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The Sex Blog Of Record
Wednesday, July 17th, 2024 -- by Bacchus
Whilst rummaging through one of my older backup folders, I happened upon an original sex story that was posted by its author to alt.sex.stories.moderated back in March of 2000. Because I saved it (for some long-forgotten reason that no doubt boils down to “I’m a data hoarder”) in its original Usenet email-like format with all headers, I’ll link to a copy of that .txt file for archival benefit, and for the edification of readers who were not around back then and may never have seen such a thing.
The story is titled “The Barn” and it’s by Paulinus Fang (aka “The Dirty Dentist”). A quick search of Google, Bing, Duck Duck Go, and Yandex turns up no trace of this story left anywhere on the searchable/living web, but the original ASSM posting contains a .sig/tagline with a link to Mr. Fang’s story page on Lycos. (Amazingly, the Internet Archive’s Wayback Machine has a pretty good 2001 copy of his page, which is why I was able to drop that link.)
I’ll also post the story below, with fair warning that it’s a heavy BDSM/kidnap story that presents as noncon (which is to say, it reads as if it were depicting kidnapping and rape). Its original tagging includes a “NC? anal” tag, and that question mark is significant. As was common in those times, a plot twist late in the story implies, but does not 100% establish, the consent that initially seems absent from the text. In this, the story is truly an authentic artifact of its time and place. If you don’t want to read a story like that, now is your time to stop. (The full set of tags included in the original posting looks very incomplete to modern eyes; it was in its entirety “nc? anal, bdsm”.)
The Barn
The candles flickered as the air currents moved, stirred by the swing of the girl suspended by her wrists from the hook long ago driven into the beams of the old barn.
She waited, limply, no longer willing to try to break the bonds linking her to the ancient structure.
Few thoughts passed through her brain, her mind long since blank through deprivation of her senses. The blindfold smelt of him, the one who had dragged her to the barn, bound her and hung her like curing ham. She remembered it being placed around her face, the red pattern blurring as it passed closer to her, then only the dull light passing through the cloth.
She heard footsteps in the edge of her senses: was he back? What would happen? A sound, something hitting the floor, yet what? She did not know, would never know.
Hands touched her face, tracing slowly down her cheek below the blindfold, a finger nail scraping slowly down her neck. She shivered, shrank back, yet could not because of her bindings.
The hands were gone, silence, then they returned to her neck, touching her dress, two hands in the neck of the simple cotton dress. The fingers tightened then moved apart, stripping the dress from her back, tearing textiles asunder. The shriek of the cloth, destroyed, was the only noise.
The cooler air caressed her back, chilling the beads of sweat breaking her skin. The wait, the dread, the thoughts of what could happen, what price he would extract from her, were almost unbearable.
She felt the warmth of his breath on her ear before he spoke, softly to her. “You shouldn’t be here, you know that, don’t you?” he hissed. She swallowed, unable to speak through her dry mouth, but nodded her head.
“Nobody knows that you’re here,” he paused, the breath returned to her other ear, “you’re just a missing person. I can do as I please.” She felt him move away from her. Her ears strained for sounds indicating his intentions, but she heard nothing, only silence.
She arched her back, wracked with pain. Her brain screamed with shock yet was unable to register the site of the pain. After a few seconds the burn shot across her shoulders, followed instantly by sweat on her top lip. A second bolt of pain across her buttocks caused her to jerk again, then relax. She swung slowly, revolving on her rope with the tips of her toes touching the dusty floor. Then silence.
Braced for the next blow, she waited; the seconds passed slowly, becoming minutes, still waiting. Would she be released? Would she be free again? When would he strike her again? What had he used on her?
Still hanging by her wrists with the ache in her arms returning after becoming overridden by the two blows, she felt his presence. She thought how strange it was that she should become so tuned in to her environment even when deprived of the use of her eyes.
His hands were on her hips, turning her on the end of the rope, holding her firmly. Was this when he would finally cut her down? No! She felt his warm, naked body press against her from the rear, his fingers searching between her buttocks, touching the delicate flesh, the paper thin skin in her cleft, the thicker feel of his penis, the blunt end pushing, probing, searching. She clenched her buttocks, determined to stop his entry but could feel his fist, wrapped around his penis, holding it in position against her anus, his knuckles pushed into her firm buttocks. He pushed, slowly, steadily against her anus. Unable to resist the force her anus stretched until, with a sudden pop, he was inside her, his groan drowned out by her cry.
