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The Sex Blog Of Record
Tuesday, July 9th, 2024 -- by Bacchus
Maureen O’Hara is having entirely too much fun ripping the adhesive tape off of actor John Payne’s super-manly rib cage in this photo:
It’s said to be a scene from To The Shores Of Tripoli (1942). Do you suppose it was preemptive revenge for those famous cinema spankings she’d get in the 1960s?
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Saturday, June 8th, 2024 -- by Bacchus
We’ve known for awhile that women will go to great and painful lengths to meet standards of beauty that, most often, other women dreamed up. KarenO demonstrates, in the realm of underarm hair waxing:
That looks like a beauty regimen that only a masochist could love!
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Tuesday, March 8th, 2016 -- by Bacchus
I don’t have an artist attribution for this artwork of a pussy waxing in progress, but I must say the previous customer shown stage left looks as if she’s having belated second thoughts:
Found at Bawdy Blog.
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Wednesday, August 27th, 2014 -- by Bacchus
Remember the short grainy video of the woman getting a tattoo on her anus? Well, here are some better-quality photos of that session. If you’ve ever wondered what someone’s facial expression would be while the tattoo gun is stabbing their taint, wonder no more! Behold, it looks like this:
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Friday, September 6th, 2013 -- by Bacchus
It doesn’t take a deep dive into BDSM imagery to discover that there’s a rich tradition of bondage art, photography, and (apparently) actual practice that involves binding a woman in a position where she’s astride a narrow wooden plank or sawhorse with all her weight painfully on her crotch. This is often called “riding the horse”. One can only imagine how much it “enhances” the experience when your horse is suspended from the ceiling and you find it being used as a kinetic battering ram. This gives the phrase “horsing around” a whole new meaning:
Found here.
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Thursday, August 25th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
I’ve always figured that the men who enjoy cock and ball torture (CBT for short) have bought in (a bit more seriously than most of us) to the old adage “There’s no such thing as bad attention.” I’m not with them — I want the wire brush, the electrified alligator clips, and the screw clamps kept the hell away from my tender bits!
Via Kinky Delight.
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Sunday, March 29th, 2009 -- by Dr. Faustus
A few months ago I had the pleasure of an edifying correspondence with an old friend who had recommended to me a trilogy written by Anne Rice (she of the vampire books fame) in which Rice re-imagines the old fairy tale of Sleeping Beauty as an extended BDSM scenario. A very extended, quarter-million words-long scenario, as it happens. Many ErosBlog readers are doubtless familiar with this trilogy already, but for those that aren’t and who like that sort of thing, I’m happy to report that all three books appear to be still in print.
In the course of our discussion, my learned friend grumbled a bit about the fact that, as of late, Ms. Rice appears to have turned her back on such agreeably lurid and salacious content. Once a self-described atheist, she has returned to the Roman Catholicism of her childhood and sworn off writing about vampires, flagellation, etc.
Tish-tosh, I responded. It’s a free country, isn’t it?
Indeed it is, or at least ought to be, my liberty-loving comrade hastened to reply. But isn’t Rice dissing her fans a bit, when she disparages the themes those fans embraced so loyally and profitably?
I turned this thought over in my mind for a while.
What came up was something rather odd. A memory (or possibly confabulation) from childhood, of being a ten year-old faculty brat tagging along with a group of American college students on a tour of a church in Rome called Santa Maria della Vittoria. As you art lovers should be aware, this church contains a famous sculpture by Gian Lorenzo Bernini (1598-1680) called The Ecstasy of St. Teresa.
Ten year-old me didn’t really understand why the big kids were elbowing each other and trying not to snicker. Later in life I discovered that Teresa of Avila left us a rather vivid account of her ecstasy, which makes what’s going on here a little clearer.
Beside me on the left appeared an angel in bodily form … He was not tall but short, and very beautiful; and his face was so aflame that he appeared to be one of the highest ranks of angels, who seem to be all on fire … In his hands I saw a great golden spear, and at the iron tip there appeared to be a point of fire. This he plunged into my heart several times so that it penetrated my entrails. When he pulled it out I felt that he took them with it, and left me utterly consumed by the great love of God. The pain was so severe that it made me utter several moans. The sweetness caused by this intense pain is so extreme that one can not possibly wish it to cease, nor is one’s soul content with anything but God. This is not a physical but a spiritual pain, though the body has some share in it — even a considerable share.
But it’s spiritual pain, so that’s okay, I guess.
Still I couldn’t help thinking more along these lines. I also remembered seeing a lot of renderings of the martyrdom of St. Sebastian. Pietro Perugino (1446-1524) is perhaps typical in his generous rendering of Sebastian’s arrow-violated flesh:
And one cannot help but notice what pretty flesh it is, too.
No one is safe from suffering in this grand artistic tradition, not even — especially not even — its central figure:
That’s by Caravaggio (1571-1610), a painter of genius who, for my money, would have extracted homoerotic interest from a still-life of a bed of gravel, had he chosen to paint one.
I’m not sure whether Albert von Keller (1844-1920) is mocking this tradition or part of it, but it’s pretty clear he was willing to take it a logical step forward in Mondschein (1894):
These are only four works, presented here only because they happened to catch my eye on a certain day. Other works of a similar inspiration and part of the same grand religio-visual narrative could easily be found by the truckload. I have no doubt that many ErosBlog readers can add their own favorites to the list. If you’re of a certain cast of mind, you will be led to the suspicion that an anthropologist from Alpha Centauri, given the record of humanity’s visual culture and tasked with identifying its largest and longest-lived fraternity of BDSM enthusiasts, might point to a certain institution headquartered in Rome.
For my part I shall confine myself to a more modest conjecture, in response to my friend, and addressed to any fan of Anne Rice who might be feeling dismayed by the current turn in her life. Without this particular grand narrative, in which Ms. Rice was reared, and back into which she has now written herself, there might never have been her own distinctive body of work at all.
Or to put it more simply: no Holy Mother Church, no Naughty Beauty Tales.
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Friday, December 26th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Penny Flame, in this picture, could pass as the very model of a 1950s pinup girl. Could she not?
However, this is the twenty-first century, and Penny’s apparently a twenty-first century sort of girl. For instance, you never got to see the 1950s pinups enjoy a spot of husband-spanking:
And this sort of thing? It would have been right out:
And as for pinup-girl blowjobs? Or ride-em cowboy kinky bondage sex? Nope, sorry. For that, you need a thoroughly modern pinup girl.
The pictures are courtesy of Men In Pain.
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Saturday, December 6th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
So I was reading a modest rant (title: The Horrors of Porn) over at The Twisted Monk and it was going like this:
A common trend in porn would be body art, I know what you are going to say tattoos are as old as civilization so this is not a new development, I agree, but since most porn focuses primarily on the “point of contact”, ie the wet, pink bits, as they thrust away more and more talent are opting to get tattoos on their hips, asses and even genitals in order to retain some level of uniquely identifying marks, lest they get lost in the sea of shaved wangs and oddly tanned taints.
And I thought: “Aha!” For, I knew where this was going.
And I was right:
So when I noticed the female model sporting what at first glance looked to be…ahem… well how shall I put it, a stain on her pink bits? No, more of discolored ring around her asshole. I was naturally taken aback. Surely this site has the budget for some hand-wipes and a videographer with the brains to know that he will soon be shooting this girls bottom in hi-def so it would be in his best interest to make sure that he has a, shall we say tidy pallet from which to paint his jizz stained masterpiece.
No, no on second glance it was not a stain but rather a tattoo. Yes, dear readers a tattoo on that most taboo ring of muscle.
Like passing a highway fatality involving a bus full of crippled nuns colliding with a tanker truck carrying sulfuric acid, I had to stop and stare. What the hell would you posses you to get tattooed there?! Can you imagine that tattoo session? Can you say ouch? I don’t even want to think about the post ink healing process. 4 weeks of scabbing and itching anyone? How do you keep it sterile? Fuck that, how hell do you take a crap?! Gah! The mind reels. Sadly, or possibly thankfully, the series of images in question chose to opt against using the ULTRA zoom lens and show a close-up of said tattoo as it was taking on the business end of her co-star so I still have no idea exactly what she chose to have permanently etched upon the ring of her ass.
Fortunately, some of his commenters guided him to ErosBlog and thus, to enlightenment.
(Monk’s post also links to a different photograph of the tattoo in question, for those of you whose fascination with the topic is not yet fully satiated.)
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Saturday, September 27th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
The last time I drooled over Annie Cruz here on Erosblog, I called her “painfully beautiful”, in part because she was in dominatrix mode. But I really do think she’s a whole lot of hotness in a not-very-big package.
Which is why I cannot resist sharing some of the more modest scenes from this girl-girl nude wrestling match (conducted at Ultimate Surrender) in which Annie Cruz loses catastrophically to Samantha Sin.
Cruz (right) starts out looking confident and disdainful:
But it’s not long before she’s the first to lose her underwear, to the delight of the audience:
And she just can’t seem to avoid being woman-handled by the stronger Ms. Sin:
By this point, she doesn’t have much fight left in her:
Which means, she’s about to start “enjoying” the “surrender” part of the evening’s program.
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Tuesday, September 23rd, 2008 -- by Bacchus
I was reminded, Sunday night, of the strange way in which there’s no one truth about love or lust or romance or about anything else interesting to humans. The Nymph and I went to see Vicki Christina Barcelona, the latest Woody Allen movie. I enjoyed it right well — and Penelope Cruz is just brilliant in her role — but it also gave me a modest insight of sorts.
In the movie, there’s a love triangle that is brief, implausible, and complex. (“Complex” is my eighty-cent college word; my blue collar brother-in-law would be content to say “fucked up”, in a tone of voice suggesting an unacceptable depth of complexity but without any connotation of condemnation.) And yet, just as I was marveling at the very implausibility of the arrangement, I was startled to realize “no, this is just remarkable for being in a movie; it’s not the least bit more complicated than a thousand unusual romantic understandings I’ve seen people reach in the real world, or describe on their personal blogs.” People, real people even more so than scripted people, are willing and able to make the most astonishing compromises and bargains (physical, emotional, financial) in order to get the love, affection, validation (and, yes, sex!) that they need.
Hardly a deep or original insight, but then, I never claimed different. Still, it served to remind me of what I love about the sex blog genre (and to a lesser extent, blogs in general) — namely, that they provide a relatively unfiltered window into the inner romantic and emotional lives of a great many more people than we would normally know well enough (in meat space) to know on that level. And that’s just interesting.
Today’s example is an excerpt from Bitchy Jone’s Diary, in which she is talking about the big strong man she enjoys hurting, and the reasons he enjoys being hurt by her. That’s one of the categories of sexual bargains that usually overstrains the limited capacities my empathic sexual imagination; and so — despite bearing firmly in mind that an explanation of what’s going on for these people may not speak with authority about any other people — I found it fascinating and instructive:
I live in a small, papery ordinary house. I have radiators, I have chairs and tables, but these things are all built practicality, not practical evil. I do not have access to one of those fortresses built out of rusty steel columns where they make the kinky porno. I do not have a room with red walls. The only thing I can really tie Jack to and not have him killcrushdestroy (killcrushdestroy my soft nest of an IKEA catalogue interior that is) is other parts of himself.
‘Cause the trouble is, with him, resistance is fertile.
For all I try and say that submission and masculinity work with each other not against each other: that the whole world has got it wrong with its stupid prevailing ideology about which way round bondage goes. But, no one listens to Cassandra Jones, the world of people-tied-up is built for tying up women. Every guide book, every instructional video is about tying up women, pretty much. Bondage for sex means bondage for being penetrated. So what of me? I like it tough and scary. I like the great big man brought down, down, down. Works brilliantly in my head. In real life: hard work.
Because I like to feel a huge rush of power over a conquered kingdom of a man. But because I reach so high it’s so much harder to bring the thing down low.
Sometimes he feels unscaleable and more often *unbreakable*. And broken is a wonderful state. But so much harder to achieve when starting with an unbreakable thing.
There is that little moment when I hurt him. Right at the start. He makes it very obvious: He assesses what I’m doing and works out if he can deal with it. And he always can — always finds a place to put it — but right before that you see the tiny panic before he *knows* that he can. I’m happiest right there. The moment before either of us remember that he is unbreakable.
Not that I am not in love with that brave thing. That self sacrifice. Once I said to him, ‘I want to him you on the backs of your thighs with a metal ruler.’
And he said, ‘Fine.’ He said ‘fine’ like I’d said ‘I want to go make a cup of tea.’
So I said — more fierce, but more fierce for me just means my jaw sets a little hard — ‘And I want you to hate it.’
He’s rolled over ready for me by now, so he’s looking back over his shoulder. ‘Well I don’t expect I’m going to like it very much.’
And I swoon, there, at the stoic and the brave and the acceptance of me and the things that I need. But I still pine for something more fragile. For more doubt and fear.
I make him fake it. Make him ask for it to stop. Make him ask me not to hurt him. But that’s a level up on the unreality game. And I know that if I wanted it the other way he’d ask me *to* do it too. He doesn’t like pain. He likes being brave. I honestly don’t know where his desire to feel brave would end. Where rationality would take over. I’d like to find out — let the bravery drive us, let it set the pace, decide when we stop – but it’s a frightening place I might end up.
Friday, August 29th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
I’m crediting Wonkette with establishing the “GILF” meme back when Governor Sarah Palin of Alaska got sworn in:
She’s a former Miss Alaska contestant (Miss Wasilla 1984), and so you’ll see this old beauty contest mugshot being widely circulated:
Now that the cable news networks are reporting that she’s been tapped by John McCain as his vice presidential running mate, it’s time to remind the world that there’s a persistent rumor of a Sarah Palin nude photo “out there”. If it’s real, and it’s out there, and you have it, please send it along to ErosBlog, would ya?
The rumor surfaced during Palin’s gubernatorial campaign, when allegations flew around Alaska (and even reached my tender ears, the Internet being what it is) that such a photo was being circulated by her political opponents as part of a dirty tricks campaign. Although the story was not much reported by responsible press outlets, I got emails asking me if I knew where to get the photo, so I know the rumors were real; and there’s a shadow of them in the cesspools you find wherever newspapers publish “blogs” and then leave the comments open and unmoderated. (Ask Violet Blue how much to trust the stuff people write when they are fingerpainting in that sewage, though; she’ll give you an earful.)
I’d be more dubious about the whole story if not for the fact that one of my email correspondents claims to have seen the nude photo of Palin. Admittedly, the provenance on this story is so bad it’s classic: he says a guy in a bar showed him the printout of the email that was circulating. And, you know, it was a bar; the light was bad.
