|
|
The Sex Blog Of Record
Friday, July 2nd, 2021 -- by Bacchus
Overheard: “She’s sitting on a treasure, and she knows it! Turns out, she’s also got a whole lot of gold, too…”
Fantasy pirates are always glamorous. You know why? Because some really bad things happen to pirates who fail. So a pirate, by definition, is pretty much always on the top of his/her game: a good ship, a taut crew, plenty of loot, pretty captives to torment or ransom, lots of time for drinking and screwing around.
The biggest problem of a really successful pirate is burying all your treasure without the crew knowing where you put it. This isn’t made a whole lot easier when you insist on bringing along an artist to make portraiture of your triumphant glamour poses, but what’s the use of wealth and beauty if history doesn’t remember any of it?
This kind of behavior created enduring legends about treasure maps and buried doubloons. The legends are so persistent, they’ve become cultural building blocks, available to be grabbed and used for all kinds of projects. Thus ThePornMap.com — a site that strives to find and link the best porn sites — uses a glamorous lady pirate with a spyglass in its logo. That’s universal shorthand in action: “Use our pirate map to find the porn treasure you are looking for.”
People need to understand, though, that being a successful lady pirate wasn’t an endless routine of standing around in dramatic poses, looking smug with no panties on:
On quiet nights in the captain’s cabin, there’s plenty of time to grab one of the nice young noblemen from the brig where the ransom clients are kept, and give him some “exercise”:
Then, too, even the most successful lady pirates can have a bad day. “Row me ashore on Kraken Island”, she demanded. “But what about the Kraken?” “He’s a myth, you timorous fool!” The bad news is, it turns out the Kraken’s a very horny myth, with a lot of inquisitive tentacles. Oopsie!
Image credits, top to bottom: Smug pirate showing off her treasure-pussy is by Personalami. The drunken femdom pirate orgy is by Iron-Dullahan. The plumed-hat treasure-burying topless pirate is by ZaftigBunny. The pirate woman who just had a happy wank in her own loaded treasure chest is by R Ex. The pirate dominatrix putting a tied captive through his sexual paces is by Felox08. And the intrepid but unfortunate pirate getting tentacle sexed by a Kraken after losing a longboat full of rowers is by an artist who is apparently not known to the internet.
Tuesday, September 27th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
She’s clearly been trained in the “dazzle with breasts, then follow up with a slice at the torso” school of swordplay. No substitute for armor, or even woad — but possibly effective with the advantage of surprise:
From Action Girls.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Tuesday, December 2nd, 2008 -- by Bacchus
I have checked the date on this story, and it is not April 1:
$200k worth of inflatable boobs lost at sea
SYDNEY – More than 130,000 inflatable breasts have been lost at sea en route to Australian.
Men’s magazine Ralph was planning to include the boobs as a free gift with its January issue.
The cargo is worth about $200,000, which is another blow for publisher ACP’s parent company PBL, which is already in $4.3 billion of debt.
A spokeswoman for Ralph said the container left docks in Beijing two weeks ago but turned up empty in Sydney this week.
The magazine has put out an alert to shipping authorities to see if they have the container, but if they don’t turn up in the next 48 hours it will be too late for the next issue, she said.
Ralph editor Santi Pintado urged anyone who has any information to contact the magazine.
“Unless Somali pirates have stolen them its difficult to explain where they are,” Pintado told AAP.
“If anyone finds any washed up on a beach, please let us know.”
Mr. Pintado may be a bit confused about his piratical geography (the sea route from China to Australia doesn’t pass through the waters infested by Somali pirates) but the more traditional Indonesian crews in the Malacca Straights may be pillowing their weary heads as we speak on the sweet vinyl bosoms of their latest haul.
That’s really all I have to say, except for another hearty “YARR!”