The sharp stinging of her anus increased as he entered her, turned to a burning, then eased as he slid in, his penis disappearing as he pushed. She felt full, full enough to burst, slightly uncomfortable with the fullness yet he unexpectedly did not start to thrust, he just waited with his penis buried deep in her rectum. The tears soaked into the blindfold.
After a few minutes he started to move slowly, backwards and forwards, sawing into her, deeply, his breathing rate increasing audibly behind her. She was powerless to offer any resistance, with her hands tied above her head and her feet hardly touching the ground. He stopped; she felt him adjust his position, then holding her firmly he started to move her forwards and backwards, pulling her further onto his penis, then pushing her away: it was as if he were masturbating with her anus. The sensation of fullness changed with her swinging motion on the rope. The rate increased until her held her firmly against him, his penis jerking in her bowels and he shot deeply into her. He pushed her forward, and his penis withdrew from her anus, the semen leaking out.
The girl was left hanging for a few moments, then without warning she collapsed to the floor, tasting dust in her mouth from the barn. She could feel the severed rope around her wrists being untied, as the pressure was released she felt the blood rush into her hands, the tingling pins and needles adding to her day of discomfort. As feeling returned, she reached up and slid the blindfold up her forehead. The light bursting into her eyes caused her to close them. Slowly she squinted though eyes half closed, adjusting to the light, trying to focus on her captor who stood over by a table, packing a riding crop and rope into a bag. He turned, saw her looking at him and spoke again in his soft voice. “Is it next weekend that we are going to visit your parents?”
And there you have it: an authentic sample of BDSM porn the way it was, back at the dawn of the new century!
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Thursday, August 20th, 2020 -- by Bacchus
The phrase “a fate worse than death” seems to have enjoyed a sort of curious semantic shift on its way to quaint historical irrelevancy. At one time — in melodramatic fiction at least — it was a euphemism for rape, specifically. But melodrama has a logic all its own, and one doesn’t have to scratch Victorian fiction very hard to find instances of the term referring to sex in general, or perhaps only to a young woman’s first sexual experience. All this at a time when the fashion — for polite ladies of fiction anyway — was to acknowledge no hint of pleasure in association with one’s “family duties”. Over time, the usage seems to have become more generally ironic, acknowledging its inherent melodrama. I hereby nominate this cartoon from 1959 as the apotheosis of the ironic usage:
Since 1959, of course, the phrase has pretty much fallen into a pretty complete disuse. Which is fine with me. It’s just another part of the sex-negative cultural background noise that this blog was founded to oppose.
Cartoon is from the November 1959 issue of Adam.
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Monday, August 15th, 2016 -- by Bacchus
ErosBlog has a long history of interest in the phenomenon of the unhappily sexless marriage. Does anybody else but me remember all the way back to 2003 when Julia Grey wrote a long series for Salon called Why Your Wife Won’t Have Sex With You”?
Men unhappy that their wives won’t fuck them are common enough to be a cultural phenomenon. Their accounts on the internet are not hard to find. We men like to whine when we are unhappy, and not getting as much sex as we want often makes us unhappy. Google “why your wife won’t have sex with you” (no quotes) and you’ll get back 6.1 million results. But it’s not a one-sided problem: Google “why your husband won’t have sex with you” (still no quotes) and you get 4.9 million results. A little imbalance there, but a lot of unhappiness on both sides. (The imbalance gets more stark — 4950 versus 9 — when you get more specific by putting quotes around the search phrases.)
And yet, frank and honest accounts by women of their undesired sexless marriages are not common as the ones by men. This is probably somewhat to do with gendered social expectations. Yes, there’s pressure for every man to claim to be a highly-sexed stud, but a man can admit that’s not happening — especially if he has a handy woman to deflect responsibility onto — without expecting his manhood to be seriously questioned. There’s also pressure (my impression is that it’s considerably more pressure) for every woman to be sexually desirable. If a woman’s story of sexlessness in marriage can be parsed as “he doesn’t desire you” I can imagine an enhanced reluctance to share that with the world. An analogy in the male world might be psychological impotence; there are not a lot of men who talk about about life with a dick that mysteriously doesn’t work when the plumbing seems to be otherwise in order.