Since Governor Palin’s wild teen years were (if they happened at all) in the early 1980s, before the advent of digital photography, I’m pretty skeptical about the whole “nude photo” story. If the alleged shot ever surfaces, I’d expect it to be a photoshop of one of her beauty pageant pictures. She was a pretty girl in 1984, and she’s still – as they used to say in more delicate times and bad western movies — a fine figure of a woman.
Her husband, by the way, is a commercial fisherman (think Deadliest Catch), oilfield worker (think “drill rig at forty below zero”), and endurance snowmobile racer. He’s perfectly capable of kicking your ass, or mine, so be nice.
Wednesday, August 20th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
I can hear the body artist pitching this paint job as if I were there: “But seriously! If you let me do this, you can be nude in public and nobody will ever see you! Just go to the party, stand where I tell you, remain very still, and nobody will know you are there. It’s a fancy party in a fancy space, you’ll blend right in!”
From this gallery featuring the body painting art of Emma Hicks.
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Tuesday, August 19th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Way back in the dark ages, when computer games were something that came on floppy disks that mostly weren’t actually floppy, it was not unheard of for a man to spend too much time playing his computer games, nor for his woman to complain about the amount of his time and attention she didn’t enjoy because of it. (Sometimes the gender arrow pointed the other way, but numerically, not often.)
Then came the internet, and massively addictive massively multiplayer online games, and the situation only got worse. As early as the late 1990s, the “EverQuest widow” phenomenon was getting widely remarked upon. Once World of Warcraft exploded on the MMORPG scene and increased the U.S. MMORPG playerbase to many millions, the “problem” became a widely-understood social phenomenon. (The gendered nature of “the problem” also diminished a little more.)
In geek male circles, it was common and easy to say “Dude, you’ve got an actual live girl in your house, and she’s mad at you because you’re playing with us and not with her? What’s wrong with you? LOG THE HELL OFF!”
But in practice, that doesn’t always happen. My own gaming policy has always been to attempt to prioritize “real life people” above my games. Phone rings? Answer it. Relative wants a hand? Log off and give it. The Nymph walks into the room to show me the panties she bought? Give her my full attention; the raid (the fleet, the gang, the quest, the mobs, the squad, the enemies, the targets, the loot) they are eternal, they will always be there when I get back. The panties? They are gonna walk out of the room, and it won’t take them very long, either.
But, it’s not always that simple.
Early on, it became clear to me that the type of game mattered. Shooting games weren’t quite as bad, because (although addictive) it’s a lot easier to drop in and out of fast-paced shooting games where deaths and respawns are common and mostly painless. But the immersive multiplayer games where you accumulate stuff, and getting the best stuff requires coordination between many different players? The people in those games are also “real life people”, and some of them become your friends, and you make commitments to them just as you would your meatspace friends, and those commitments have power. And that’s very very hard to explain to someone in your life who thinks you spend too much time “typing at that silly box” and cannot comprehend that it can take thirty seconds, or twenty minutes, to resolve in-game affairs to the point where you can safely avert your eyes from the screen.
Obviously living with a gamer helps, although sometime it just means it’s you who’s getting the “not tonight, I promised Malathion_69 that I’d help camp for dragon armor” treatment.
I eventually, and fairly recently, realized that the “I prioritize the real people in my life over my computer games” rule-of-thumb (perhaps call it an aspiration, as it’s not always an easy rule to follow) was a little bit broken. My gaming buddies, after all, are people too, and it’s rude, socially broken, possibly even a teeny bit sociopathic, to tell anyone, by word or deed, “you’re always my lowest priority.”
That said, what’s the real challenge? As always, we need to meet our social obligations, and when you share a house and a life and a bed with someone, they have a legitimate claim to a high-priority interrupt on whatever it is you do to fill your idle hours. But “high-priority” is not the same as “absolute”, nor is it the same as “immediate”. An enlightened balance is the ideal, and how Buddhist does that sound?
I was reminded of my developing thinking on this subject by a sad memory AAG recounts:
Wrapped in a blanket to keep off the cold and armed with tea, I’d take to the porch with a book and a tiny reading light. It was a lovely retreat, and most days I was at least moderately content to spend a few hours out there reading while my husband worked or played computer games.
But on the chilliest Friday something was different. Was it hormones? An extra-hard dose of child-inspired loneliness? Too long since our last attempt at sex? I don’t know, but on that Friday night I needed the comfort and warmth of the man who I’d hoped would be my partner forever. I suggested it to him as he headed off to his work and computer. “Can we have some time alone this weekend? Maybe tonight? Or tomorrow?” I asked, attempting the lowest-pressure sell possible.
“I’m not going to have the time,” he answered. “I really need to finish that project for work, and I need to organize everyone’s fantasy football picks by Monday. Maybe early next week?”
And then he scooted off, leaving me with book and tea on the desk.
It was the first of many moments of clarity I experienced over the state of our relationship. I cried, book and tea forgotten…
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Friday, August 8th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
I’m one of these people who studiously avoided all non-mandatory art classes during my formal education, because so much that is considered great in art struck (and still strikes) me as immensely dull. Tell me again why we are looking at a cracked oil painting of some not-very-tasty-looking apples in a bowl?
If somebody had explained to me that the good artists spent half their lives painting flowers and the backs of their hands so they could learn to paint convincing nekkid pictures, I might have been more interested. As it is, it took the internet to introduce me to all sorts of long-dead illustrators and artists whose works I could have started enjoying at a much younger age.
Case in point: Auguste Leroux. This is titled “The Mirror”:
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Sunday, July 13th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
From London comes word (link via Bondage Blog) of an unfortunate fellow who had to be cut out of a titanium (!) chastity device at great difficulty by the local fire brigade:
Firefighters had to cut a man out of a titanium chastity belt intended for sex games last week.
Crews from Kingston fire station were called to the red-faced man’s home in Ham at about 11pm on June 27 after he had spent all day trying to free himself from the device.
It took about 45 minutes for firefighters to release the man, believed to be in his 40s, from the structure.
…
Crew manager Brennan Healey, from the fire station, said the man, of average build, had put the two-piece device on in the morning but then realised he did not have a key to open it.
…
“The man had lots of swelling in his genital area,” said Mr Healey. “It took a long time to release him because he was in a lot of pain, and we needed to give him oxygen.
“Firefighter Simon Mitchell did a great job and was especially ‘hands on’. When the man was released we called the London Ambulance Service who took him to hospital, but he seemed much better by then.
A sad story to be sure, but it got me to thinking. I don’t know how things are in Kingston or in Ham, but if this story had happened in San Francisco, I think our “hands on” fireman would suddenly be getting a lot of friendly personal calls.
Tuesday, July 8th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
This is a detail from an 1880 painting called “The Serpent Charmer” by Jean-Leon Gerome:
Tuesday, July 1st, 2008 -- by Bacchus
We have treaded before on the well-trod ground of Leda and her excessively friendly swan. But this circa 1740 painting attributed to François Boucher puts things in a more sexually vivid (not to mention, better shaved) perspective than we had formerly seen here on ErosBlog:
(Click the image for a larger and uncropped version.)
By the way, if you were so inclined you could use this bit of art to mock all the people who complain about the “modern trend” to show hairless pussies in porn.
Friday, June 27th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Erosblog has an official position on topless women’s soccer: “We approve of your program and wish to subscribe to your newsletter.”
Austria drew first blood early today when their topless women’s football team beat Germany 10-5.
The traditional swapping of shirts afterwards was not an option as the six-a-side teams wore nothing but thongs, with the national colours painted on to their bare skin.
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Saturday, June 21st, 2008 -- by Aphrodite
Sorry, no “dirty” pictures here, just a rant from a girl that’s tired of all this intellectual property crap. Scroll down on the homepage if that’s what you want, and I’ll take my rant into the back room so it doesn’t clutter up Bacchus’s more delightful content. (more…)
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Saturday, March 22nd, 2008 -- by Bacchus
A while after I published the ancient bit of smut called Signior Dildo, an erudite friend made me a gift of a book called The Complete Poems of John Wilmot, Earl Of Rochester. And, indeed, the book has a very complete feel to it, as one would expect of a scholarly tome published by Yale University Press.
I won’t say that Signior Dildo is the dirtiest poem Wilmot ever wrote, but it would be a mistake to assume that his complete works are chock-full of erotica. No indeed, like most poets in his age his output ranged widely across many topics, some of them impossibly obscure to the modern reader. But there remain a number of raunchy gems to be found in The Complete Poems.
My favorite is the dangerous Satyr on Charles II. Wilmot is said to have been forced to flee from court after he delivered it “by mistake into the King’s hands…instead of another the King asked him for.” Oops…
A Satyre on Charles II
In th’ isle of Britain, long since famous grown
For breeding the best cunts in Christendom,
There reigns, and oh! long may he reign and thrive,
The easiest King and best bred man alive.
Him no ambition moves to get renown
Like the French fool, that wanders up and down
Starving his people, hazarding his crown.
Peace is his aim, his gentleness is such,
And love he loves, for he loves fucking much.
Nor are his high desires above his strength:
His scepter and his prick are of a length;
And she may sway the one who plays with th’ other,
And make him little wiser than his brother.
Poor Prince! thy prick, like thy buffoons at court,
Will govern thee because it makes thee sport.
‘Tis sure the sauciest prick that e’er did swive,
The proudest, peremptoriest prick alive.
Though safety, law, religion, life lay on ‘t,
‘Twould break through all to make its way to cunt.
Restless he rolls about from whore to whore,
A merry monarch, scandalous and poor.
To Carwell, the most dear of all his dears,
The best relief of his declining years,
Oft he bewails his fortune, and her fate:
To love so well, and be beloved so late.
For though in her he settles well his tarse,
Yet his dull, graceless bollocks hang an arse.
This you’d believe, had I but time to tell ye
The pains it costs to poor, laborious Nelly,
Whilst she employs hands, fingers, mouth, and thighs,
Ere she can raise the member she enjoys.
All monarchs I hate, and the thrones they sit on,
From the hector of France to the cully of Britain.
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Sunday, March 16th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
This is an oil-on-copper work by an artist (Adam Johan Braun) who lived between 1748 and 1827, so it’s from at least 180 years ago, minimum. If the artist painted this work before he turned sixty, it’s a cool two centuries old. Talk about kinky themes being timeless:
Found by a Spanking Blog reader in a European auction catalog. Details here.
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Friday, February 29th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
This has got to be absolutely the tamest / cutest photoset I’ve ever seen in the pages of Taboo magazine, which has been happily notorious for explicit bondage sex photography since well before anybody (well, it was Kink.com, actually) dared to do it on the web. But not in this photoset! Nope, this is just a fine lady and her maid, prepping for another hard day of languishing around the manor in outfits of loosely-arranged lace:
“Why, you careless hussy! You caught a tangle and hurt my pretty head! I ought to…”
The remonstrances continue: “You indolent wench! I’ll rip off your lingerie and slap some sense into your silly head!”
“Bah, slapping isn’t enough for course slatterns like you! Bend over, I’ll pretend to spank you with my silver hand mirror while secretly using it to peer at your pussy!”
And, then, inevitably, there has to be the kissing on the ear and the whispering of sweet nothings:
How else are they going to segue into the inevitable hot-and-sweaty lesbian makeup sex?
Pictures are from the August 2004 edition of Taboo magazine.
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Wednesday, December 26th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Is there anal fisting in the Sistine Chapel? If not, did there used to be? Art historians (amateur or otherwise) are invited to weigh in!
Here’s the image:
And here’s the attribution: (via)
Michelangelo’s Punishment of Sodomy. Detail of the Last Judgement from the Sistine Chapel, 1536-1541. Source: Erotica Universalis by Gilles Néret, p. 102. Copy by Witkowski, Gustave-Joseph-Alphonse (1844-1923)
So, this image is said to be a copy by a relatively modern artist. But, a copy of what, exactly?
I’ve studied available online images of the Last Judgment as it appears in the Sistine Chapel, and no detail like this is immediately apparent. However, I know that Michelangelo made many sketches and drawings before climbing his scaffold, and I know the church has had a habit over the years of altering details of religious artworks it found inconvenient. See, e.g., the bronze underwear I blogged about when this sex blog was impossibly new.
So, is this fisting image really a copy of something Michelangelo drew or painted? And if so, does such a Michelangelo fisting image really appear in the Sistine Chapel? Inquiring minds want to know.
As it happens, I’ve got a copy of Erotica Universalis, but it’s in impossibly deep storage, and it wouldn’t help further anyway. Being essentially a catalog of ancient pornographic curiousities, its attributions cannot be expected to be unduly rigid.
My own theory is that this Witowski character actually drew a deliberately pornographic parody of Michelangelo’s sinners, rather than a copy. But there were strange things done in the history of religious art, and I’d be delighted to find out I was wrong.
Saturday, December 22nd, 2007 -- by Bacchus
I’ve got to share this vignette from Mistress Matisse’s much longer article about the ups and downs of sex work around Christmas time. I simply can’t read these paragraphs without cracking up:
It was midafternoon on Christmas Eve. The client and I had never met before, but I showed up at his house at the appointed time, and he quickly ushered me inside. The man of the house was thin and pale, with faded blond hair, and he looked nervous. I could understand why: There’s a reason married guys rarely have whores come to their homes.
How could I tell he was married? Well, the fact that the house was decorated in a nauseatingly cutesy-country-crafty style was a big tip-off. Not just decorated–the place was stuffed full of ruffled chintz and gingham, designer teddy bears and American primitive wooden plaques with bunnies and angels and hearts burned on them. There was a flowered platter of homemade iced cookies sitting on the hall table. And there were a lot of family portraits on the foyer wall, with Mom, Dad, and three little rug rats.
“So you can be gone by six, right?” he asked.
“Sweetie, I’ll leave whenever you want,” I replied.
I paused before asking the obvious question.
“Is your wife coming home?”
He nodded jerkily. “She and the kids are at church.”
I couldn’t believe it. This guy had a hooker come to his house on Christmas Eve while his wife and kids were at church? He is so going to hell for this, I thought, and I’ll undoubtedly see him there.
“Well, let’s not waste playtime,” I said, moving toward the stairs. “Where would you like to…?”
“No, not upstairs!” he said, practically panicking. “I don’t want to mess up the bed. Let’s just–do it in the living room.”
