss was an intoxicating mix of cold lips and nose pressing to my face, and warm, sweet breath. My body responded immediately, its sensual desires having gone unfulfilled for weeks.
Rather than indulge those desires, J acted as if he hadn’t noticed. He returned to star-gazing.
I cuddled closer, pressing my breasts against his arm, thinking that would send an unmistakable signal.
Nothing from J.
What the fuck?! I thought. J had never been slow or shy before, so his lack of response was a total surprise. I decided to display my interest in a more obvious way.
Leaning over to return his kiss with a more ardent one, I swung a leg over his body and pressed close, feeling J’s erection. As he opened his lips slightly, I gyrated against him, tongue and pelvis matching rhythm. As the kiss ended, J reached up, gently stroked my hair, then firmly grasped my shoulder and pushed me down, reversing our positions.
Ignoring my hunger or oblivious to it, J langorously slid his fingers down my skin, unbuttoning my shirt and allowing the cold to sweep over my skin. My nipples, already taut, crinkled further, then even more as one received the warm attentions of his tongue, the other teasing flicks from his cold fingers. A long sigh of release and desire escaped my lips.
My attempt to return the favor was rebuffed; J gently but firmly pushed my hands down, then unbuttoned his shirt himself. The warmth of his chest against mine was brief, as J slid down to kiss and caress my breasts again. His other hand glided over my belly to unbutton my jeans.
Still impatient with his pace, I moved to help him pull my jeans down. Wordlessly, J again spurned my action and slowly pushed them down, leaving them as an awkward but effective restraint around my ankles. Finally understanding that J would only proceed as he liked and at the pace he wanted, I lay back and contented myself with teasing his nipples and seeing his growing excitement.
After what seemed an eternity of slow, tender kissing and stroking heightened by the contrast of chill air and warm skin, J removed his jeans and prepared to enter me. I was so wet I could have taken him all in one thrust, but his unhurried pace continued. I began to rock my hips in anticipation of the orgasm building within me, but J pulled out.
Understanding immediately, I ceased my motion, and after an agonizing delay he entered me again.
J’s uncharacteristic slowness focused my full attention on every movement, every touch. Slowly in, not quite fully, then slowly out … all the way out? No, thank god … and again … again … The caress of his hair on my cheek as he bent to kiss me, never altering his rhythm …
I felt suspended in near-rapture, perpetually on the edge of orgasm. Then a slight increase in J’s pace and erection signaled his impending orgasm, tumbling me over the edge in a slow-motion release. His full thrust into me as he came sent me off again … every nerve seemed to transmit my shuddering release. J blanketed me, holding me close as our orgasms finally subsided.
It wasn’t until long afterward, when we were walking back to campus, that I realized J had at last reached his goal of completely clearing my mind of words. Unfortunately, I never told him … and even more unfortunately for me, no other lover has come close to matching that amazing night with J.
Thursday, September 2nd, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Sasha at The Eye devotes part of this week’s advice column to the difficulties of a young man who is missing the glans portion of his penis, and who accordingly has a very difficult time finding sex partners or having an orgasm, even while masturbating. I was a bit disappointed in Sasha’s suggestions, which consisted of one useful suggestion aimed at helping the man find people unlikely to be horrified by his condition, plus three paragraphs aimed at helping him deal with the emotional trauma of having important bits missing. I’m no sex advice columnist, but somehow it seems like what the man could use most is some reliable advice on coming when he wants to.
Not to be too blunt about this, but the poor boy should have asked Dan Savage. A straight guy who knows very much about this is either uncommonly well-read or unusually adventurous, but “the truth is out there“.
Retreating rapidly behind the veil of literary example, there’s a character in Neal Stephenson’s Baroque Cycle called “Half-Cocked Jack” (along with worse things) due to an unfortunate encounter with a fumble-fingered barber, a white-hot iron, and the French Pox. His good fortune it was to fall in with a young but very well-read harem slave-girl from Constantinople. When she observes his deficiency, she’s quick to point out that “certain arts have been taught to me from Books of India.” Later in the book, there’s a scene where she and Jack are lounging in a hot springs:
Eliza laughed gaily. “Fist? Jack, this is but two fingers. A fist would be more like — this!”
Jack felt his body being turned outside in — there was some thrashing and screaming that was cut short when his head accidentally submerged in the sulfurous water. Eliza got a grip on his hair and hauled his head back up into the cold air with her other hand.
“You’re sure this is how they do it in India?”
“Would you like to register … a complaint?”
“Aaugh! Never.”
“Remember, Jack: whenever serious and competant people need to get things done in the real world, all considerations of tradition and protocol fly out the window.”
There followed a long and mysterious procedure — tedious and yet somehow not.
“What’re you groping about for?” Jack muttered faintly. “My gall-bladder is just to the left.”
“I’m trying to locate a certain chakra — should be somewhere around here –”
“What’s a chakra?”
“You’ll know when I find it.”