Similar Sex Blogging:
Friday, November 7th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
From Models Tied, we have the lovely pirates Tasha Marley and Jenna Hoskins doing labor-management negotiations:
Similar Sex Blogging:
Sunday, November 4th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Here on ErosBlog I ignored, as I tend to, the annual frenzy of “concerned” journalists fretting about how Halloween has morphed into “Dress Like A Slut” day, ohnoes! To me, the phenomenon is obviously just a manifestation (on Halloween, how appropriate!) of the ghosts of Saturnalia and Carnival, which we in the Puritan Protestancies had taken out and shot centuries ago. I approve, as I do, of all liberating influences. Hell, I approve of nekkedness in general, so how could I glower all dour at skimpy costumes?
Surprised I therefore was to find ChelseaGirl from Pretty Dumb Things fretting on the same topic, although I’ll cheerfully grant that she did it with more thoughtfulness and nuance than any print journalist I’ve ever seen tackle the subject. Most interesting and useful in her post, I thought, was her description of a memetic landscape she calls Strip Nation:
Because this trend … also speaks to the seduction of what I’ve come to call Strip Nation.
Strip Nation is the place where little girls wear body glitter for fun, where pole dancing is a fitness pursuit, where chicks have standing appointments for monthly Brazilians, and weekly tans, French manicures and matching pedicures. It’s the place where women purposefully show bra straps and g-strings. It’s where average women have the lower-back tattoo, body piercings, and t-shirts that read “Diva” It’s the where women get breast implants, labiaplasty and anal bleaching. It’s a place where family restaurants have waitresses wearing orange short-shorts, and where drag-queen restaurants have banana deep-throat contests, and where eighteen year-old girls win them.
Strip Nation is where we live now. It’s not a bad place to live. Strip Nation gives us Carmen Electra and body butter. Strip Nation lets us shake our booty with abandon. Hell, Strip Nation, combined with Hip-Hop Nation–it’s a unified country of dual principalities–has given us the word “booty”. Without Strip Nation, we’d still be pogoing and wearing flat shoes and high-waisted pleated pants.
Strip Nation can be a lot of fun, but it’s a deeply problematic kind of fun. I am proud to have been a stripper, but I know that stripping is best kept in the strip club because stripping is about serving up a fantasy based on the most simplistic heterosexual male’s formulation of an uncomplicated woman. Most simply, Strip Nation provides a dreamscape based on a model of a two-dimensional woman and men’s desire for them. And while that is all well and fine for an eight-hour strip shift, it has major issues when it goes rampant, out into the streets, and disseminates like a virus into the culture at large.
I wonder how much women choosing to dress like a stripper for Halloween–whatever the flavor of the specific fantasy–isn’t centered on an unquestioning slide into the happy amnesia of Strip Nation: a place where men will be men, women will be girls, and no one need have a thought cross their untrammeled brows. I wonder how much the Naughty Nurse, the Sassy Satan, the Wanton Witch, the Reform School Drop Out, the Pirate Wench, and all the heaving bosom, exposed thigh rest, has more to with the prefeminist nostalgia that Strip Nation embodies. I wonder how much the naughty Halloween costume hasn’t less to do with getting one’s freak on as it does with doing so in a way that feels like you don’t have to think about it when you do.
Tomorrow, Halloween will just be a bunch of garbled stories and memories, gone for another year, But we’ll still be living in Strip Nation. Look around you, it’s everywhere. Fun, yes. But at what cost?
I think the description of Strip Nation is spot on, but I’m having trouble parsing out the objection. It seems to be something in the nature of “real life is more complicated than that”, but every cultural expression we have is idealized in one way or another; Strip Nation is a fantasy space almost by definition, and it seems odd to me to ask “at what cost?” when the full achievement of the fantasy lies as much out of our reach as do the golden shores of Brigadoon.
“You wouldn’t like to eat nothing but candy and ice cream”, warned our mothers, and we didn’t believe them. If we really lived in Strip Nation, we probably wouldn’t enjoy that either; a steady diet of oversimplified sex is probably not much better than a steady diet of high fructose corn syrup. But what’s really going on here is a whole bunch of cultural expressions reaching toward Strip Nation, but which are counterbalanced by so many other cultural anchors and drags that we’ll never reach the Strip Nation Shangri La, nor indeed get anywhere close to there. We don’t live in Strip Nation; we don’t even live next door to Strip Nation. All we do is live in a place where we can, sometimes, get away with acting as if we do live in Strip Nation.