Easier said than done. We edged around the eight-foot Christmas tree that dominated the room and sat down on the powder-blue couch. He handed me an envelope with the cash in it. I tucked it into my purse and then looked at him, waiting for him to give me some sign of how he wanted to proceed. But he just stared at me like a trapped rabbit. The room was dim, and the lights from the tree threw alternating red and green splotches on his face. The effect made him look like he had some kind of facial tic, and I doubted that it was enhancing my complexion, either.
“Okay,” I thought to myself, “if I have to be gone soon, I am going to have to take control of this fuck.”
I stripped down to my tarty black lace lingerie and stockings, got his pants around his knees, and started unrolling a condom onto his dick with my mouth. He moaned and leaned back on the couch–and then we both gasped and jumped as the tinkling strains of “White Christmas” suddenly rose into the air. He looked wildly around the room for a moment, then relaxed and said, “Oh, wait, it’s this pillow. It’s got a music box in it, when you lean on it, it plays…” He fished a red-and-green throw pillow from behind his back and tossed it away. It played on for a minute, before ceasing abruptly with a mechanical click.
He lay back again, but it seemed that our musical interruption had made his little Saint Nick unhappy. Or maybe it’s this house, I thought, as I sucked him. It’s completely antisexual. Interior decor as visual saltpeter.
I stood up, pulled off my panties, and bent over the couch. I knew I should give him some dirty verbal encouragement, but my vast repertoire of porn talk had deserted me, and the best I could manage was a come-hither expression that felt as painted-on as the faces of the knee-high nutcrackers flanking the fireplace. I watched him maneuver into position behind me in the gilt-framed, holly-draped mirror over the mantel. In my black bra and stockings, I was jarringly out of place in the room, an affront to the relentless, smothering cozy cuteness. It was hard to even breathe. As he fumbled around behind me, the bowls of cloyingly sweet potpourri that sat on both end tables began to make my eyes water and my nose itch. I was going to start sneezing uncontrollably in a minute, I thought, and my mascara was going to run down my face in black streaks. It was like a Stephen King Christmas house, where it looks all sweet, but if you don’t behave, it kills you.
At first impression, this story is sad. But the more I read it, the funnier it gets. This guy was a fool (“I pity the fool!”) but he was also a rebel. What, he couldn’t sneak out and rent a room where he didn’t have to worry about the sheets? No, he was in rebellion. His wife had made his house uninhabitable (trust me, ladies, there’s only so much chintz and gingham we can tolerate, and those stanky bowls of boiled flower petals are nasty!) for him, and this was his way of trying to reclaim it, if only for forty minutes.
Thursday, November 29th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
What do you do with all the “extra” one dollar bills? Hobo Stripper has suggestions:
You know how it is: the end of the night, a huge wad of ones, and the bartender won’t cash them in for you. You use them to tip out, you use them for your stage fee, and you’ve still got a stack thicker than your thumb. You kept shoving them in your purse, and now your purse is overflowing with them and you can’t find anything. Don’t worry, you’re about to know what to do with all those ones.
#1. Take them to the bank. They’ve got dollar counting machines just for these kinds of situations. When the manager shows up to ask you if the dollars are real and what happened to them just be honest. Tell them the green stuff is blacklight paint that you rubbed all over yourself before making boob prints on a t-shirt for the bachelor last night, the sticky white stuff is whipped cream from your candy girl show, and the slippery white stuff is your special combination of lotion, water, and dish detergent that looks just like semen.
She’s also got a warning:
Whatever you do, do not save up a thousand of them and try to use them to buy new tires. The last time I did that they called the police and I almost got arrested.
Actually, what strikes me hardest is the bartender that won’t cash them in. Yeah, everybody who pays attention knows that strip clubs managers don’t tend to give a shit about strippers. But the clubs are making cash deposits every night, they’ve got an infrastructure in place to get the cash safely to the bank, and they know the girls tend to have chaotic lives full of vulnerability. Plus, a consumer-grade bill-bundling machine costs about ninety seconds of operating revenue for the average club. The decent thing to do (yeah, I know, not a phrase often heard in the stripping trade) would be to instruct the bartender to exchange the damned bills.
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!
Thursday, September 27th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
In the movies and the stories and the fantasies, if you order up a stranger off the internet for perverted sex, and meet for perverted sex, then the story is about perverted sex. Predictably, and sometimes boringly, so.
What I love about sex blogging is that down here on earth in real life, sometimes other stuff happens too, which makes for a more varied and interesting narrative.
For instance, when Bitchy Jones whistled up a submissive feller off the internet so she could do mean stuff to him, there was indeed some perverted sex, but not without a hitch you’ll never see in a dirty movie:
Just before Jack was due to arrive one of my next door neighbours came and told me they had seen my cat limping in the street. I went out to look for cat but there was no sign. I called Pan in a panic. I told him to turn around and come home so he could care for cat. It started to rain. I was standing in the street looking for the cat when Jack arrived.
Jack was all, ‘Hey are you standing in the street waiting for me?‘ And also all, ‘Hey, here I am. I have arrived for perverted sex.‘
And I was all, ‘No. Perverted sex is canceled. We must find lost injured cat ZOMGZ!‘
We found the cat. (Sorry if that stressed you — I probably should have warned at the top for mild cat peril.) I called Pan and told him I thought the cat would be okay until morning and that he should not come home after all.
Then Jack cooked. I kissed him quite a lot — endangering cooking. We did some painful things too. (Painful for him.) Some naked things. (Naked for him.) Some kneeling things. (Kneeling… (oh, get with it.))
I don’t know if his tongue stud felt so very different on my cunt — but on my nipples it was incredible. Bliss of death.
I love it. “Perverted sex is canceled!”
Sunday, September 23rd, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Spanking Blog calls this spanking graffiti, but like all the best graffiti, it’s really just folk art in a public space:
Beats the hell (if you’ll pardon the pun) out of the boring “no parking” sign it’s painted next to!
Wednesday, August 29th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
I’ve gotten in minor trouble in the past for not participating in various efforts to “reclaim” derogatory words traditionally applied to various classes of women, words like “slut” and “cunt” and “whore” and the like. In particular, I’ve condemned low-imagination pornographers for calling porn models “sluts” far too often. I’m really condemning their business sense as much as anything; although some men surely fantasize about hooking up with a slut, it’s hardly universal.
So in a post like A Spammer’s View Of Porn Stars, my jeering at “old-school bitch-slut-whore porn marketing” triggered this comment:
You know, generally speaking, I’m all in favor of reclaiming these sorts of words. I call myself a slut happily, and while I’ve never had physical sex for money, the people I know who have done so call themselves whores (or retired whores) with no problem.
To which I responded:
Reclaiming is a whole ‘nuther issue, and frankly I don’t think it’s something that a second-person labeler can participate in. A woman with the qualifications can call herself a bitch or a slut or a whore and not mean anything bad by it, but I don’t think some random guy selling pictures of her has a prayer of pulling that off.
Which remains my position. There’s nothing wrong with being a slut, but I can’t get away with applying the word to any particular woman unless she does so first, because a man saying that word is tarred by association with a million other men who’ve tossed it around lightly as a synonym for “woman”. And standing behind that million men are another million women who’ve tossed it around just as lightly as a synonym for “woman who fucks too readily, and thus may pose a competitive danger to me”.
Of course, that doesn’t prevent me from quoting women like Kaya who cheerfully adopt the label:
I know that slut is supposed to be an insult. I hear my daughters refer to other classmates in that way. With wrinkled noses and disdain dripping from their voices. “Oh she is SUCH a slut. Look at her. Oh. My. Gawd.”
I asked Jes one time what criteria would get a girl labeled as a slut. I’m not sure if I have the formula down correctly but it was something along the lines of if you’ve slept with more than 3 people, you’re a bonafide slut. I guess I can see that, when applied to a 15 or 16 year old. I did not tell her that her mother was a certified slut though. Some things a child just doesn’t need to know about her mom’s activities. ;-)
…
I know without a doubt, without a millisecond of hesitation, that I AM a natural slut. Jezebel, a hussy, a tart, a tramp. I dressed the part, I acted the part, I performed the part.
I never associated the emotions with sex that other people do. It was always just sex. Not a commitment, no deeper hidden meaning. I wasn’t waiting for a proposal or a second date and it didn’t bother me in the least to have feelings for one person, and sleep with another. The two were entirely separate.
…
I like sex. The raunchier the better. I like to cock my ass up and wiggle it in the air. I like to spread my pussy lips wide and taunt whoever is looking. I like the wetness, the sloppiness, the grunts and slaps and other rude, raucous noises that emanate from between our two joined bodies. And I like it best when some pink part of mine is screaming in pain, pain that fiercely combats with the pleasure, until the two sensations meet and mix and become a tangled mass of exploding nerves that leave me abandoned in a puddled lump of used slut.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Monday, August 20th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Well, dang if my jaw didn’t drop to the floor when I discovered that legendary porn star Ginger Lynn has come out of retirement to shoot a bondage scene with Mark Davis for Kink.com’s Sex and Submission:
It’s fun for a number of reasons, not least of which is that Ginger is old enough to have developed that whole soft, well-rounded, mature / MILF-y look. Rode hard and put away wet? Sure. But don’t say that like it’s a bad thing. This is a woman who knows how to have fun:
From the Kink.com marketing copy:
Sex and Submission proudly presents pornstar legend Ginger Lynn in her first real BDSM sex scene with boyfriend Mark Davis. With much excitement and anticipation she explores her submissive side in great depth. Mark is tough with her at times and brings her to that breaking point where she struggles to fight through the pain and discomfort. But the pleasurable rewards and lovingness displayed throughout makes Ginger a very happy submissive. The chemistry between the two and the genuine reactions from porn celebrity Ginger Lynn is really something special!
Googling around for more information about the shoot, I found this, including some great quotes by Ginger:
“I’ve fallen madly in love. I have finally met a man who can keep up with me, who is my match in bed, and that man is Mark Davis. We met at a fundraiser for Nicki Hunter and have been inseparable ever since,” Lynn told XBIZ. “I figured if I was ever to make a comeback, I would do something I have never done before, show something I have never shown before, to express myself the same way I do at home. Very few men – none – have been able to bring that out of me the way Mark Davis has.”
“I’ve always been known as the girl next door, naughty-but-nice. At home, I’m sick, twisted, kinky and I have no boundaries. I don’t want to go into detail, but I will be living out my fantasies on film that I have only been able to do in my private life up until now. I may alienate some fans. They may be scared off, they may be fabulously surprised. At this point in my career and my life, it really doesn’t matter to me. I am going to do something I want to do.
“I’m a naughty girl.”
Ready for more? The Submission of Ginger Lynn is a 48 minute move, for members.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Monday, August 13th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Gentlemen, if you’ve got a modicum of self-confidence about your skillz with teh butt secks and you’re pretty sure you’re not hurtin’ the lady or anything, yet she still seems unduly and persistently reluctant, it may help to remember that women, or at least Always Aroused Girl, sometimes worry about odd things at odd times:
For all the apparent confidence I might seem to have about buttsex, there have been times that it has completely terrified me.
Not because of the pain aspect. It’s never felt painful. Instead, I worry about poo.
Rationally, I know my bottom is simply confused. It’s so conditioned to interpreting that particular sensation as needing to use the facilities that I get panicky when I’m first entered. I worry that poo will make an appearance, even though I know there’s none there. I worry even though I know that my partner would still like me even if we had a minor poo-tastrophe.
I know those things, and yet I do more than my share of panicking. However, the longer I have successful buttsex, the more my confidence grows.
Not directly related to the above point, but I’m going to quote from later in the same post just for fun:
I gushed, and then I came in earnest. It was one of those orgasms that froze me in place and clenched every muscle in my pelvis. Apparently it felt pretty good to my friend too, because he wrapped his hand around my throat, clamped his teeth on my earlobe and moaned hard.
I nearly lost an earlobe and an eardrum but I didn’t care.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Friday, July 20th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
As any man who’s ever washed himself very very thoroughly in the shower can tell you, standard bar soap (I’m talking soap, regular soap, men soap for getting clean, like good old plain anti-bacterial yellow Dial, not the foo-foo stuff that women use that’s full of oat flakes and lavender oil and glycerin and lanolin and gentle moisturizers) can burn a bit if it gets up inside on the tender membranes. So this was a predictable result:
Next, we headed for the shower, which was our original plan. I had to brush my hair before getting in there, and as I studied my reflexion in the mirror, he prodded my ass with his entirely unlubricated, dry finger, which, you imagine, didn’t make it very far. He soaped it up and renewed the activity, and then soaped up his cock and plunged it inside as I bent over the sink. I could see both my pained and his ecstatic expression in the mirror, as he fucked me rough and raw with his soapy member.
It was uncomfortable – much like the way it used to be when we just started doing it – and even though I am quite comfortable with it after a generous application of lube, soap seemed to have gotten absorbed by the tissues or dried out, making it increasingly more uncomfortable with every thrust. I did try to breathe deeply and allow him to have me till the end, which he did.
We got into the shower, and after a few minutes I realized that my insiders WERE ON FIRE – at first I thought it was because of the roughness of the sex, but then I figured it was because of the soap, which is not designed for prolonged application to mucusy membranes. IT BURNED. It burned so much that I began to cry, got out of the shower, and placed myself over the toilet as I poured and poured water on myself in the attempts to alleviate the torture, all while crying the entire time. He got out of the shower too and squatted by my side, looking concerned. “It’s like having soap in your eyes,” I explained (only not quite SO bad). And it wasn’t a good kind, titillating, endorphine-friendly burn, like that produced by ginger. It was just a mean soapy burn, reminding me of Fight Club for some reason.
Thanks to Figging.com for the link.
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Sunday, July 15th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Remember my post arguing that making sure your porn is ethically produced is no harder than doing the same thing for your salad dressing or your cheap manufactured goods? (You’d think this was obvious, but as I documented in that post, some in the rabid anti-porn crowd dispute it.)
Anyway, Evil Porn Werewolf Enslavers Debunked remains one of my favorite pieces on this blog. In support of my argument, I chose some of the scariest Eastern European spanking porn I could find and then did some basic consumer research, quoting spanking model Niki Flynn at length on the professional conditions at a Lupus Pictures porn shoot.
 
Well, now from Spanking Blog comes a link to spanking model Adele Haze writing on the same topic: Why I Modelled For Lupus Pictures.
This was serious business — you can see her welts here — but she had her reasons:
I don’t process pain as pleasure. I knew my caning would hurt a great deal, possibly more than any of my previous experiences. I did briefly wonder whether, caught up in the moment, I would find pleasure in my real-life flogging in a way I couldn’t enjoy some other girl’s filmed experience — and, pre-empting an upcoming post on the topic, no, I didn’t get any enjoyment out of the pain until it was all over — but, on the whole, I was prepared for a thoroughly uncomfortable several minutes over the famous bench.