Some time later, she did, and then the procedure took on greater intensity, to say the least. Suspended between Eliza’s two hands, like a scale in a market-place, Jack could feel his balance-point shifting as quantities of fluids were pumped between internal reservoirs, all in preparation for some Event. Finally, the crisis — Jack’s legs thrashed in the hot water as if his body were trying to flee, but he was staked, impaled. A bubble of numenous light, as if the sun were mistakenly attempting to rise inside his head. Some kind of Hindoo apocalypse played out. He died, went to Hell, ascended into Heaven, was reincarnated as various braying, screeching, and howling beasts, and repeated this cycle many times over. In the end he was reincarnated, just barely, as a Man. Not a very alert one.
“Did you get what you wanted?” she inquired. Very close to him.
Admittedly harem girls from Constantinople aren’t as easy to whistle up as they used to be, but why couldn’t Sasha (herself a serious and competant person) at least have pointed our half-cocked young man toward the purchase a prostate-massaging anal toy?
Similar Sex Blogging:
Monday, August 2nd, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Dear Miss Manners: My boyfriend and I very much enjoy giving each other head, and we are both very good at it. However, shortly after an explosive orgasm on his part, whereas my tendency is to keep sucking on his penis with the same enthusiasm and painstakingly perfected technique which I have been employing throughout the blowjob, he quickly begins making high-pitched whimpering noises, groaning “No more!” and pushing my head away from his crotch. I gather from his reaction that the intensity of pleasure has reached a pitch which he no longer finds bearable, and I have always considered that the courteous response is to withdraw and let him catch his breath. However, when I have had multiple orgasms from cunnilingus and try to wriggle away to indicate my fear that I may lapse into unconsciousness if he continues his activity, he simply grasps my hips more firmly and continues with more vigor than ever! Should I take this as an indication that he wishes me to override his requests for “no more” as well?
Discuss among yourselves.
Tuesday, January 27th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Here in the United States we are accustomed to a certain emotional transactionalism, a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately style of equitable dealing that, at least in the sexual arena, may not always be a real comfortable fit when it’s wrapped tightly around the different values and responses men and women bring to sex. Men and women steeped in the values of classic American feminism may not approve of the following, but it’s hard to deny that Dora sounds pretty pleased with herself when she writes (at Taken in Hand, link via Spank Directory) about The Importance of Making Myself Available:
It is wonderful when we have sex and I am on fire with passion or I pick up that passion during the act, and it is an important part of our marriage and sex life, but I think the other times are just as important and, in another way, wonderful. Those are the times when it didn’t matter if I was in the mood or not, because he either needed so badly to have that pressure relieved or he just found me so adorable that he had to express it by taking me on the spot.
Those times I do not get any orgasm but I have the pleasure of having a husband who is happy and cheerful and humming. And sometimes he is even able to help decorating the table for a dinner party just because he has got it. To see him like that is a much more quiet and subtle satisfaction than an orgasm, but to me it is just as good.
Maybe I am more practical about it because I am the farm girl I am, but to me it is and always was a very natural thing that the male has different sexual needs than the female. To meet those needs and even enjoy it as much as I can in some way or another has always been a natural thing for me, because I believe that a wife has a duty to be supportive and loyal, to let her husband feel loved and appreciated, to please him and make him happy, and to comfort him and cheer him up and help him to regain his confidence and self-esteem when he needs it.
Compare and contrast: Why Your Wife Won’t Have Sex With You.
Friday, January 23rd, 2004 -- by Bacchus
From Pravda, which as any former student of Sovietology knows means “Truth” (the scare quotes being an essential part of the translation), comes this ill-translated “legend” about the sexual practices of Ghengis Khan:
The Great Khan respected the wisdom of Chinese. After hearing that they possess the secret of immortality, in 1222 Genkhis Khan invited famous monk and wizard Chan Chun from the banks of the Irtysh river. Genkhis Khan respectfully asked him for the medicine for eternal life.
“You poured out sperm into too many women to expect immortality”, Chan Chun replied.
He told shocked Genkhis Khan about Dao of Love — the doctrine of sex as the way to extend life. It was elaborated by the legendary Yellow Emperor who lived one thousand years before.
The monk said that during orgasm a man and a woman discharge the juices of the body, and his/her partner benefit from this by gaining energy. The man striving for immortality can have intercourse with many women only after he learn the skills of throwing them into ecstasies and not pouring out his sperm. In this way he gains women’s energy (Yin), preserving his man’s energy (Yang) for special cases — when he goes not to a concubine, but to a wife and wants her to give a birth to a son.
“Did you follow these principles in your life, Emperor?”, Chan Chun asked.
Genkhis Khan realized that he could expect neither immortality nor one more son.
Thanks to J. Orlin Grabbe for the link.