If you grant that, is it really fair to ask “at what cost?” The only cost I see is to the competing memetic landscapes that are losing mindshare in competition with Strip Nation. I’m talking Burqa Nation, Chador and Hajib Nation, Barefoot And Pregnant Nation, Nice Girls Don’t Nation, It’s Dirty Down There Nation, Leave The Lights Off Nation, Twin Beds Nation, Save It For Marriage Nation, the entire constellation of memetic spaces in which skin must be covered, dancing must be restricted because it could lead to shagging, sex is strictly controlled, and women are (in one sense or another) chattel, not free to make their own sexual decisions.
Here in the brave new century, Strip Nation is out-competing all of those memetic spaces. Is it perfect? Heck no. Is it better? I can’t see how it isn’t. At what cost? I, for one, don’t much care, unless the cost is higher than the rolling human tragedy of the repressive memetic spaces Strip Nation is competing with and struggling to displace.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Saturday, July 7th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Ok, so that first get-together with the new internet prospect can be real awkward. We know this. But there are clues:
The constant signing of emails with master so-and-so was a huge fucking clue.
The request to call him sir after three email exchanges and one phone conversation was a clue.
The ridiculous comment that “even though I haven’t met you, I miss you — do you miss me?” was the motherfucking clue of clues.
Showing up to meet her in a public place with a fucking parrot (yes, a parrot…did I fucking stutter or something?) on his shoulder was a clue.
The couple sitting next to her who were gossiping…”
Stop! Whoa! All ahead stern! Screech! Stop the music! Nobody move!
Did she really say “parrot”?
Parrot? As in, like this?
In all the ink (real and virtual) that’s been devoted to “what not to do on the first date”, I don’t think anybody ever considered the need to write “Wait until the second date to introduce her to your parrot. Do not under any circumstances take take your bird when you go to meet a woman for the first time.”
Consider it written now.
Don’t get me wrong, I actually quite like the feathery little bastards. I bought one for a girlfriend once. I don’t miss her, but I sorta do miss that bird. And, like any pet, they can be pretty good company when you’re lonely.
Remind me, why were we going on that first date again? Oh, yeah, to find another freaking human to bond with / fuck / enslave / spend time with / preen my feathers. Which of these things is not like the others?
Why do pirates take their parrots everywhere? Because they don’t have any secure place they can leave the bird without it flying away or following them. Which is the same reason they carry all their doubloons in their underwear, or bury them in a sea chest on a moonless night (not such a good option for parrot housing).
If, like a pirate, you suffer from lack of a permanent place to park your parrot, it’s best you try to conceal this factoid from your new prospective internet submissive for as long as possible.
That is all.
Well, almost all. If your internet date brings a parrot to your first meeting, you know it’s going to wind up like this:
Yarrrr!
Similar Sex Blogging:
Saturday, October 14th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Artist Ursula Vernon has new ideas about tampon marketing:
She explains:
I am female.
I am not girly. I am desperately ungirly. I look good in pink, but I feel guilty about it. For various reasons, I would sooner belly-crawl through broken glass than buy anything marketed “for girls!” or “for women!” And I resent the fact that feminine products have me, as it were, by the short hairs in this regard.
And so, a year or so ago, I decided that I wanted a new brand of tampon. Something that was not girly, that was not pastel, that did not have flowers, and which did not make my ovaries curl up and die of shame. I do not mind having a period–I’d rather not, but eh, goes with the territory–but I detest the marketing.
It’s time for a rugged new brand. A brand no one will ever call “girly.” A brand you can take to the checkout counter and meet the clerk’s eye while you buy it, and if they say a word, you have ’em tied to the mast and flogged.
Blackbeard the Pirate’s Rugged Tampons. A product you can trust, from a name you can’t!