And that was OK, because I knew – from studying the films, and from talking to Niki Flynn, who’d gone to that scary place before — that the rest of the shoot would give me the sort of pleasures that would make a few minutes of acute pain worth going through. For somebody who has a separate fetish for artistic suffering, working with a production on the scale of Lupus’s would be worth every stroke.
I had never before worked to a script, and I’d get that. I had never had somebody else think through the costume and make-up for me — I’d get that too, and in the end even the hideous pieces of reformatory wardrobe would turn out charming in their appropriateness. I had never before taken detailed direction, or shot completely — and confusingly — out of sequence, or acted in sets built for the purpose in every small detail; in short, I had never been a part of a spanking shoot run on such a professional level — and I knew that all of these experiences were mine for the taking.
Thanks, Adele, for the eye-opening account!
Thursday, May 24th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Has anybody stopped to marvel, lately, at what a wonderful world it has become for folks with numerically minor fetishes? There’s the internet for finding and meeting (and fucking) kindred souls, there’s a growing “whatever floats your boat” sentiment among civilized people, and there’s a robust world economy for sex toys of every description.
And boy, when I say every description, I’m not kidding. The latest sex miracle in silicone is … well, let’s go to the visual, or you won’t believe me.
Behold!
Ladies and gentlemen, you are looking at the SiFeet Pussy Foot. [2012 update: Sadly the Pussy Foot is no longer sold. But be ye not forlorn! There’s always the Cyberskin Foot Job Stroker or the Belladonna Foot Soldiers.]
The marketing text is like a syllabus for aspiring foot fetish marketers, fascinating therefore in its own right:
The SiFeet Pussy Foot is the ultimate fantasy sex toy for foot fetishists. This size 6, 100% silicone foot is cast in pure silicone from a real life actual, beautiful female foot. In the sole of this lovely foot is a fully functional and totally fuckable silicone vagina.
This pure silicone foot is soft, smooth, and incredibly sexy. The toes are decorated with acrylic toenails painted glossy pink, making the Pussy Foot seem even more real.
From the toes to the heel and ankle, great time and effort has been taken to insure that the Pussy Foot seems real.
The feature that makes the Pussy Foot even better than an actual foot is the pussy located on the sole of the foot. You can passionately fuck the foot in a way you’ve never been able to before. It is the perfect combination of foot and vagina.
From the toe to heel the pussy foot is 9″ long. The ankle has a 2½” diameter. The distance from the entrance in the vagina to the exit-hole at the top of the ankle is 6½”.
Anyone who appreciates beautifully sexy feet should love the Pussy Foot. This silicone foot is terrific for massaging and erotic rubbing as well as for having hot sex with it.
This silicone sex toy is also a convenient practice tool for preparing to get hot and kinky with actual feet. You are sure to have your technique down to a science when you train with the Pussy Foot.
The silicone SiFeet Pussy Foot cleans easily with soap and warm water or After Glow Toy Wipes.
The SiFeet Pussy Foot is available in a left or a right, sold separately.
If you were looking for “the perfect combination of foot and vagina”, well, now you’ve found it. But it’s the last line, in bold text, that gets me. Left foot or right? Or do you want to collect the whole set?
Let the implications of that photo sink in for a moment.
I’m not going to pussyfoot around, here. (Face it, you knew you weren’t getting out of this blog post until I’d made that pun.) The pussy foot comes in left foot and right foot? Why in all the Stygian depths would someone care whether they are boning a silicone vagina in a left foot, instead of a right one? “No, no, it has to be a left foot, or it’s no good!”
But, in the end, that’s the point. It doesn’t matter why. With fetishes, there usually isn’t a good why. What matters is, if you’ve got a thing for slipping it to a pretty left foot, we live in a world where you can get one, with just a little help from your buddy Benjamin. Don’t let anybody tell you that’s not an excellent world to be living in.
Monday, May 21st, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Susie Bright has created an Amazon list of must-have sex stuff, and in explaining the list, she’s dashed off several valuable mini essays on vibrators (wall current rules, battery-operated sucks, The Rabbit isn’t all that), lube, and the history of the sex toy industry. The lube portion I particularly like, because she simplifies down to the essentials:
Sex educators are famous for a particular cliche: “communication and lubrication” are what make people happy in bed. But truer words were never spoken.
So, given that essential fact, what lube do you get? My Amazon list is a little truncated because of what I could list on their site.
Vegetable oil is fantastic. Pre-AIDS, it was my lube of choice. If you’re aren’t using condoms, get your favorite oil– almond is really nice, maybe add a little coconut to make it creamy– and go at it. Or just grab the olive oil off the kitchen counter if time is of the essence. It feels great, it won’t hurt you, it’s sexy…. who could ask for more?
For water-soluble lubes, I always liked Probe because it has no taste! The biggest hassle with commercial lubes is that they usually taste AWFUL and make oral sex completely undesirable.
Are there other taste and scent-free lubes? Yes, Probe is my old tried-and-true. Works great with condoms, doesn’t make you ill, doesn’t cause cancer… what a treasure!
However, sometimes you need a lube that goes BEYOND. Sometimes the drugs you’re on, or menopause, can turn you into a prune. How do you get that high-flying crazy slippery feeling that goes on and on and on?
Silicone lube.
That’s why I recommended Liquid Silk for my desert island. It also is the first lube that makes hot tub and shower sex possible and even fun. It’s not water soluble– you’ll have that slippery feeling in your vagina or ass for several hours. But the slickness is so intoxicating. Just don’t use it with other silicone products or they gum each other up! Get that spatula out of your hot tub!
I do, however, find an important omission in Susie’s discussion of power sources for vibrators. She writes:
1) Electricity is essential. I don’t care what sex toy retailers say about battery-operated vibes– the main reason they push them is because they are dirt cheap, (wholesale), and they are lightweight to ship and transport (without the batts, of course!). A Hitachi magic wand is only marked up double its cost to the retailer… so if it’s $40, maybe they paid $20.
But a battery vibe might be a dollar to them and they’ll sell it for $10 or $20.
This reasoning has nothing to do with how it feels, or if women can get off on it. And the “sound” of batteries vibrating against plastic doesn’t mean it’s powerful. They can make an awful racket and not deliver any appreciable sensation.
Can women get off on battery-vibes? YES, some can, some are their mother’s darlings– I’m not on a crusade to get rid of them. But the reason they are hyped the way they are is because of money, not because of universal sexual satisfaction.
The vibrators that are produced by the mainstream appliance manufacturers like Hitachi and Wahl, were originally introduced as “massagers.” They’re quality appliances that will last years and years. I still have the first ones I ever bought in 1981. They have warranties. They have a following that’s been going for decades, based on technology that’s over a century old now.
I always hated selling a woman a battery-operated model for her first vibrator because there was a 50% chance she’d find the whole thing a hoax. However, if I sold her a motor-driven or coil-operated electric model, she’d come out of the ‘try-out’ room with this amazed look on her face, and say, ‘OH! I GET IT NOW!”
I agree wholeheartedly about the puny vibrations you can get from a couple of “C” or even “AA” batteries. When I’ve got a vibrator in one hand and a lady’s labia and clitoral hood in the other, I want some serious jiggle and buzz. “Can you feel it now?” is not the game I am here to play. I have pink bits to vibrate and I want them V*i*B*R*a*T*e*D, not tickled. (For tickling, I have feathers.)
On the other hand, as any roofer can tell you, there isn’t an electrical outlet handy under every current bush, and dragging a power cord behind you is a pain in the ass. The same technology that lets a guy with a tool belt and a hairy ass crack drive sheet metal screws for forty minutes at the top of a sixteen foot ladder (rechargeable ni-cad or lithium-ion batteries, ta-dah!) makes a perfectly acceptable power source for a vibrator. I’ve raved before about the Phantasy Sinnflut, which is a tool-grade rechargeable vibrator that any man could be proud to dock on its charging base in the garage next to his DeWalt drill and his Makita reciprocal saw. It’s nobody’s budget option, but it’s handier than anything with a cord, safer in the shower, and functionally far beyond anything with a disposable dry cell in it.
Saturday, May 19th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Set up the drumroll please: “…or are you just happy to see me?”
They’ve found a potential new erection drug in spider venom. From BBC News:
Spider venom could boost sex life
By Vladimir Hernandez
BBC News
Brazilian and US scientists are looking into using spider venom as a possible treatment for male impotence.
Their investigation follows reports that men bitten by the Phoneutria nigriventer experienced priapism – long and painful erections.
A two-year study has found that the venom contains a toxin, called Tx2-6, that causes erections.
Further tests are being carried out in the US before the substance can be approved for human use.
The results, from the Medical College of Georgia, are expected in a month’s time.
The bite of Phoneutria nigriventer, known as the Brazilian wandering spider, is potent and can be deadly in some cases.
The Brazilian and US researchers interviewed men who claimed their sex lives had improved after a spider attack.
The relevant toxin identified in the venom has been tested successfully on other animals.
So far, scientists believe that combining a version of the spider’s venom with an existing drug for erectile dysfunction – such as Viagra, Cialis or Levitra – could produce better results.
Thanks to World Sex News for the link.
Wednesday, May 2nd, 2007 -- by Bacchus
I’ve commented before on the strange labeling and odd packaging of transsexuals in the porn industry. And I’ve shaken my head at the odd ways guys use transsexual porn in internet games of oneupsmanship. But for all of that, I don’t claim to understand the “tranny porn” genre. And my bafflement is surely compounded by the fact that most of what I’ve seen has been poorly produced and badly marketed by pornographers who don’t seem to have been very engaged with the content.
Well, that last problem, at least, seems to have become ancient history, now that Kink.com has announced its new site: TS Seduction – Where Straight Men Take TS Cock For The First Time. It ought to be very interesting to see their special brand of San Francisco values applied to a historically neglected, traditionally crappy porn genre.
From the press release:
Leader in fetish entertainment leader, Kink.com announced the launch of their 11th all exclusive video and photo content site, TSSeduction.com, featuring hot transsexual women seducing straight men in the first site of its kind. With a new weekly video shoot update, the site boasts the hottest TS girls in action, dominating, seducing and enticing men into first time TS adventures.
Webmaster of TSS, Isis Love has been in the adult entertainment industry for over 7 years. She has worked on both sides of the camera and has been a model and guest director for Kink.com’s woman dominating men site, MenInPain.com for over 3 years.
“With one foot already in the door, I took this opportunity to join the team at Kink.com. After talking to the crew, I came in and directed some test shoots for the developing site,” said Isis Love. “I am totally excited.”
One thing’s for sure, when they advertise (to use their terms) hot transsexual women, they aren’t kidding about the hot part:
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, February 5th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Subbie Bunnie has something to say about erotic pain, starting with a practical tip:
you have a subbie that goes stoic? you have a girl that doesn’t cry out? i swear to god, this will fix it. take one normal ordinary chopstick. gently and sweetly take your bottom’s hand. place the chopstick across the nailbed (the root end, not the tip end). now, get ready, and press. HARD. and don’t stop pressing.. and listen to your subbie scream and scream and SCREAM. omigodpain. holy cow, holy shit, ow ow ow pain.
now, i should have taken it as a bad sign that his own slave (who takes a blade to her skin with barely a cry and the whip too) hold your head carefully in her lap and advises, “just scream. there’s really nothing else for it.”
…
i forget how the pain feels. i forget, and i need to feel it again. i’m addicted to it, to the heady spacey feeling of almost too much, of the breaths caught so hard my lungs rebel against the sharpness of the air. i long for the grey-sparkly blur of my vision when the whitehot flash of cane, or whip, or electric spark erases everything except for the heat in my pussy, the burn in my blood, the words on my lips, begging pleading for the almost otherwordly and almost equally agonizing burst of pleasure. like jumping in the deep end of the pool, when it’s not quite warm enough to swim yet, and the water is ice, and the shock is all you feel, all you can register, until your feet hit bottom , and bring you back, pushing, fighting, to the surface, and break out, gasping, into the glittering, blinding reality that is suddenly so much brighter.
hurt me again…
Wednesday, January 24th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
A while back I noticed a Bondage Blog post called Hanging Like Ripe Fruit. The post (illustrated by some bondage porn from Hogtied.com) featured a suspension tie reminiscent of a scene from The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty, a famous BDSM novel by Ann Rice. Unfortunately Bondage Blog only posted one picture, so in a moment of boredom, I went back to Anne Rice to help flesh it out:
“Double her, for punishment,” said Lord Gregory. “I think a real punishment is in order.”
Princess Lizetta gave several high-pitched groans. They seemed both anger and protest. She seemed not to have bargained for this, and as she was carried ahead of Beauty and Lord Gregory into the Hall of Punishments, the Pages quickly affixed leather cuffs to her wrists and ankles, each cuff with a heavy metal hook imbedded in it.
Now she was raised, struggling, to a great low beam that spanned the room, her wrists hung from a hook above her head and then her legs brought straight up in front of her so that her ankles were fixed to the same hook. The was, in fact, bent double. Her head was then forced between her calves, so that Beauty could see her face clearly. And a leather strap was bound around here, securely pressing her upturned legs against her torso.
But the most cruel and frightening aspect of it for Beauty was the exposure of the Princess’s secret parts, for she was hung so that anyone could see her full sex with its pink lips and its dark hair even to the tiny brown orifice between her buttocks. And all this just below her scarlet face. Beauty could imagine no worse exposure and she looked down timidly, glancing up again and again to the girl whose suspended body moved slightly as with a current in the air, the leather links at her wrists and ankles creaking.
…
The man in velvet had begun to stroke Princess LIzetta’s sex with a small instrument that was, as so much here, covered in smooth black leather. This was a three-pronged rod that somewhat resembled a hand, and as soon as he teased the helpless Princess, she began to struggle in her bonds.
Beauty understood at once what was happening. The Princess’s pink sex, terrifying to Beauty as it hung so unprotected, appeared to swell, to ripen. Beauty could see tiny droplets of moisture appear on it.
…
“Lord Gregory,” the Lady said, “you must think of something special.” Then to Beauty’s horror, the lady reached out delicately and fastidiously and pinched Princess LIzetta’s pubic lips hard so that they exuded moisture. Then she pinched the right lip and the left, and the girl winced with pain and misery.
Lord Gregory had meantime snapped his fingers for the Lord with the iron clawlike hand, and whispered something Beauty could not hear. “It will strengthen her punishment.”