Sunday, December 28th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Tristan Taormino writes of a class she gave at a swinger convention in the Big Easy:
The transforming moment for me came in my class on G-spot stimulation and female ejaculation when over a hundred people crammed themselves into a small room to hear me talk. I took advantage of the venue and offered a hands-on section at the end of the class. The next thing I knew, women were dropping their drawers, lube was being passed around, and I was moving from one pussy to the next. One woman in her sixties confessed that orgasms eluded her most of the time. When I got done with her, she was coming like a banshee, and her husband was taking notes on my technique. I located the G-spots of more than two dozen women, and made sure to show their partners how to find them.
Nothing like getting right to heart of the matter!
Friday, December 26th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Some wonderful orgasm faces in this hilarious musical vibrator advertisement. “O come, all ye faithful…“
2021 update: Flash is dead, long live Flash! View the old flash file via emulation at this Internet Archive page.
Tuesday, December 23rd, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Sarah at Submissive Reflections has some pertinent observations on relationships, wrapped up in an ironic anecdote. There’s more than this long quote, so read it all.
Christine’s husband, Dan, arrived and he kissed her and she fended him off, complaining about her makeup, he told her she looked beautiful and she told him not to be so silly. She complained about him being late and that everyone had had to wait for him, even though we were all still waiting on Mac. Dan mumbled an apology and stood off to his wife’s side like a chastised child.
Mac walked in a good ten minutes later, greeting everyone noisily and asking what they were waiting for. He put his hands on my waist, kissed my lips and told me I looked delicious. I grinned up at Him and said thankyou. I was wearing the dress He had suggested, a short black dress. I had added stockings, high heels and hadn’t bothered with panties. Mac knew without me having to tell Him. He boomed out an apology for being late and grabbed my hand and led everyone to the table. He made sure I was sitting beside Him.
I watched as Dan trailed along behind his wife and as she told him where to sit. Menus arrived and while everyone was reading Christine announced loudly to Dan that he had better not order anything to fattening, he had to watch his weight. She continued through the meal to make fun of Dan’s receding hair line, tell everyone he had not gotten the recent promotion that he had applied for which is why they couldn’t afford a new car and generally put him down every chance she got. I felt so sad for him but he didn’t react to it at all.
Mac was His usual boisterous self. He had the whole table in tears laughing at stories about Christmas at His parent’s house, keeping everyone entertained. His hand kept sneaking under the table and up my skirt to feel how wet I was, which of course only made me wetter. My hand kept sneaking under the table to feel how hard He was, which of course only made Him stay hard. He kept leaning into my ear to whisper wicked things about where He wanted His cock and I kept whispering back about what I would do to His cock when it was there. W/we were keeping each other close to the edge of orgasm.
After dinner I excused myself to go to the bathroom and Christine came with me. She was touching up her makeup when I went to wash my hands and she told me how lucky I was to have Mac, as He was so male. It was all I could do to bite my lip so I didn’t tell her that maybe Dan would be more male if she stopped treating him like a child. I just smiled and went back to the table and kissed Mac’s cheek.
…
I wish I could say that Christine and Dan are the only couple I know like this, but they are not. I see it often enough for it to bother me. You don’t have to be submissive to show your partner respect. You don’t need to lower your eyes or be a sexual slave to accept the gift of their compliments graciously and show them that you care about them.
You could swap the genders (and discount Sarah’s submissive perspective, if it bothered you) and this would still be wisdom.
Sunday, December 21st, 2003 -- by Bacchus
You’ll remember the recent dildo bust in Texas. Well, Violet Blue has the solution:
Sell a vibrator, go to jail. That’s the message Texas authorities are sending people who dare to offer consenting adults tools to enhance sexual pleasure — buzzing pink plastic battery-operated novelties, natch. Joanne Webb, a former fifth-grade teacher and mother of three, was in a county court in Cleburne, Texas, on Monday to answer obscenity charges for selling the vibrator to undercover narcotics officers posing as a dysfunctional married couple in search of a sex aid. Webb, a saleswoman for Passion Parties of Brisbane, faces a year in jail and a $4,000 fine if convicted. “What I did was not obscene,” Webb said. “We have a real problem with drugs in our schools,” she said, “and they’re using our narcotics officers to entrap me for selling a vibrator.”
Obviously, a bust of this nature sends a call of alarm to us in the dildo-slinging biz — clearly, Texas authorities have never experienced the mind-bending, fist-clenching, hallucination-inducing orgasms made possible by a trusty and reliable vibrator. I’m answering that call by declaring a State of Orgasmic Emergency for all Texas authorities, and urging readers to participate in an Orgasms for Texas Authorities Drive. I urge each reader to buy one vibe, and give it (whatever you do, don’t sell it to them) to the needy Narcotics Task Force at the Johnson County Sheriff’s Office, Administration Building 1102 E. Kilpatrick, Cleburne TX, 76021. Just think — three pennies a day for one year (like the year Joanne Webb might spend in jail) could be all it takes to give an inexpensive Low Rider and end this tragic state of emergency.
Violet has more commentary on her blog. But I can’t recommend that you buy the vibes from Violet’s employer, because those usually-worthy wenches refused to include her suggestion in their marketing letter, which she writes.