Wednesday, February 1st, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Audacia Ray says so:
I’m going to make a bold statement here: a bunch of dudes on a whaling boat is even sexier than a bunch of pirates on a pirate ship. Is it total heresy for me to speak against the undeniable hotness of pirates? Perhaps, but I swear it’s the goddamned truth. I mean, pirates are awesome and wear rad outfits and are swashbucklingly violent and all, but whaling dudes are all butch, they get filthy, their skin gets all tough and leathery, and they thrust their harpoons into the whale again and again, in and out, until its hot quivering flesh is still.
Hmm, I never thought about it quite that way….
Wednesday, October 19th, 2005 -- by The Nymph
I found this swashbuckling lovely in the promo material for the movie Pirates.
I’ve been hearing some talk about it for some time, now after reading the reviews and watching the trailer I really want to order this one. It looks to have plenty of swashbuckling fun and I’m pretty sure I can talk Bacchus into it. After all, why wouldn’t he enjoy seeing some of lovely lady pirates having a good time?
Also, it’s just in time for Halloween! I wonder if it’d help the experience if I wore a cutesy pirate wench outfit? Ahoy, matey!
Saturday, February 26th, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
Although this guy isn’t as unclothed as Bacchus’ recent gay blade guy, I think he’s way hotter. He can board me amidships anytime!
Similar Sex Blogging:
Thursday, October 14th, 2004 -- by Aphrodite
Been mui busy on a big project here, so I’ve not been making my usual rounds. That’s how I missed this fun invitation over at My Secret Fantasies:
Aha lassy, there is pirate blood in my veins.
Lots of folks are decended from pirates ya know. You could be a pirate.
Don’t think so? You don’t have any pirate in ya?
Well then, Lassy, would ya like some?
There’s a nice picture that accompanies the rest of the post.
I wouldn’t say no to him …. :)
Friday, July 23rd, 2004 -- by Bacchus
From Clean Sheets, which I routinely and stupidly forget to visit, a short fun poem:
R.S.V.P.
By return address
please indicate
— if you could find it in your heart —
your willingness
to participate
in a small drama, in the part
of Helpless Maid
(lightly restrained),
your body lathered with whipped cream,
whilst, with patch on eye,
as Pirate, I
shall lick you quite completely clean.
Tuesday, March 30th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
I’m quoting this appeal for the light it sheds on international variations in pornography. Sending pornography, if you bother, is up to you. Me, I think I would insist on trading for some of that perverted Frenchie stuff, if I still bothered with dead tree porn:
“I don’t know if any of you are aware of this, but I’m in a real mess. As some of you may know, I happen to be in France. And in France, it’s really hard to get a decent porno magazine, that doesn’t cost 20 bucks and doesn’t have horses and shit in it (French people are perverts!!)
This is what I humbly ask, and whether you agree with it or not, please just try to pass the word around:
I’d really like it if somebody would mail me a Playboy. A Hustler even, or one of those mini-magazines that don’t cost as much to mail….”
Thanks to Harvey at Bad Money (that infamous den of rum, buggery, the lash, and pirate pickup lines) for calling this poor expatriate’s plight to my attention.
Sunday, August 3rd, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Stupid joke for the wee small hours:
So, this pirate walks into a bar with a steering wheel shoved down his pants.
The bartender looks at him and says…”You know you have a steering wheel in your pants?”
The pirate replies, “Yar! It’s drivin’ me nuts!”
Can we get a damn drum-roll here?
Friday, May 2nd, 2003 -- by Bacchus
The formerly shell-shocked Shell from Across the Atlantic provides this anecdote, proof that children don’t need to be trained to be extortionate little pirates:
While in line at the bank one afternoon, my toddler decided to release some pent-up energy and ran amok. I was finally able to grab hold of her after receiving looks of disgust and annoyance from other patrons. I told her that if she did not start behaving “right now”she would be punished. To my horror, she looked me in the eye and said in a voice just as threatening,”If you don’t let me go right now, I will tell Grandma that I saw you kissing Daddy’s pee-pee last night!” The silence was deafening after this enlightening exchange. Even the tellers stopped what they were doing. I mustered up the last of my dignity and walked out of the bank with my daughter in tow. The last thing I heard when the door closed behind me were screams of laughter.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
|
|