And now the Lord appeared with a little pot and a brush and as the Lady stepped back, he took the brush and bathed Princess LIzetta’s naked organ in a heavy syrup. A few droplets fell to the floor, and the princess again made known her misery. She sobbed softly behind her gag, but the Lady only smiled rather innocently and shook her head. “It will attract any flies we have about,” Lord Gregory said, “and if we have none it shall produce its inevitable itching as it dries. It is quite uncomfortable.”
The Lady did not seem satisfied. Her pretty and innocent face was smooth however and she sighed. “I suppose it will do for now, but I wish she were bound with her legs apart to a stake in the garden. Then let the flies and the little insects of the air find her honeyed mouth. She deserves it.”
Although there are no dramatically better views in the short trailer and sample views visible for free without whipping out your credit card, a membership will get you rather a lot more!
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.
Monday, November 20th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
It’s been well over a year since I last linked to Naked Jen, and I’m not sure why I’ve let it go so long. Jen has one of those life blogs, I’d guess you’d call it; or, if you’re old fashioned, it might be considered an online journal or diary. Content: Jen, writing about what happens to Jen.
Except for the special sauce: every so often, Jen takes off her clothes in public and posts the picture. Frequently without any commentary at all, like it was the most ordinary thing. It’s really quite delightful.
Just fer instance, here’s Jen discovering damage to her Honda Element:
Luckily for us, she recently posted an uncharacteristically detailed account on the “Why naked Jen?” question, which I think is worth quoting in detail:
It was a really lovely party, a gathering of some folks who I already knew and many that I did not, with amazing food and laughter and beautiful children who were quite busy adorning themselves with sparkly things and glittery paint and just the right balloon animal.
At one point, Gwendomama mentioned to someone at the party that I was Nakedjen. As in THE Nakedjen. From the Internet. The one she talks about all the time. The one who just gets naked whenever. The one who got naked at the Mexican restaurant when she was there and she missed the opportunity!
That Nakedjen.
But then it didn’t stop there. She loaded this blog. On her very large flat screen monitor that was sitting right on the buffet table. There was a smorgasbord of food and behind it was me, upside down on a bed, naked. Well, I suppose it’s not a party until someone gets naked, as I always say, and it was probably a good thing that it was me.
Anyway, everyone was, as you might imagine, quite curious about exactly what it meant to be Nakedjen. Why I did it? What was the purpose? What was it all about?
So I happily explained that I am quite comfortable in my body. That being naked for me is a celebration of my body and of myself. I also explained that I was very tired of the distorted images of women that we are constantly fed by the media that make women feel that they are imperfect. Or not quite good enough. I was upset by a media that was constantly shoving the photo shopped perfected Barbie Doll images at us from the cover of magazines and television and billboards and was doing its best to create a very large population of women who absolutely hated everything about themselves.
I wanted to change that. And I was going to start with me.
So I started writing Nakedjen. It was my very subtle political platform. Because obviously I chose to be naked about my entire life, not just that particular agenda. Once I really started writing Nakedjen, I decided to write completely from my heart and soul. Bare it all. To be truly naked. And raw. And very real.
I also decided that I would post naked pictures of myself. That, I will admit, came more from my job at the time than from anything else. I was the product manager for an on-line sex chat community. Basically I was working in the porn industry. And I didn’t like what I was seeing at all. Because the women who were being served up to the men were not REAL. Men were paying lots of money for the fantasy of these women (and there’s nothing wrong with fantasy!), but I decided that I would give them a bona-fide, genuine, absolutely 100% real naked woman.
Now, let me reiterate that for me it wasn’t about being sexual. That honestly has never been my intention. I’m just me. I realize on an intellectual level that there are plenty of men (and women) out there that find my naked body attractive. Or even, gasp, HOT as they like to tell me. But for me, it honestly was just about saying, “Look, here I am! Nakedjen! This is my body. I love every inch of it and think it’s beautiful. And I think your naked body is absolutely perfect and beautiful, too!”
Thanks, Jen!
(Previous links: Naked Jen Goes To Washington and Naked At Disney World.)
Wednesday, November 1st, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Yes, she’s arguably gilding the lily. Heck, she says as much herself, it’s hardly a secret. But sometimes a little gilt paint helps rock the world.
We’re talking, of course, about a pile of advanced blowjob tips from Pretty Dumb Things, with a side order of suggested anal/oral entertainment:
The paper frills on the ends of the lamb chops aren’t necessary, but they’re nice. The umbrella in your adult beverage doesn’t make it taste any better, but it’s festive. The balconette push-up bra doesn’t really give you perkier breasts, but it’s alluring. None of these things–not the paper frills, the wee umbrella, the naughty lingerie–actually makes the decorated item any better, but they seem as if they do. The lamb chop seems more succulent; the frozen piña colada appears more decadent; the breasts look as if they’re ripe for the plucking.
In the spirit of sexy similitude, let me present you with a few things you can do that will put the icing on the cake, the gild on the lily, the pastie on the nipple, if you will, of your blow job.
…
Eyes on the Prize: One thing a dude likes is if you look as if you’re enjoying sucking his dick. One way you can perform your enjoyment is to make eye contact. Especially at the beginning of the blow job, before you’re getting all hot and heavy and the guy’s eyes are lolling back in his head in full-on pleasure mode, get yourself in a position to look at him over the head of his cock as it rubs against your lips, as your tongue twirls around its head, as it slowly enters your mouth. It’s not something you can–or want–to spend your entire blow job doing, but it’s a great beginning, or a fine punctuation in the middle, especially if you want to slow things down while simultaneously heating things up.
Say It With Me, “Pruneâ€?: When Marilyn Monroe wanted to make the perfect kissy mouth for photos, she said, “prune,â€? as legend as it. Your turn to be a siren. Say “pruneâ€? and see what your lips do. Now put a nice tumescent cock in front of your mouth and say it over and over, each time more lasciviously. Let your tongue escape like a naughty little wet monkey and flick at the rim of your man’s cock head. Imagine you’re French, and say it again.
You can also wrap the head of the cock in your lips and make tiny, fluttering sucking motions with your mouth as you slowly pop the cock out of your mouth to say “Pruneâ€? again. “Dried Plumâ€? just doesn’t have the same erotic resonance.
Und so weiter.
Tuesday, October 31st, 2006 -- by Bacchus
OK, so there’s a lot of bad porn out there. But sometimes — accidentally or on purpose — you find pure art. This picture looks like a scene from a morality play I might almost watch. If Norman Rockwell had been just a little bit pervier, he might have painted it, and given it a pretentious title. “The Unwelcome Invitation”, anyone?
Picture is from some Lupus Spanking porn found on Spanking Blog.
Monday, October 9th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Via Boing Boing comes word that persistent hiccups (no laughing matter, some people have them for years, and can’t even swallow solid food because of it) can sometimes be stopped via “digital rectal massage”:
A 60-year-old man with acute pancreatitis developed persistent hiccups after insertion of a nasogastric tube. Removal of the latter did not terminate the hiccups which had also been treated with different drugs, and several manoeuvres were attempted, but with no success. Digital rectal massage was then performed resulting in abrupt cessation of the hiccups. Recurrence of the hiccups occurred several hours later, and again, they were terminated immediately with digital rectal massage. No other recurrences were observed.
One imagines that a finger is not the only appendage that would work, which immediately makes me think of a great approach for those of you whose main squeeze has painted on the stop sign. Next time they get the hiccups that won’t go away, forget the drink of water, the brown paper bag, the sudden scare. Instead, say “Honey, I know a sure cure…”
Friday, October 6th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Dominatrix Isis Love, it seems, likes her men dirty:
Possibly it’s because she has so much fun washing them up:
What do you think, ladies? Does he clean up real good?
Pictures courtesy of Men In Pain.
Thursday, October 5th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
In the tired stereotype of the semi-satisfying suburban sex life, blowjobs often feature as a “special” activity if at all — birthday sex, or as a sexual “reward” for being a well-trained man, as in this old joke. As is obvious to any sex blog reader, that old stereotype is getting less and less apt these days, but it still rings true for a vast swathe of American manhood.
But not, it must be said, at Kaya’s house:
He likes to be serviced sexually while He’s busy doing something else. I suppose that could be labelled a fetish of sorts. He likes to have me working hard to suck His cock while He’s distracting Himself with… well, with anything. A book, the tv, the computer. It’s a challenge for my dick-sucking abilities to keep Him hard when He’s otherwise occupied. When He starts going soft I know I’m beginning to lack in effort. That’s about when He’ll start chastising me too. If it happens too often, if I’m really lacking in effort, He will get mad.
I know alot of people, women, would find that to be disrespectful or they’d flat out refuse to do it. I’ve read it, I’ve heard it. They want or need that attention, they’d see His focusing on something else as an insult of some sort. And I’ve experienced that too. I feel that at times and I get irritated and frustrated and have let it become personal. I’ve gone down the road of “He doesn’t like me, He doesn’t want me, I could be any whore down here, I’m not attractive to Him, blah blah blah.” Been there. But it’s not about that. Not really.
He is getting off on the humiliation that it causes me, of course. And it *is* humiliating. Mostly though, He’s getting off on the power and control. It’s a huge power trip for Him. He gets off on the effort I put into it. I’m *working* to please Him while He’s working to ignore it. While He lies/sits there, cool as a cucumber and seemingly uninterested, I’m sweating, I’m grunting, I’m generally in some degree of discomfort or pain and all I am getting out of it is a ‘good girl’ at the end. And I’ll only hear that if I’ve put enough effort into it to have impressed Him.
It’s a victory for me if I can make it good enough and catch His interest enough, that He stops everything else that He’s doing and focuses on me. Focuses on me in a good way that is, not because I’ve messed things up somehow. I was victorious on this night though.
The computer is just one of the things that He will be busy doing when He snaps and points at His crotch. The ol’ snap-n-point. Snap and point and I am on my knees searching for His cock. What a spoiled man He is.
Tuesday, August 8th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
It has been, by all reports, hot in New York City this summer. Or as Chelsea Girl puts it:
Step outside and it feels as if you’ve entered a hot, wet oven. You’re the pat of butter on the baked potato that is Gotham. It’s hot, hot, hot heat, wet and hot, and it cleaves to you, sweat-pressing your skin and enervating you with its doughy-moist succubus embrace.
You need to go somewhere the sun don’t shine. You need to find your place in the shade. You need to embrace your inner arctic. You need to stick an ice cube up your ass.
Yes, of course. My very first thought. Only, somehow, not.
Anyway, being a woman, she has to do it in the bathtub.
Which means she has to clean the tub first. Foreplay, I guess.
Nine paragraphs later (!) she gets to the good part:
You take a cube, you rest it against your asshole and you feel the immediate pucker of the asskiss, that quick inward convulsion, that wrinkle-crinkle in and up. And then with a deep breath, surely, remorselessly, unmercifully you use your index and middle fingers to push the ice cube into your ass.
The shock of the ice. Silver sliver ice-nine-esque core radiating. Like the plunge into a mountain stream from the inside. A swift round shot of pleasure/pain/pleasure.
Your breath inhales ragged-like. You imagine it’s not unlike the sensation of crack, only pure body.
Sunday, August 6th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
It’s Sunday morning in America — what better time for a tasteful bit of sodomy?
In the style of all those Kama Sutra paintings from India, though its actual provenance is unknown to me.
Similar Sex Blogging:
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!
Wednesday, May 10th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
This photograph of the incredibly edible Annie Cruz is one of those pictures that strikes you (well, it struck me) half-dumb from the sheer beauty of the model:
As the man in the bejeweled turban said: “Have that one bathed and sent to my tent.”
Er, Pasha? Begging your eminence’s pardon, but there may be a slight flaw in that plan.
It turns out that Annie is seen here mistressing in the Men In Pain femdom dungeons. If he’s not careful, our would-be acquisitive sheik could find himself tied by the balls to his own tent peak. But not, perhaps, without a bit of tenderness:
Even if you aren’t the sort of man who normally enjoys having a woman tie him up and be mean to him, the full shoot of Annie in action suggests that perhaps it wouldn’t be all bad….
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, April 21st, 2006 -- by Aphrodite
J and I both have the whole weekend off, yippeeee! The weather’s supposed to be good, so I told him I’d come over and help with a big project of his (he’s the friend I mentioned here). You know I’ll be doing my best to work on my “big project” too, which is his lovely cock. So far J’s been a darling, pretty much what I said I wanted, so it’s more than just good great sex.
And that’s the thing. I’m ready to move beyond the regular sex, I want to experiment some, I want his eyes to roll back in his head and to hear him say “That was amazing!” What I don’t want to hear, or for him to think, is “What a slut.” Like Steff said in a post on titty fucking:
There’s an interesting dichotomy in the sexual world. One aspect is the woman who enjoys almost any sexual act. She’s often portrayed as lewd, slutty, easy, or loose, just because she’s an enthusiast. And that’s bullshit, my friends. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, the activities you enjoy surrounding sex should not judge who you are as a person.
But then there’s the flipside. If you’re hesitant to do some of the so-called edgier/pornified things, you get painted a bit as a vanilla lover, or someone who’s “conservative” in the bedroom, which is also bullshit, my friends.
How do you find that happy in between? Can somebody who’s a sexblogger avoid the slut tag?
J’s still going through the divorce dance, so it’s too early to say what will happen between us. I don’t want to rush him but I do want to explore some sex stuff. God, what a minefield this is!
More…… J just sent me some beautiful flowers! They’re those curvey tulips with the pointy petals, and the card says “Looking forward to bucking rivets – and more – with you!” Keep your fingers crossed for me!
Monday, April 17th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Sorry for the light posting recently. I spent my weekend fighting off a spring chest cold and doing tax paperwork. It’s important to get that stuff right, because if you don’t, what happens to you is akin to the cartoon below, except it’s in a sterile room full of 1970s metal filing cabinets under bright flourescent lights that buzz and flicker:
Tuesday, February 21st, 2006 -- by Bacchus
You know that springtime is coming when you see Heidi Klum in Sports Illustrated wearing nothing but an ounce of body paint:
Yum yum.
Monday, December 26th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
Perhaps if you were very good (or very naughty, but in a good way) you found a video iPod in your stocking yesterday morning. Lucky you! It’s a nifty toy.
However, in that case you’ll looking for “stuff” to watch on it, so I wanted to remind you of some of the porn resources for the video iPod that I’ve stumbled over in recent weeks. I did a long post about using GUBA to find iPod porn, plus I’ve mentioned (here and here) that two of the kinky sites I sometimes promote have started putting iPod-ready video content in their members areas.