Friday, December 19th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
I am neither qualified nor inclined to comment on the contents of this page, which consists of the following introduction and about ten more anecdotes after the one quoted:
According to Ann Douglas and John R. Sussman, M.D., authors of the book The Unofficial Guide to Having a Baby, a single orgasm is thought to be 22 times as relaxing as the average tranquilizer. When you add to this the fact that the average vagina widens 2″ during sexual arousal, it only makes sense to fantasize, masturbate or make love in labor. The following women did just that.
“When Johnny got home around 12:30, we relaxed together on the couch. He breathed with me through contractions and was verbally encouraging. His loving presence was an important part of my opening up. By now we were both aware of the sensuality surrounding birth. Creating this child was an intimate act of love between the two of us, and birthing in a loving way simply and naturally completed that act. As a result of healing, I was much more able to ‘open up’ during this labor. I had finally become able to make my vagina wet and loose by fantasizing about making love to my husband, so while I labored, I graphically visualized having sex. John and I both welcomed the idea of actually having sex during labor (in fact John offered to perform oral sex on me right in the middle of it…what a man!), but I just happened to be focused elsewhere at the time. In the days preceding I had masturbated frequently. I found this to be an intensely pleasurable, loving, and appropriate preparation for our baby’s birth. Laboring in the environment of my own home was crucial to accepting these feelings….The spreading apart of my muscles and bones and the joy of voluntarily allowing my body to do its work was both arousing and exhilarating.”
-From Angelica’s Birth Story by Laurie Annis Morgan
And to think, not a dolphin in sight.
Thursday, December 18th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Consult your herbals, ladies and gentlemen! Is it true that ginger is an aphrodisiac?
Buried in the links in a couple of recent posts over at Spanking Blog (where the discussion focuses on the painful effects of ginger when used in BDSM play) comes this startling assertion in an article called Figging: The Art of Anal Ginger Root Play:
Ginger also has a property that puts it far ahead of any ginger substitutes. So it is said, the juice of the root has the ability to cause incredible sexual desires. I have had subs begin to sob, begging to have something inserted into their female opening and to have orgasm. The reaction is tenfold if the ginger juice comes in contact with the clitoris. Cut a small slice of ginger, making sure it has one flat side. Place this side directly onto the clitoris and hold it there. Depending on anatomy, some women will be able to retain the slice on their own without assistance.
Apply ginger to the genitalia while the ginger plug is in place and watch to see if it brings the pleasure you both seek. I have experienced some of the most stunning results with submissives using this technique. I don’t have a perfect scientific explanation as to why ginger cause such an effect but suffices to say it works.
Update: Intrepid experimenters, check Figging.com for your instructions, then experiment and (please!) report back.
Saturday, November 29th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Well, it’s not quite that much fun as all that. From Reuters:
No, really. An American surgeon who has patented a device that triggers an orgasm has begun a clinical trial approved by the Food and Drug Administration in the United States and is looking for female volunteers.
“I thought people would be beating my door down to become part of the trial,” pain specialist Dr Stuart Meloy told New Scientist magazine on Wednesday.
But so far only one woman has completed the first stage of the trial, with apparently breathtaking results, and a second has agreed to take part.
Meloy, of Piedmont Anesthesia and Pain Consultants in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, is hoping to find eight more volunteers willing to have electrodes inserted in their spine and be connected to a pacemaker-size machine implanted under the skin to heighten their sexual pleasure.
Drat, no mail order then!
Wednesday, November 12th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
AnarchoBabes and Liberty Chicks is a group blog by several freedom-loving ladies with a great attitude and a sense of fun. They surely aren’t bound by tradition, oh no:
Last night I had a wonderful time … an all-too-rare lovemaking session with just one co-partner that was awesome. My knees still go weak thinking about it. Our other partner — the twins’ father — was out of town, so we had the place to ourselves after the kids were in bed. Happiness galore!!!!!!! If you’ve never had a three-minute orgasm that leaves you speechless and breathless, well … I feel damn sorry for you.
The three of us don’t always share a bed, but we’re so compatible together, it’s what we choose more often than not (the nots being nights when one of us is having our period, or somebody’s not feeling well, stuff like that).
Yes, our happy family is a triad …. and yes, I swing both ways. If you got a problem with that, well tuff. I never asked for your opinion anyway. It works for all of us, and what else matters?
There’s plenty more amusing goodness, from where a woman should carry a .50 cal. Desert Eagle to the problem with hips.
Tuesday, November 11th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Via the spiffy new Fleshbot, this excellent page of TV news ladies who appear to be wearing their vibrating panties. Or possibly they just are very good at training their “personal assistants”. What news broadcast couldn’t be improved by an intern under the newsdesk?
Friday, October 17th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
You think showering is just an efficient way to get clean? You’re missing out on a lot. Here’s how civilized people take a shower:
He crouches and I spread my legs allowing him access to wash me from my hips to my feet, giggling as he tickles my soles and my toes.
When he’s done with my feet, I again turn around so I am facing him. He removes the gloves & puts more soap on his hands. I put one foot up on the safety rail. He takes a step forward and slips one hand to my pussy while the other hand slides around my hips to my backside. He twiddles his soapy fingers in, on and around my bijou, being sure to clean every nook and cranny, until I am shuddering with orgasm after orgasm. His other hand has not been idle. He slides one slippery finger into my asshole and in conjunction with his first hand sends me climbing to ever-higher heights of orgasmic bliss until I slump into his arms & he must steady me to keep me from falling.
…
I rub the suds into his hair, cupping his balls in one hand and gripping his swelling shaft with the other. I slide my hand to the head of his cock and then back again, holding the foreskin back so that his glans is exposed and I can rub my soapy fingers and palm around its crown. As his cock grows, it becomes easier and easier to wash – less wrinkles! – and he moans with pleasure and leans against the shower wall, sometimes twitching as I touch a more sensitive spot. Back and forth I rub my hands over and around and under his cock and balls, being sure that every bit of it is clean. Finally he rinses – but has he gotten all the soap off? Only one way to tell! I take his cock into my mouth for a “soap check”; I must be 100% certain that everything is soap-free before we can get out of the shower.
Saturday, July 12th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
A while back I got a couple of emails offering to send me sex-related goodies for free, in the hope that I would mention them here. Well, that’s a deal I can get behind! Just email me me and I’ll tell you where to ship the loot.
So last night I got my first chance to sample the plunder. I watched Marie and Jack, A Love Story. This is a very nice 27 minute documentary style sex movie from Comstock Films. I’m not sure how else to describe it, but it’s very hot.
It starts with Marie and Jack, two adult film actors, having a chat about sex. They talk about the difference between “work sex” and “personal sex” and what it’s like to make movies together, and to be married to each other while doing adult movies.
As they talk, it’s clear they are deeply in love. And then the movie starts cutting to scenes of them making love. No porno music, no weird positions, just plain old missionary style sex between two reasonably attractive people who are obviously really hot for each other. This is comfortable sex, familiar sex, real sex, and it’s hotter than hell.
And what’s to say after that? She gets that soft look, huge smile, and incandescent glow about her that a woman gets when she’s having an orgasm, and that you never see in a porno flick. She comes, he comes, they laugh together and cuddle with huge grins on their faces, end of movie. Wow.
Men, I’ve got to say I think this would be an awesome movie to show your lady. It’s tasteful enough to be an art film, it’s got a real relationship in it, it’s sexy enough to get both of you aroused, and it’s short enough that you’re going to want to continue on your own after the movie finishes. I’ll bet it would go well with a tub of these, too.
Monday, May 12th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
In case you were curious, an Interview with an Autofellator. A highlight:
Imagine having someone suck on your cock who knows exactly what you’re feeling at every moment; who can adjust every variable instantly to provide you with maximum pleasure. Imagine (this one is going to be more of a stretch for non-cocksuckers) sucking on the cock of a man who knows exactly how hard and fast to push, and when to pull out (for those of us who still have a gag-reflex). Having that much control means that I can have a variety of kinds of orgasms and can easily separate orgasm from ejaculation, and shoot a number of loads before having the final orgasm. It isn’t a substitute for sex with other people; it’s a completely different thing, like masturbation squared. It’s like any good sex: Sometimes it’s cerebral, sometimes the body takes over.
Thursday, April 24th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a site that’s a little sad: “Answers to Recent Anonymous Questions” from a site devoted to “Sex and Intimacy for Married Christians.”
It’s not sad because because so many of the questions display an appalling level of sexual ignorance, although they do. There’s plenty of sexual ignorance in the world, and I don’t think Christians have any corner on it.
It’s sad because so many of the questions reveal people wracked, for periods of years, by terrible feelings of guilt and dirtiness, over things as harmless as a little bit of heavy petting. A worldview that generates this sort of mental pathos from harmless sexual play has much to answer for:
I and my wife are Christians. We have been married for 7 years. We have two children. We come from very conservative background therefore likewise towards sexual matters. However just before we were married, out of some loosness, we had a sexual experience but short of intercourse. However both of us reached organsm (She reached organsm with my caressing and mine through mine). Although it has been so many years and we have asked God for forgivness, I still feel that I cannot get over with it and most importantly feel not in a proper sexual relationship with her ie that experience mar i think my intimacy with her. I guess “What you sow is what you reap.” What do you think? And do you think that this sin has made our body unclean?
The answers given are actually quite sex-positive, to the extent that a sex-positive attitude can shoe-horned (use a lot of lube, you’ll need it) into the constraints of sex within marriage that does not involve any sort of fantasizing.
As you read the site, try not to snicker at the dozen different creative spellings of “orgasm”. It ain’t the least bit funny, when you stop to think of the reason why it’s happening.