A few more sites where iPod porn is now available to members:
Sex And Submission: (Real bondage sex)
Whipped Ass: (Female/female spanking and domination)
Fucking Machines: (Heavily modified power “tools”)
Men In Pain: (Female domination of men)
Water Bondage: (Just what it sounds like)
Ultimate Surrender: (Nude girls wrestle; winner dominates loser)
Fair warning: Most of these sites have just begun offering their movie clips in iPod format, and they haven’t (yet) converted their archives. So you won’t find hundreds of iPod-ready movies, just the ones from recent updates.
Enjoy!
Update from the future: Hi, this is the future. We have smartphones now. Video iPods? What the hell were those? The good news is, Kink.com now has everything in .mp4 format, in five different sizes. If you’ve got a screen the size of your thumbnail on your watch, or or a TV the size of your living room wall, they’ve got you covered. Ain’t progress grand?
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.
Wednesday, December 7th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
Somehow Red makes a cattle prod sound like fun. Either it is, or she’s a heck of a good sex writer:
Her hand rubbed over my left bum cheek, over and over again. I felt pussy throbbed as excitement ran through me — anticipation of the jolt to come was giving me an unexpected rush. The I felt the prongs poking my bum — poking, readjusting, poking again. My breath was caught in my throat; it was the point of no return. I breathed deeply. I let the pain wash over me.
I could feel the surge — the peak of the electricity coursing through the muscle. Everything felt funny, like nothing was going to work properly — similar to that numb feeling that happens when limbs fall asleep. My nerves shrieked as the wave of pain washed over me — fast and furious and addictively alluring. I could feel it draining out of me as soon as it began — my jolted nerves sighing with relief. I felt jumpstarted and I felt consumed.
Smiling and giggling uncontrollably, I grabbed at the spot, rubbing it to preserve the tingling. I felt high — my head was floaty and relaxed and alert. Crazed like an addict, I knew I needed more.
Volunteers, anyone?
Saturday, September 24th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
Via Bondage Blog comes this link to an interesting discourse on advertising images of women. But I was amazed by the casual one-sentence dismissal of kinky people, in a line that calls an image of a “‘woman-in-pain-but-she-loves-it-really” “misogynist iconography”.
There is, of course, a vast community of women who enjoy bondage and/or pain, plus the people who love those women. So now all these people (a huge chunk of the BDSM community) are misogynists? I’ve read that passage several times, and I just can’t see any way to read it that doesn’t attribute misogyny to all BDSM erotica with female subjects. I thought those sorts of baseless generalizations went out of fashion when civilized people started laughing at Andrea Dworkin.
Here’s the “misogynist iconography” in question:
What grosses me out about that image is that it appears to be one of those advertising images where they’ve used Photoshop as a “digital rack” to stretch the model, so that she appears unnaturally long in the torso and limbs. That’s gotta hurt.
Monday, September 19th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
Under the I’m-not-making-this-up headline “The Twat Thickens“, advice columnist Sasha finds out and explains the secrets of making art molds of female naughty bits:
Hay begins with a plaster mould. She bought nine aluminum roasting pans, mixed six inches of plaster in them and had her shaven and Vaseline-slathered actresses squat into them. “You know it’s beginning to set when it starts getting hot,” she says. Keep your eye out for bubbles, but if you get some (and you will), soak the hardened plaster in warm water, then plug the holes with wet plaster.
Hay used beeswax to create her vaginas and they are exquisite. Actually, I believe Ellie Rae Hennessey’s is still kicking around Buddies if you want to have a look. Hay began with one layer of peachy-coloured beeswax (tinted with oil paint that comes in sticks), swooshed it around the mould, then after it dried, swooshed a layer of tinted red wax on top of it. This layering process gave the vaginas a life-like quality. “Don’t forget to put a release agent between the cast and the wax,” she says. A thin coat of Pam works just fine. None of the actresses Hay cast complained of any infections or problems afterwards, but do make sure you get all that Vaseline off.
One thing that can’t be stressed enough: make sure you are fully shaven — and that goes for your asshole as well — because prying off plaster or alginate embedded with your pubes hurts like a motherfucker.
Like the man said, the more you know….
Thursday, July 28th, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
I have a soft spot in my heart for Barbarella. I know it’s cheesy by today’s standards, and Jane Fonda’s politics don’t endear her to alot of people, but that movie is just naughty-sexy-fun to me. And her costumes? Still beautiful.
When I saw this painting it reminded me of Barbarella, but brought into the 21st century:
So lovely! The painting is called “Metal Nouveau”, and it’s by Marcus Gray (the link will take you to the full-size image). His web site has several other paintings like this, plus lots in other styles, some sort of cartoonish. Lots of sexy, hot art!
Saturday, May 28th, 2005 -- by Dionysus
I’d intended to write in this space, but time and tide, as they say. I’ve done nothing but post pictures.
Thus, words.
This could be a true story.
We meet at a party.
We’re not supposed to know each other, but we do. Know each other’s words, minds, souls. Yet we’ve never met.
Drink in my hand, I pretend to ignore her as I chat up some lovely ladies who are intent upon being mine for the evening. She’s nervous never at ease in crowds. I know her eyes are on me, but I do not turn to look. Music plays. I fetch drinks for my erstwhile dates. Lush women, to my taste, normally, but there’s only one woman in the room tonight.
I circulate away from her, but I know where she is. I wait.
I catch her when she goes down the hall to use the bathroom; timing it, I am there behind her just as the door opens, and then in a rush I have her in my arms, and am shutting the door behind us. I turn out the light, and we’re lit only softly, moonlight through a high window.
First kiss. She knows it’s me. Knows my touch before ever a hand is laid on her. I take her mouth, roughly. We speak no words. It’s not time for talk, that’s yesterday. That’s tomorrow.
I guide her down; she’s told me this story, written a script, and for now, that’s how I play it. She’s on her knees, and her hands free my cock, and her mouth takes me. I hold her head, fuck into her mouth. I gag her, make her choke. Later, I’ll touch her gently, but now, we need it to hurt.
She wants my come. She won’t get it yet. I stop her, and she squeals in frustration. I put my cock away, and make her stand.
“Fix your makeup,” I say, and tell her to do whatever else she’s in here for. She does, and I watch her, the lights back on. Her face is flushed, red. Her lipstick is smeared, her lips invitingly puffy. I almost take her again, from behind this time. But not yet; I open the door, distract two people in line while she slips out behind me.
I catch her by the elbow and steer her toward the stairs. There’s a guest room. The door has a lock. I sweep coats and purses off the bed, lock the door behind us. She protests – someone might come looking. I don’t care. I push her down on the bed, rip a filmy thong from her and put it in my pocket as she gasps.
I put a finger in her; she’s incredibly wet, and incredibly tight. It’s going to hurt her when I take her, And I’m looking forward to that. I hold her down, and kiss her, and rub my cock against her slick wetness. Then I’m forcing myself inside, holding her face with one hand, making her look at me so I can see her pain.
God, she’s tight. I can feel her body fighting to keep me out. I fight harder, then kiss her to contain the scream. I thrust in, each stroke deeper, making her fit me, making her yield to me. She screams into my mouth, and kisses, and screams.
I want to take time. I want to make her come. But it’s too much. I give in to her, abandon restraint, and stab her with my cock. My scream meets hers and I come, and keep thrusting, my fingers on her clit, my cock only half hard but still inside.
“Come for me, you little whore,” I whisper, and she’s howling, screaming, her pussy clenching on me. Anyone outside would think murder is being done, and I fantasize the whole house knows how I’ve just taken her. Her screams turn to sobs, and her body shakes, and she begins to whisper that she loves me.
We’ve only started. She thinks I’m going to let her go. I’m not.
DionysusBlog@gmail.com
Thursday, April 28th, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
I’m still not fully functional on my new computer, but that’s not why I’m not posting here more regularly. Monday afternoon I got a call from R (remember R and me?) that’s knocked me sideways. So instead of visiting fun sites I’m hanging around Love is a Cunt. Even this gorgeous photo, sent to me by a wonderful friend, makes me think more of sadness and pain than beauty and wonder:
This compressed, smaller version doesn’t do justice to the unmanipulated image that was a Photo.Net Photograph of the Week.
I’ll be back when I have something more fitting to offer.
Monday, March 21st, 2005 -- by Bacchus
I’m a bigger fan of online romance than most (it’s how I found The Nymph, after all, or how she found me, if you want to be a stickler for accuracy) but like any other method of finding true love, it has its unique painful pitfalls. The much-spanked Librarygirl acutely summarizes one of them:
X had been having an online/telephone relationship with a man. They were good friends and had known each other for a little over a year.
They both decided that they would meet, and see if they enjoyed playing. She decided that she would fly out to meet him. So she bought her (non-refundable) ticket and they made plans.
A week ago, they traded pictures. He sent her a picture of him, and she decided it was only fair to send him one of her.
And then he dropped off the face of the planet.
Grrrr. Why would a man of goodwill spend a year in online flirtation if he’s holding out for Pamela Anderson? (Or, even: if looks are a controlling variable in his romantic calculus?) I say again, grrrr.
Sunday, February 27th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
On the one hand, my ErosBlog editorial policy is to refrain from trashing anybody’s sexual choices. On the other hand, I don’t think I’ve ever been heard to say anything nice about adulterous affairs. Not because I feel judgmental or condemnatory about them, but for a much simpler reason: all the real-world examples I’m aware of have caused or resulted in a degree of pain that calls the net hedonic benefit into question.
I don’t think this little excerpt from Have to Share is any exception:
I drove the 3 hours down, spent maybe an hour with him, purely sex. Then I made the 3 hour drive back. He hasn’t really spoken to me since. I don’t know what to believe from him anymore. He says he cares for me, but the majority of the e-mails he sends are describing sexual escapades he would like to have in the future. I write him a little of both. I love him. I love the person he is. However, he reminds me of the way my step-brother that molested me in how he treats me. I am wonderful for his amusement over the webcam. I am fascinating when describing sexual adventures for the future. I am amazing when I’m on top of him. Yet, when none of this is going on, he is too busy too speak to me. He’s too busy working. Or, he’s at home, too busy with his wife.
Ouchies.
Tuesday, February 1st, 2005 -- by Bacchus
If you thought Mel Gibson looked good all painted with woad and shouting “FREEDOM!”, you might approve of this picture just as much:
Personally, I think she’s a lot cuter than Mel Gibson.
From Naked Protesters.
Wednesday, January 26th, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
I am so not a porn writer, just to warn anybody who hasn’t read the first two parts yet…..but some readers are still interested in this tale, so I’ll continue to tell.
Part 1
Part 2
R called my folks’ house Thanksgiving evening to tell me that some problem had sprung up and he’d need to go back to Washington sooner than he’d planned…like, tomorrow. I agreed to meet him early Friday morning, even though I was unsure of what I wanted out of our re-established relationship, and less sure of what he wanted.
Over breakfast, R tells me that it’s been alot of fun, reconnecting with me, and especially venting some of those teenage fantasies…..But…..the pause draws out uncomfortably. Finally he looks up from his coffee and finishes, “But that’s not how I am now. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to show you how I am now.”
Intrigued, I reply, “Well, how’s about you tell me how you are now?” His glum face furrows into a frown. “Telling is even harder. [another long pause] If we lived closer, and if I didn’t have to travel so goddamn much, it might be worth trying…..”
Trying what? I wonder. Instead, I say, “You know me R, I’ll try anything once, and if it doesn’t kill me, I might just try it again.” Expecting him to smile at that, I’m instead baffled by an expression of thoughtful pondering, followed after another long pause by, “Mmmm…..yes, you’re still adventurous…..”
Finally R emerges from his thinking and says, “If you’re game, I’ll put on my thinking cap and see what I come up with.”
My curiosity is just about killing me at this point, so even though some small corner of my brain is going, WTF is this all about?, I reply, “Hell yes I’m game. Just give me enough notice to juggle my work.”
The conversation then turns to other topics. As we’re leaving the restaurant, R asks me to say goodbye to my family for him. Then, he pulls me to him, opening his leather jacket as if to enfold me in it. Our goodbye kiss starts innocently enough, but quickly becomes passionate, and almost involuntarily I hungrily press my hips forward. R shifts slightly, still kissing me….brings a hand up to my breast….and tweaks my nipple, hard. My gasp of surprise and pain breaks the kiss, and I see a glint of something far beyond impish in R’s eyes. He pulls away, saying, “I’ll let you know what I come up with.”
As I watch his SUV move away I realize I’m soaking wet, and desperate for a fuck….almost as if R hadn’t slaked my hunger at all.
Wednesday, December 8th, 2004 -- by Aphrodite
Having some steamy sex over Thanksgiving was great for me, but now I think I miss having a man around even more than ever. Not just for the sex, but mostly for the simple pleasures that I’d forgotten about. Cat over at Pussy Tales knows what I mean. She pegged one of my favorite things in her post he smells like yum:
and I know I’m not making ANY sense here but…that smell can be any smell of him…like shampoo or deodorant or after-shave or just that natural body smell…hmmm…that’s my favourite…that natural smell of a man…when he’s been working a bit too hard…or when he’s taken a long hot shower and his skin is fresh and tastes just like honey…he’s warm and tender and tastes SO yummy…
Girl, you are making loads of sense to me! Hooboy, do I ever miss the smell of a man! Sometimes I think they can be as bad as women about trying to cover their smells, although they do have less to obsess about, I guess.
While reading some news this morning, I came across another testament to people’s fascination with penises going way back. It’s a penis tree, although that’s really hard to see in this scaled-down picture:
The caption under the image (a Reuters image I found at Yahoo News) reads as follows:
An undated handout photograph shows the Massa Marittima mural in the Italian town Massa Marittima. At first glance the mural looks fairly similar to dozens of other medieval frescoes dotted across Tuscany, but a closer look at the spidery tree which dominates the centre of the painting shows its branches are covered in penises. Until now, it was assumed the phallus tree was a fertility symbol but according to a British-based expert, it is a actually a unique piece of political propaganda, commissioned by one Tuscan faction to sully the reputation of another.
The link will take you to a slightly larger version of the image…not large enough to see anything in sufficient detail, alas.
Hope all this makes up for my absence lately….trying to get ahead on some work, for reasons which I might be able to announce to y’all later today. :)
Friday, October 29th, 2004 -- by Aphrodite
With a name like Da Goddess, y’all knew it was just a matter of time before I checked her out. Sure enough, when I did I discovered that she’s also a goddess of fine taste. To wit, her commentary on men’s heads:
Some of the sexiest men I know have very little hair, if they have hair at all.
Sing it, sister! Just as Bacchus expounds on many women’s discomfort with their varying smells, I simply don’t understand why so many men seem to think hair is sexier than bald. And all that crazy stuff some of them do to try to disguise the obvious … that’s even worse.
I dated a young, balding guy for awhile, and one of the sexiest things about him (in addition to his mostly-smooth top) was the self-confidence he displayed, in going against the Rogaine, hair-plug, hair-paint crowd that insinuates that a guy has to have hair to be sexy. He was hot!
Now maybe I can find a sexy shot of a bald guy to close the week on…meantime, you can go read Da Goddess’s mini-rant on men’s heads. Pretty site, too. :D
Thursday, October 7th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Rarely has such delicious debauchery been so succinctly described. Just three sentences:
The last and only time I was at Exotic Erotic was when I snuck in with the Extra Action Marching Band in a Batgirl costume (carry a horn and act stoned). I got drunk and stole a wheelchair; band members took turns riding in it and giving/getting lap dances, we painted unibrows on all the guys. The band did their entire set in the men’s bathroom, and when the rubber chickens filled with blood came out, all bets were off and I found myself thrown out of Exotic Erotic around four in the morning with a bunch of very fucked up half-naked and bloody musicians.
Of course, it’s Violet Blue. Sounds like a good time — the only thing she left out was the peach preserves!
Wednesday, October 6th, 2004 -- by Aphrodite
I’ll admit to not being the foremost expert on breasts, but when I saw these, I couldn’t help but think, “Who could find those attractive?”:
I’m sure some do, or tits like that wouldn’t exist.
On the other hand, this painting is much more lucscious to me:
Neither one is me, just for the record.
Tuesday, September 7th, 2004 -- by Aphrodite
I forgot it was the Labor Day weekend! I’ve been busy the past few days getting the place squared away before fall’s chill begins kissing the land — it happens early where I live. I also took the opportunity to freshen up my bedroom. I painted it a deep blushing-pink almost-red shade, and it’s gorgeous. It looks like a spectacular sunset all the time (and when the sun does come into my room, in the late afternoon and evening, it’s all the more dazzling).
Seeing the paint going on and drying, and being even prettier than I had hoped when I selected the shade, got me thinking about what an even nicer love-making nest this room will be in its new color scheme. And that got me to thinking back on past good times … and the best time I’ve had, sexually speaking, so far.
The guy wasn’t a great love of my life; I can’t even really say that we were boyfriend and girlfriend. He was in a college class with me. One night I saw him at a bar, and he was the only guy I knew there so I started talking to him. We hooked up that night, and it was pretty good … but that’s all.
We got together occasionally, but our schedules never really lined up well to get together a lot. As it happened, our last time, toward the end of the semester, was far and away the best sex of my life …J and I always had fun together, joking and laughing, even during sex sometimes. I told him after class one day that I always seemed to have thoughts running through my head — not just consciousness of what I was doing, but “word-based stuff” in my head. I’d tried meditation to help clear my mind and focus it, but it hadn’t succeeded. That was hard for him to understand, and he declared he was making a project of helping me clear my mind. For weeks afterward, he’d do silly things to try to jolt my brain out of thinking. Nothing worked, but it was fun anyway.
On an early December Friday night, I was getting stressed out by projects and upcoming exams, and decided to go for a walk. My college town was small, and a short walk from the edge of campus was all it took to get to the farmers’ fields that surrounded the town. A half moon grinned through platinum ribbons of high cloud; a few corn canes clattered in the occasional push of chill air. My pace was slow as I soaked in the quiet and cold, both soothing my mind.
Having gone about a mile down the road, I was surprised to hear footsteps behind me — not hurried ones, but deliberate and measured, like mine. Glancing back, I recognized the gait as J’s, and slowed to allow him to catch up, if he wanted.
He did. We walked for a bit in amiable silence. Finally he murmured, “Getting away from it all too, huh?”, and I nodded. We approached one of my favorite spots on this walk — a small stand of trees that huddled together, cornered by a small stream and ancient fencing. J inclined his head, and I easily leapt a low spot in the barbed wire, the spot he’d indicated being one I frequented as well.
We lay on the ground, which was not yet as cold as the air. Even so, I was thankful for the long coat I’d chosen. J’s kiss was an intoxicating mix of cold lips and nose pressing to my face, and warm, sweet breath. My body responded immediately, its sensual desires having gone unfulfilled for weeks.
Rather than indulge those desires, J acted as if he hadn’t noticed. He returned to star-gazing.
I cuddled closer, pressing my breasts against his arm, thinking that would send an unmistakable signal.
Nothing from J.
What the fuck?! I thought. J had never been slow or shy before, so his lack of response was a total surprise. I decided to display my interest in a more obvious way.
Leaning over to return his kiss with a more ardent one, I swung a leg over his body and pressed close, feeling J’s erection. As he opened his lips slightly, I gyrated against him, tongue and pelvis matching rhythm. As the kiss ended, J reached up, gently stroked my hair, then firmly grasped my shoulder and pushed me down, reversing our positions.
Ignoring my hunger or oblivious to it, J langorously slid his fingers down my skin, unbuttoning my shirt and allowing the cold to sweep over my skin. My nipples, already taut, crinkled further, then even more as one received the warm attentions of his tongue, the other teasing flicks from his cold fingers. A long sigh of release and desire escaped my lips.
My attempt to return the favor was rebuffed; J gently but firmly pushed my hands down, then unbuttoned his shirt himself. The warmth of his chest against mine was brief, as J slid down to kiss and caress my breasts again. His other hand glided over my belly to unbutton my jeans.
Still impatient with his pace, I moved to help him pull my jeans down. Wordlessly, J again spurned my action and slowly pushed them down, leaving them as an awkward but effective restraint around my ankles. Finally understanding that J would only proceed as he liked and at the pace he wanted, I lay back and contented myself with teasing his nipples and seeing his growing excitement.
After what seemed an eternity of slow, tender kissing and stroking heightened by the contrast of chill air and warm skin, J removed his jeans and prepared to enter me. I was so wet I could have taken him all in one thrust, but his unhurried pace continued. I began to rock my hips in anticipation of the orgasm building within me, but J pulled out.
Understanding immediately, I ceased my motion, and after an agonizing delay he entered me again.
J’s uncharacteristic slowness focused my full attention on every movement, every touch. Slowly in, not quite fully, then slowly out … all the way out? No, thank god … and again … again … The caress of his hair on my cheek as he bent to kiss me, never altering his rhythm …
I felt suspended in near-rapture, perpetually on the edge of orgasm. Then a slight increase in J’s pace and erection signaled his impending orgasm, tumbling me over the edge in a slow-motion release. His full thrust into me as he came sent me off again … every nerve seemed to transmit my shuddering release. J blanketed me, holding me close as our orgasms finally subsided.
It wasn’t until long afterward, when we were walking back to campus, that I realized J had at last reached his goal of completely clearing my mind of words. Unfortunately, I never told him … and even more unfortunately for me, no other lover has come close to matching that amazing night with J.
Monday, August 2nd, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Danor inquires:
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.
Friday, June 18th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
For your patience, an extra reward. Sorry, Katy, but she’s not being nice to the penis in this Men In Pain shoot.
Sunday, April 25th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
I’m sure there is an entirely proper religious explanation for this sort of thing:
But I’m not sure I want to know what it is. Some things are more fun when you can just shake your head and ogle.
Thanks to Naked Protesters for the picture.
Thursday, April 15th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Violet Blue reveals the martial arts secrets of the sex shop ninja-babe:
To make a highly specialized weapon out of a pocket pussy is a simple feat. But it is a deadly and sure weapon, the weapon of choice for evildoers and one-woman army-types — so you must take care that it doesn’t fall into your opponent’s hands. Remarkably devastating and packed with tacky flair, a blue cyberskin anus or lavender molded softskin pussy harnesses the powers of painful cuffing unlike the world has never seen. Plus, they’re handy and portable. And guys like to fuck them. Should anyone displease you, or try to make you ring up customers while on the clock, grasp the pocket pussy firmly by the base — away from the end you would stick your cock into, if you have one. The fucking end is the dangerous end, the weighty striking end, and you should handle the puckers and folds as if they were made of sensitive and explosive nitroglycerin. With a small degree of skill, grip the soft end and begin to swing the heavy Smurf-orifice in a circle — any technique is fine; overhand, underhand, or wildly over your head like a helicopter. If you have a battle cry, this is a fine time to use it. Advance upon your enemy, brandishing the wild swing of your now-lethal pocket pussy, inching closer to deliver stunning blows. Caution: pay special attention to the swing of your deadly pussy, as it requires slight athletic ability, and you do not want your secret weapon to accidentally take you out with a blow of painfully dense fake pussy or ass to the head.
Ouchies!
Saturday, March 27th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Over at Smitten she writes about an event I’m always pleased to be present for — but what in the painted deserts of Barsoom is she talking about?
I can’t imagine why any of you boys like to look down.
- Well, first there’s the whole breathing issue. If you have any luck at all with genetics or pills, she won’t be doing much of it through her mouth. Leaving only the nose for that overrated O2 exchange, I’d hope hers isn’t stopped up all of the time like mine is, as this will make her even shorter of breath. I find myself making little gasps every few moments, like when you are swimming underwater and you come up to the surface for just a split-second before you go back under. Sexy, eh?
- Then, of course, there’s the suction. Let’s say you’re really enjoying a lollipop, and you pull it from your mouth quickly (like when you have to gasp for air), it makes almost a popping noise from the pressure released.
- Additionally, your mouth waters, since you have likely activated your digestive system by putting something in your mouth, and taking quick breaths with a watery mouth makes that’s right slurping noises.
- And let’s not forget the gag reflex; the majority of us who are not ‘independent art film actresses’ still have one. When I gag, my whole body lurches a little, forward, which causes, that’s right more gagging.
- Plus, there’s the crying. I have the most sensitive eyes in the world, I cry when I laugh, I cry when I’m mad, and I find little tears forming when I’m working really really hard at pulling a golf ball through a garden hose. Sometimes they even spill over. In joy, of course, pure joy. Eventually all of this effort, and crying, will loosen something in my nasal passage, and I will begin to sniffle.
Given all the gasping, suction noises, slurping, lurching, gagging, crying and sniffling, you really have one indelicate and kind of gross girl kneeling in front of you. But you boys never seem to mind.
- Gasping. Sexy. This is news?
- Suction noises. Sexier. Sex noise is always hot.
- Slurping. This is supposed to be a catalog of undesirables?
- Gagging. OK, not sexy. But the lurching? We thought you were just lunging forward so you could fit more in your mouth. That’s sexy.
- Crying. Haven’t seen this one. (I’m imagining six macho guys out there saying “Dude, you never made her cry? You must have a tiny wiener.”)
Mind? What’s to mind?
Monday, March 15th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
The latest Ross in Range column (Advice to Women About Men, or JR Uses Your Wristwatch to Tell You the Time) contains this utterly hopeless conversation. Men, you might want to start banging your heads on your keyboards now:
Here is a true exchange that occurred between people I know. See if you can learn something from it. It’s bedtime and the couple is undressing for bed:
Wife, a former beauty pageant winner who had gained 80 pounds in the three years since marriage: “I’m sooo fat.”
Husband, who had been hoping to get laid and is dismayed by this development: “You are terribly sexy. You’ve got great curves.”
Wife, not letting it go: “Tell me: Am I the fattest woman you’ve ever fucked?” [Question for readers: What is the proper response to this? I can’t imagine.]
Husband, wishing she would think about something else: “No, not even close.”
Wife, who knows his two previous girlfriends had good figures: “WHO has been a lot fatter than me? Tell me the truth! Who?”
Husband, thinking the truth will be the best policy: “Well, there was this girl named Mary. I forget her last name. It was maybe ten years ago. She worked in the same office as my girlfriend at that time. My girlfriend said Mary hadn’t had sex in several years because she was so fat no man wanted to. She asked if I’d have sex with Mary, you know, as a favor. Something nice you’d do for someone who needs cheering up.”
Wife: “So, you had a date with her and then had sex?”
Husband: “No, she came over with my girlfriend, and the three of us had some wine and listened to music. Then my girlfriend said ‘Why don’t you two go into the bedroom?’ So we did.”
Wife: “And you had sex with her?”
Husband: “Yes.”
Wife: “Did you like it?”
Husband: “I liked the fact that I was making her feel good.”
Wife: “But you were repulsed by her weight?”
Husband, thinking back to that night and how it had made three people feel good about themselves: “Well, I tried not to think about what she looked like. The lights were low. My girlfriend looked kind of like Renee Russo, and I imagined I was with her, but with some big pillows squooshed around her.”
Wife: “So you WERE disgusted by her weight!”
Husband: “Not the weight itself, exactly, but what it did to her. I mean, she had trouble walking, and that was painful to watch. And no way could she support herself on her hands and knees.”
Wife: “Trouble WALKING? How fat WAS she?”
Husband: “According to my girlfriend, she stopped weighing herself when she got over five hundred pounds.”
Wife, appalled: “So what other fat women have you had sex with?”
Husband, now utterly fed up and seeing no point in being tactful: “She got the gold. You get the silver.”
In my opinion this man made a mistake by answering his wife’s questions, but I’m not sure how I would have handled it differently. Refuse to speak? Pretend to have diarrhea and run to the bathroom? Feign an epileptic seizure?
Thursday, March 4th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
This girl seems to think so.
But be careful clicking around over there. The link entitled “Buttpainting” on that site is emphatically not misleading. If the term “colonic artistry” doesn’t scare you off, the phrase “winking buttholes shooting colorful girl-goo” probably will. And if you clicked anyway after those fair warnings, don’t come whining to me.
Sunday, February 15th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Sasha responds in her Love Bites column to a question about playing with hot wax. After some quick practical advice (no beeswax, best to use small white candles you can get a precise grip on, that sort of thing), she begins to get creative:
I was also curious about the wax people use to do their bikini lines and legs. Hmmm… how would that feel dribbled on the ass cheeks and other delicate areas, then ripped off? Kind of a reverse spanking. Delicious! So I got out the Test Buttocks and the Andrea Warm Wax Kit and experimented to see what happens.
Three hours later: OK, seriously you guys, BEST GAME EVER. I don’t like to quantify things this way, but I am going to put this in my top 10 sex experiences of all time. Not only is the hot-wax-dripping part of this exciting (you get excellent control with the small spatulas provided, and the wax is a beautiful teal green that goes pearly when it dries), but the tearing is apparently, for those who like this kind of pain, perfection. Tips: put the pot of hot wax on a plate to avoid a mess, hold the plate above the victim and start the dripping from a high level to establish thresholds. The wax can also be reused, but you may find certain impressions it makes lovely mementoes.