Saturday, April 19th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
This post addressed Eugene Volokh’s provocative question about the seeming double standard by which women’s vibrators are considered fairly cool by reasonably enlightened, sex-positive members of society, while devices designed for male masturbation are not.
Here’s an article about one such device, the $895 Motorized Orgasmic Release Machine, which suggests that the tech just isn’t up to snuff:
Well, according to the instructions, you don’t have to be hard to enter the sleeve. That’s bullshit. I found that keeping my soft cock snugly inside the sleeve was nearly impossible, especially with all of that lube. But the next instruction concerned me: “Squeeze the suction ball and slip it back on the coupling at the end of the plastic tubing.” I glanced at my hands. They were covered with Wet.
Maybe I’m totally uncoordinated, but the ball kept slipping out of my hand, and I had to force it onto the tubing, and everything kept sliding, and meanwhile, my hard-on had turned into something like a greased eel and had fallen out of the sleeve and Fuck, what ever happened to good ol’ fashioned grabbing and jerking?
So I worked to regain my hard-on, stuffed it back into the sleeve and grabbed a towel. I wiped the lube off the ball, squeezed it and finally forced it onto the tube. When I released the ball, I was supposed to feel suction around my cock, something like Monica you-know-who giving me a blow job, and the suction was supposed to keep me snug in the sleeve, but I felt only a little bit of suction, certainly nothing like a real, live mouth. Not Monica’s mouth.
Thanks to Erotic Blog for the link.
Monday, April 14th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Eugene Volokh has posted a provocative inquiry about vibrators. In a nutshell, he wants to know why progressive modern individuals are quite hunky-dory with the concept of a girl spending quality time with her vibrator, but they get all squicked out and squeamish about a guy using what he (Volokh) delicately calls a “vagina-shaped vibrator.” Several theories are aired.
First of all, a more descriptive, if no more erotic, phrase might be “male masturbator”, since these come in many varieties, only some of which vibrate.
Second, it seems likely that Eugene’s primary theory has merit: A woman who uses a vibrator is assumed to be substituting it for “actual” sex, and society is quick to approve of her many and varied sound reasons for abstaining in that fashion. Whereas, in contrast, a guy who uses a “male masturbator” or a “fake vagina” is assumed to have no alternative; he’s a pathetic dude who can’t “get any.” Given the very real sexual power imbalance, as old as the invention of outlawry for rape, between men who propose and women who dispose, it seems not at all implausible that a woman with her vibrator is assumed to be choosing it over an array of available sexual partners, while a man with his toy is assumed to be a loser with no better offers.
Striking in its absence from the Volokh list of theories, however, is a simpler hygienic theory. Male masturbation results in an emission which is, Bacchus would think, broadly viewed by men and women alike as more “yucky” than typical feminine lubricities, or even than that rarest of nectars, outright female ejaculate. Worse yet, a vagina substitute’s inherent concavity makes careful cleaning a more problematic task than the quick wipedown of a briskly convex vibrator.
Mind you, in objective terms the hygienic concern is arrant nonsense. Men have mastered cleaning tasks of a far more intricate nature, and will even voluntarily indulge when the object of their cleaning affections is, say, a much-beloved rifle. Nor is it implausible that a truly decent technology for assisted orgasm would command every bit as much gadgeteering enthusiasm as gun guys lavish on the contents of their gun safes. But still, at the end of the day the squeamish objection to concave male sex toys may well boil down to an “Ew, but it’s gonna be icky to clean out when he’s done with it…”
Similar Sex Blogging:
Tuesday, February 18th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
The above picture makes Bacchus thirsty. It also puts him in mind of the following extremely explicit but wildly implausible passage about anal sex and ripe oranges, from the book Captive by Aishling Morgan. Don’t read on if you are likely to be offended by this sort of thing:
Aisla sighed as the warm grease from the roast duck touched her bottom hole, then gave a little gasp as her anus was penetrated. Yarath began to wriggle his finger about in her rectum, exploring her and greasing her ring, then feeling the shape of the tangerines through the membrane between vagina and rectum. Aisla pushed her bottom back, eager for buggery, but was given a gentle slap for her trouble. Yareth’s finger pulled from her anus and something replaced it, not his cock, but another tangerine.Â
With her eyes and mouth wide in shock, Aisla struggled to accept the fruit in her back passage. She felt her ring stretch and a complaining stab of pain, but even as she cried out her anus gave and the fruit had popped inside. She accepted it with a long groan. Juice had splashed between her buttocks and was trickling down her thighs, showing that the tangerine had burst as it went up her. Sulitea giggled again as another fruit was pressed to Aisla’s anus, again stretching, hurting and popping inside just when she thought she could not take it. A third followed, leaving both vagina and rectum bloated and straining, while she felt an urgent need to evacuate herself.
Only then did Yarath take her by the hips, and she realised she was to be buggered with the tangerines still in her rectum. His cock went in slowly, forcing the fruit aside and increasing the straining feeling in her bowels. By the time he was in her to the hilt she was panting and struggling for breath, overwhelmed by the bloated sensation in her gut and up her vagina.
Yarath began to bugger her, with the fruit rolling and bumping in her rectum with each push. Aisla’s control went quickly, and as Sulitea came to stroke her hair, she panted and grunted her way through the sodomy. Her hands were locked hard on the table top at first, gripped tight in a futile attempt to control herself. Soon they slipped, first back to her buttocks to stretch them open, then beneath herself to find her clitoris and start on the climb to orgasm.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Wednesday, February 5th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
What she said!
She quotes loosely from a press release:
“One of our clients is a French doctor and plastic surgeon, who has an amazing new procedure: It involves injecting collagen into the G-spot to increase its surface area, thereby improving the occurrence and intensity of orgasms. It is a very quick and easy procedure that can be carried out at the [blah blah blah] clinic in [blah]. It has been brought over from Paris where it is all the rage. If you would like any other details, please get in touch.”
Now, Bacchus is not equipped with a G-Spot, but his most recent ex emphatically was, and presumably still is. Surface area was more than adequate, howbeit quite remarkably changeable in texture. This suggested “enhancement” sounds every bit as absurd as “enhancing” a pair of firm but deliciously malleable breasts by cutting the nipples mostly off and stuffing vinyl bags of salt water in through the holes until the skin is stretched so tight it begins to deform and…oh, wait. Never mind.
Saturday, January 18th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Village Voice columnist Tristan Taormino reviews three female sex creams with results ranging from disappointing to, shall we say, painfully mixed:
O Clitoral Stimulating Gel also contains menthol, and the box reads, “You should feel an intense warmth for about 20 seconds.” I put a tiny dab of the clear gel on my clit, and the immediate feeling was more like a burn. Imagine holding your clit over an open flame, and you’re there with me, regretting my experimental nature for those 20 seconds. My instinct was to jump in the shower, but in the brochure it specifically said not to wash it off in the 20-second period, and that doing so may in fact increase the discomfort, which didn’t seem possible. So I sat tight, and when the burn faded, a wave of warmth and arousal came over me. Blood started rushing to my cunt, and I got really turned on. Maybe there was something to this Ben Gay on the puss after all. I started jerking off, but decided to wait till a certain someone came over to, um, assist. I ended up bringing myself to the edge of orgasm, then backing off, then getting there again. By the time I was in the thick of two-person sex, I was so overstimulated that I couldn’t come! I don’t hold O responsible: It definitely worked some major mojo on me and deserves a second chance.
Monday, January 6th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
After the spot of adolescent fun taken with Armed Liberal’s benevolent prescription for Kenneth Branagh, he (that would be Armed Liberal, not Kenneth Branagh — someday we are going to hire a writer!) pointed out an old post of his about porn.
Turns out he’s agin it. In part because it makes us passive consumers of our lives instead of active participants. It’s better, he tells his sons, to “hold hands and smooch with a real girl than to jerk off to pictures of someone you’ll never meet, much less get to go to bed with.” Or, as he explains:
“So instead of buying p0rn[sic], go meet someone and ask them out. Instead of watching the NBA finals and tying your identity to a team of mercenaries, go down to the park and play some hoops.”
This is great advice, for normal folks. But it’s very exclusionary of the fringes of society — the folks who aren’t athletic enough to play hoops down at the park, or the guy who isn’t attractive enough to get a woman to go out with him. Do we say that professional basketball is bad because playing basketball at the park is more fun and better for you than watching hoops on television? If so, that’s pretty hard on Crutches Boy. “Basketball on television is bad, because it keeps you from getting so desperate for sports fix that you’ll go down to the park and try to play basket ball with the kids who can walk, even though they won’t pick you for their teams and you’ll go home humiliated and frustrated every damn time you try.” Great advice. Thanks. Crutches Boy will be back for more good advice later, bank on it.
On the sex side this problem is worse for younger people, who often don’t have the perspective or maturity to figure out exactly why they can’t get find anyone willing to touch them, much less have sex with them. Most people figure out how to get laid eventually, but it can take a while and a fair percent don’t manage it until fairly deep into adulthood. (There’s also the unfortunate percentage who have genuinely unfixable strikes against them, like general ugliness or unresponsive obesity, that make the project even longer and more painful than it is for the kids who are merely callow and clueless.)
Worse yet, we tell our young people, for lots of strong reasons, that for the first five to seven years after their bodies are sexually mature, there is absolutely no socially acceptable way for them to have an orgasm with another person. Is it really better, for that long span of time, to “kiss and cuddle” without orgasm, than to masturbate and fantasize, which is what porn is mostly about? Perhaps a balanced life has room for both.
In short, Bacchus thinks that there are a hell of a lot of people for whom porn makes the world a better, brighter, or at least more tolerable place than it otherwise would be. This is arguably quite sad — Bacchus finds women a lot more fun than porn, when he finds them — but it’s still true.