You’ve just got to love a sex advice columnist who keeps a set of “Test Buttocks” handy.
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.
Monday, December 8th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
It seems she got a bodypaint job and went back down onto the farm for some bucolic grazing action:
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!
Friday, November 21st, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a lovely picture of a spectacular painted lady:
Monday, November 10th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Isn’t this a pretty pair?
And look closely at the features of the women. Mother and daughter?
Friday, November 7th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
I don’tknow what event this lovely body paint is in honor of, but isn’t it pretty?
Of course, looking at that photograph you pretty much have to wonder what kind of paint job the girl on the right has under her toga.
Tuesday, August 12th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Oh my. Oh, my.
It’s not very often that seeing a photograph makes me catch my breath (literally, audibly, painfully). This photo did that to me.
Thanks to Spanking Blog for linking to the very talented photographer who took that picture.
Friday, August 1st, 2003 -- by Bacchus
A while back I linked to a fun essay on blowjobs in the Village Voice, which talked about the way dominance and submission add to the heat of the cocksucking experience for both parties. There was briefly on Yes Portal a response taking serious issue, too serious I might argue, with that view of the blowjob. What’s most interesting about the response, however, is this characterization of Andrea Dworkin’s writings on blowjobs:
In her book Mercy, she [Dworkin] described a blow-job as “stretching muscles that can’t be stretched” and warned women curious about the act, that “the pain will push you down to hell, near death, to coma, to the screamless scream, an agony, no voice, a ripped muscle, shreds swimming in blood in your throat.”
Isn’t that the saddest thing you ever saw? I’m thinking maybe Dworkin was doing it wrong.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Tuesday, July 15th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Since I’m already in trouble for posting a story about the degradation of women without including a bunch of condemnatory hand-wringing, this might be as good a time as any to share these disturbing images from a scanned Japanese video tape wrapper. When it comes to porn, the Japanese do some very strange things:
And a slight variation on the theme:
In case anybody is wondering, no, I’m not hugely turned on by the paint-ball escapade, nor with these grotesque images of a distorted female face. However, the common theme (and I shouldn’t think I’d need to say this on a sex blog, but from time to time it seems I do) is that what consenting adults do to get hot is their own damn business. ErosBlog isn’t in the business of condemning anything in that category, although there are some things you won’t see here simply because your host has a weak stomach.
Monday, July 14th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Wow. It’s amazing what horny monkeys can get up to.
Here’s a new commercial sport for you: Hunting for Bambi. For a large sum of money, you can go out into the Nevada desert and hunt naked women with paint ball guns. (You get the guns; they get a pair of sneakers and a powerful financial incentive to try to avoid getting shot. They do not get protective gear.)
As expected, the chattering classes are not happy about this. Here’s some typical news coverage, complete with dire warnings from mental health professionals that this sort of silliness could turn someone into a serial killer. Yeah, right.
The players, meanwhile, appear to be having good old fashioned dirty American fun. Heck, the ladies who get paid to be naked prey even come back and do it again:
“I’ve done this three times,” says Nicole, one of the three women allowing themselves to be shot at. Two other women, Gidget and Skyler, claim they have done this seven times.
…
The woman begin stripping down to their tennis shoes and start running to dodge the paint balls that go buzzing by.
“We got a hit,” said George Evanthes, who just shot and hit one of the women in the behind. “It was sexy. Let’s put it that way,” said Evanthes.
Gidget is the one who took the paint ball shot to the rear. She says, “It hurt. It really hurt. I didn’t think it was going to be that bad.” When asked if she cried she says,”yeah, a little bit.”
So why do women agree to strip down and run around the desert dodging paint balls? Nicole says it’s good money. “I mean it’s $2,500 if you don’t get hit. You try desperately not to and it’s $1000 if you do,” said Nicole.
If you follow the link to the news story, they have video footage of the game, complete with very realistic squeals of pain when the paintballs hit tender areas. Of course all the nude scenes are pixellated, but one girl does reveal a buttock to show off her vivid bruise.
Update: There is increasing evidence that the events described were staged to sell videos, and that no paying hunts ever actually took place. I’m not sure that makes this a hoax for ErosBlog purposes, given that the naked women filmed running around in the desert were actually running around in the desert, but it does put the story in a different light.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Wednesday, June 4th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Daze has the story of a cad guy who had to remove from the web his ungentlemanly tale of drunken lustful shenanigans with one Katy Johnson, a former Miss Vermont. And sure enough, the story is gone. But the Google cache remembers.
[Well, it did for awhile. But then it forgot. But it’s OK, Tucker fought back, and the story’s back up on his site.]
The tale itself is fairly ghastly, and paints neither its author nor its subject in a good light. But I can’t see anything in there that ought to override the author’s freedom of speech, and of the press. So I’m posting the link, but no salacious excerpt.
Much later update: Tucker has removed those links from his website and excluded them from the Internet Archive. But some of the material survives survives elseweb.
Thursday, May 29th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a hilarious pinup art essay by James Lileks, in which is lampooned an extensive series of paintings featuring girls whose panties have mysteriously fallen off in public. Celery is often present. It’s all very weird and a little disturbing, although some of the pictures are sort of cute if you are into public humiliation of pretty but hapless women with inexplicably slippery thighs:
It’s hard to say whether Lileks doesn’t get that this was a fetish of the artist, doesn’t approve of what is basically a harmless fetish expressed in art, or is just being so harsh for the (considerable) comic effect that results. A good read in any case.
Wednesday, May 28th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
This is true:
Baycon is a very costume-based convention (or “cosplay” as the young, wide-eyed screaming anime fans are calling it). This means that everyone looks like a freak. Especially people like me, who don’t dress up. We look like the weirdest freaks ever. Even the hotel staff look like fairly normal freaks by comparison, because they’re dressed up in waiter and maid’s outfits.
And some people, look like incredible, dressed-like-Lara-Croft-only-with-chains-on semi-naked babelicious freaks. Not that I stare. Or even look, or think about them, or anything ever. I only know about their existence because when these people walk into a room, all the straight boys nearby give out this universal telepathic deflatory pained sigh. It’s like the sound of a wolf-whistle, only backwards, sucked in. Ooohhhhhh.
The sigh has a meaning. All my life, it says, I have been told by my superego that dressing like a Marvel superhero will not get me laid. And, here, here and now in this temporary saturnalia, surrounded by other males who are – at best – my equals in the ugly league division table: here is my perfect woman. But the world knows that this mad girl’s flickering eyes craves just one thing. A man dressed as Galactus, Eater of Worlds. And not only have I left my Galactus costume at home. I never made it. Worse, I threw those biro drawings of me in the Galactus helmet away the moment I’d drawn them, ashamed to show them even to (say) Dave. And now I know: I’m not a virgin because I’m a geek. I’m a virgin because I have pursued geekdom with a less than pure, directed gaze. I have faltered, and now I’m just another guy at Baycon. And some other guy in front of me will be Galahad with the Holy Grail because he spent two weeks measuring out huge papier-mache clamps to fit on the side of his head. And I did nothing but stare at my Lara Croft pull-out poster, in the belief that she was not real and that I could not ever meet her.
Pursue your enthusiasms. Because if you’re doing them right, you know exactly where they end.
Bacchus once went to Baycon, many years ago. Bacchus was a virgin at the time. Bacchus made this very noise. Repeatedly. It hurts a little bit when you make it, too.
Thanks to Danny O’Brien’s Oblomovka (drat that missing Russian-English dictionary!) for the excellent advice and to Cory Doctorow at Boing Boing for finding it.
Wednesday, April 30th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
From the self-described Dirty Whore, this entertaining story of the fun you can have with cooking oil:
We stumbled back to his apartment but stopped at the 7-11 to pick up a bottle of Wesson oil. I ripped down his shower curtain and spread it on the living room floor. I pulled off my clothes and he poured the oil all over my body then joined me on the plastic sheet. Hands slid over each other — the oil felt marvelous — and before I even put my fingers on him, he was hard as a rock. I got onto my hands and knees as he fingerfucked my pussy and slipped an oily finger into my ass. Then two. I moaned, not feeling much pain thanks to the alcohol and Wesson. He entered me quickly, his rigid cock slipping up my virgin hole as our oily bodies slid against each other. The feeling as he moved, my ass tight as a fist around him, was incredible. He exploded inside me, shooting his cum deep into my bowels. I loved it!
It’s a remarkable blog with some interesting stories.
Wednesday, April 9th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Bill Grogan’s girl
was feeling fine;
wore her red dress
fresh off the line.
Bill took a stick
gave her a whack
and tied her to
the railroad track.
The whistle blew
the train grew nigh
Bill Grogan’s girl
was sure to die.
She gave three groans
of awful pain
inhaled big
and flagged the train!
With all due apologies to Bill Grogan’s Goat.
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:
Saturday, January 25th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Clean Sheets has just published “A Beginner’s Guide to Polyamory“. So the author calls it anyway. It’s interesting, but it reads like a warning to travelers — “here be dragons, enter only if ye seek adventure and bloody death, abandon hope….” Well, that’s stretching a point. But the article makes an interesting observation:
Yes it’s messy and painful sometimes. Yes, relationships end and yes, people get hurt. But (and this is where my mind-fuck came) people get hurt anyway, right? They make messes of their relationships, they fall in love with new people, and relationships end. That’s humanity, not polyamory. It’s monogamy, it’s heterosexuality, it’s homosexuality; it’s religious and secular bonds, it’s legal and non-binding binding contracts; it’s life.
Begs the question, however, of whether those bad things happen more often to the polyamorous.
Monday, January 20th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
The Reverse Cowgirl is back with actual words on her blog (Yay!) and she links to a story from a college newspaper that’s sort of an overview of the bukkake thing, with a review of a specific American Bukkake title.
All of which is reproduced here because, as noted previously, bukkake is one of those fringe porn things that doesn’t get written about much with any degree of honesty. There are a bunch of wierd, odd, unusual, or downright gross things happening out on the fringes of porn, and folks with the courage to discuss them (perhaps thereby making them more comprehensible to the rest of us) should be encouraged.
However, all that is by way of disclaimer, because the article itself is exactly the sort of sex writing that ErosBlog usually avoids like the plague. When nominally pro-sex authors take great pains to mention and then reinforce that they are not aroused by the subject at hand, and then digress several times into discourses on the feminist implications of their topic, all while maintaining an intellectualized tone intended to remind everyone that they are, ya know, serious… well, the result tends not to be very interesting to anyone who is more interested in sexual topics than in academic pretension.
Having said all that, however, this particular article also contains the history of bukkake according to a director thereof, presented with all due skepticism:
Director [of the American Bukkake series] Jim Powers says, “Bukkake is about discipline.” He also provides background on the practice’s mock Asiatic name. “Bukkake is an ancient Japanese custom where if a woman cheated on her husband, the rest of the village men would take her off to a cave somewhere and jack off on her face and in her mouth. And usually what would happen is the woman would kill herself afterwards,” Powers says with an earnest expression and voice that make you eventually realize he actually believes what he’s saying.
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.
Monday, December 23rd, 2002 -- by Bacchus
Hungry?
It’s a poster by Sharon Leong.
Friday, November 22nd, 2002 -- by Bacchus
There is a new Gor book out. By John Norman. Published in August, 2002. Available on Amazon. In hardcover, no less. All 717 pages of it.
It’s called Witness of Gor:
The Amazon review begins:
Deep within the cells of Treve, a glorious and mysterious city at the center of Gor’s struggle for supremacy, awakens a nameless slave girl who will witness events about which others will only dare to whisper.
This Gor phenomenon…mere words are inadequate. Slave girls. Yum, yes. Bad writing. Also yes. Ouch ouch ouch please make the pain stop it hurts to read this broken limestone gravel prose ouch. Yes. Ouch.
“Please, no, Master!” I wept. Then I felt the lash. I stumbled back in agony, turned about, and fell to the carpet. There the leather once more informed me of the displeasure of my master. I screamed, miserable. Then another blow like lightning was on my back and I sobbed at his feet, on my belly on the rug.
More slave girls. Has the slave girl concept been adequately reinforced? Gorean slave girls get whipped a lot, and either like it and “juice” for master, or don’t like it but “juice” anyway. Did bad writing get mentioned?
It goes without saying — nope, wait, it’s too late for that — that Gor is politically incorrect, and the National Organization of Women will take away your membership card if you admit to liking this sort of thing.
Oh yes, don’t forget the slave girls. They are generally pretty yummy. Also pretty much naked and in chains, or leather cuffs, or binding fiber, or whatever else Tarl Cabot and his fellow hulking brutes have handy for the restraint and entertainment of naked slave girls.
If you are a fan of the Gor books, you needed to know about the new book. If you don’t like them, you probably rolled your eyes and groaned when you saw this blog entry. If you never heard of Gor…well, you are either incredibly lucky or astoundingly unlucky, depending on the extent to which badly written (but much whipped and very juicy) slave girls float your boat.
Monday, November 11th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
From the all-encompassing Volokh Conspiracy comes word of a positively Bacchanalian festival: Splosh!
Splosh — is the most infamous night of squishy, sexy, safe and sticky fun with a menu of edible and slimy, tasty and grimy dishes and people.
On the messy fun menu:
Pudding, cake batter, corn syrup, liquefied bananas, oils galore, paints, gak, splosh paint, syrups, fruit loops, oats, flour, paste, fruits and veggies of all kinds and a rainbow of food coloring.
Alas, Bacchus is too many kilomiles away from San Francisco to make this party, even if he started walking now. And a good thing too, since each participant must bring a date. If Bacchus were to be attending, he would need to start taking applications for the Legion of Messy Nymphs on an accelerated schedule.
Sunday, November 10th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
If there’s a defining theme to the dirty pictures that get linked and posted here, it is that they are different in some way from the “shaved and oiled genitalia in brightly lit living color” photography that comprises 98% of net porn. For the most part, “different” doesn’t necessarily mean explicit — but faint heart never won fair lady, so Bacchus won’t shrink from posting strong material if it meets the standard of being unusual enough to titillate this blog’s urbane and sophisticated readership.
With that fair warning, and without further ado, consider visiting The Clinic of Dr. Farrel. This looks like scans from a French language bondage and torture comic, and it contains harsh scenes of painful forced body modification and breast enlargement. You’ll like this, if you like this sort of thing.
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