Saturday, January 4th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
…and the world will beat a path away from your door.
Being perhaps readers of other blogs than this one, it’s likely that you my loyal readers have heard of the “Jackhammer Jesus” dildo, the “Baby Jesus” butt plug, and other similar religious-themed sex toys from Divine Interventions.
But this article from the San Francisco Bay Guardian profiles the inventor and promoter of this line, and follows him as he roams sex-positive San Francisco getting the cold shoulder from sex toy buyers.
Picking his way through the brightly lit displays of adult videos, cock rings, and calendars emblazoned with oiled and rippling pectorals, he greeted the bespectacled sales assistant, hoisted a large sports bag onto the counter, rummaged through the contents, and selected an item. When the guy behind the counter saw what the man, whom I shall call Nigel R., was pulling out of the bag, he gave a nervous little laugh and said one word: “Sacrilegious.”
As the home of storefront live-sex Halloween performances, magnificent transvestites, and guys with no qualms about showing off their ass cheeks in leather chaps, the Castro District has traditionally enjoyed a healthy disregard for the status quo. Yet when Nigel R. whipped out a seven-and-a-half-inch marble-white silicone Jackhammer Jesus dildo in the shape of Christ on the cross, the Castro Gulch sales assistant blanched.
Ironic to see that as cutting-edge a paper as the SFBG is still so stuck in the past that even when it prints a URL, it can’t (or won’t) make it an active link in the online edition. Old media, bah.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Tuesday, November 26th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
From part one of a two part article on Tantric sex in a South African publication called Women24, this handy tip for delaying male ejaculation:
At the point where you feel you might be reaching your peak, press your tongue against the top of your palate. “By tensing muscles in your mouth, you move blood away from your groin, giving you a chance to recover,” Sampson says. “Don’t feel embarrassed, though – it’s unlikely to cause too much of a distraction for your partner.”
From part two, instructions for the Thrust of the Phoenix:
Perhaps the most widely known tantric technique, this little winner can be used with any position. When you start thrusting, go in shallow (around two centimetres) for nine strokes, then one deep, then eight shallow, then one deep, working your way down to one shallow. “This has been known to give women who claim to never orgasm their first taste of the big ‘O’,” says Johnson. “Building slowly up to a big crescendo will have her willing you to reach the climax.”
Monday, November 4th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
Here is a Usenet classic you may have seen before:
THE COMPLETE GUIDE TO UNLAWFUL CARNAL KNOWLEDGE FOR FANTASY ROLE-PLAYING GAMES
This guide for the D&D crowd comes complete with lists like “Magic Items Your Mom Wouldn’t Approve of.” Bacchus could find uses for the Spectacles of Revealing, and the Wand of Elenora’s Embarrassment sounds rather fun also. The list of “Spells With Zip” includes goodies like Annihilator’s Penis of Power. If that’s a little too patriarchal for your taste, probably Kiss Of Slavery won’t cheer you up — you may want to get your hands on the Jackknife of Circumcision. Bacchus does not approve and is likely to retreat into his Marishar’s Miraculous Bath House, which might have been designed for him — note the command word, which Bacchus did not make up:
This one square inch marble block is carved in the appearance of a Roman-style villa with pillars at the front and erotic mosaics on the side and back walls. Once a day, the bathhouse can be invoked (command word Bacchus). It immediately grows in size until it is as large as a small house. It is identical to the statue, with high marble walls, and pillars at the front covering the entrance. The doorway is only large enough to allow one person at a time to pass through, and has a large brass door that can be bolted from the inside. Two large Iron Golems cast as Nubian slaves with scimitars guard the doorway. Whoever passes inside first is the master/mistress of the bath house, and all the creatures of the bath house will obey them. Inside the house is only one room, with two pools (hot and cold) and several marble slabs. gauzy silk curtains, cushions and tapestries decorate the place. Several swans (white if the master is good/neutral, black if evil) swim calmly on the cold pool. In the bath house are 2d6 beings of the same race and opposite gender, with 18 charisma and 18 comeliness. They are happy to please and have 20’s in any and all the new sexual proficiencies. If the master/mistress of the house wishes, the companions can be switched to any gender or species. Inside the bath house, it is always comfortably warm, and there is always food (as long as you like grapes and dates) and fresh water. Nothing from the bath house (golems, companions, cushions, water, food) can leave the bath house. If taken outside they vanish.
For the serious sex gaming grognard, there are detailed rules on the calculation of the duration of an in-game sex encounter:
After the initial rounds pass, the character must make a Constitution check for each round he/she wishes to continue. Modifiers to this check are from Table 1 and Table 2 And Table 3, plus cumulative modifier of -1. The character also needs to make a time to climax (TTC) check. A 1 on a 1d6 for males and a 1 on a 1d10 for women indicates such an occurrence. An additional TTC roll is made and a result of 1 indicates multiple orgasms (keep rolling while 1s come up).
Bacchus gives this link two thumbs (nay, Wands of Love even) up!