This is all preface. My long term readers understand that I have a weakness for honest-sounding human accounts of sexual and romantic situations, even when those situations are horribly fucked up. I remember getting flack once for posting an account (by the killer, necessarily) of a woman who was trying, until her literal last moment on earth, to use sex to repair her failing relationship with her husband and her murderer. Despite the unreliable narrator problem, I thought we learned something from that story about the role of sex in the human condition. That made it interesting and worthy.
All this prefacing is to set the frame for where I was on Saturday when I stumbled randomly over an article at The Establishment called My Husband Won’t Have Sex With Me. I was sucked in by the headline (I think I did enough prefacing for y’all to understand why) and soon found myself reading along, thinking, “fuck, yeah, this is exactly the sort of writing I like to feature on ErosBlog.” Sure enough:
My husband, boyishly cute, tall, lanky, is a gentle, passive, and wildly intelligent man. He mixes a mean martini and loves me more than anyone has ever loved me.
The problem is: He won’t kiss me. He won’t spontaneously touch me — not a hug or an arm on my shoulders. He rarely, if ever, sleeps in our bed. And for the last five years, we have lived in a “sexless marriage.”
Yes, we have sex. But barely: Six times so far this year. To define my terms, I mean penis-in-vagina penetration. The number drops to two if I only count “successful” forays into the erotic, where at least one partner actually reaches climax. I truly can’t remember the last time he went down on me — four years ago, maybe? I married a man for whom making love to his wife has become an afterthought, or an occasional reaction, under duress, to my advances.
It’s not that either of us lost our looks. I am pretty and sexy in a non-intimidating, disheveled kind of way. I am emotional and physical: I love hard. I work and play hard. I feel things deeply and intensely. When we first got together, he worked in a bar and I had a “grown-up” job. We loved having a good time. We consumed a lot of booze, cooked meals together, and listened to live music as often as possible. I was six months out of an abusive relationship and wanted to feel safe while enjoying a man’s company. No commitments necessary. And we had good sex–it was often slow and delicious.
But it wasn’t frequent. He was 27 when we got together, and had only been with a couple of women. My sexual experience was more, ahem, varied, and I was an enthusiastic teacher. The attraction, at first, was mostly physical: Here was this super-cute guy who was nice to me and had a huge cock.
I’ll confess I did twitch when I saw the phrase “under duress” go by, but I rather uncritically took it in, assuming it was not literal. I assumed she meant something like “under the pressure of my expectations” or some loose notion of that sort. I took it as if she did not know the literal meaning of the word “duress” and was using it for its emotional resonances. I don’t insist on precise writing here at ErosBlog — 5,000 sloppily-written posts in the archives would make that pretty hard! — so I just kept reading.
And after that? Well, the story is pretty unflinching about the ugly parts. One example: the husband turned into a hopeless drunk, and on the rare times he did initiate sex he’d be so drunk he couldn’t perform well, and would sometimes end up literally pissing himself in the marital bed after the attempt.
Meanwhile the account continues eloquently about what not getting enough sex was like:
My friends bitch about the frequency with which their husbands want sex; I tolerate the conversation as long as I can before lashing out at them, telling them to take it when they can get it. One woman asked me over mojitos one night, caring and curious, what it feels like to be denied passion all of the time. I didn’t have to think about the answer: It defeats and crushes me; I feel embarrassed and deeply sad.
Sometimes I miss the simple pleasure of kissing more than sex. I crave lips and fingers and tongue. I love having a man’s hands in my hair or his arms wrapped around me so tightly I can’t breathe, his eyes open, studying my face, watching me, wanting me, overcome by having to make the decision of which part of me he wants to kiss next . . . Ohhh, who am I kidding? I miss the sex, too. No appliance, and no matter how talented and familiar my own hands, nothing compares to connecting with another person on a purely sensual level. Stimulation and orgasm aside, I miss warmth and trust and reading someone’s reactions to my touch, making it up as we go along. I miss waking up sticky and sore and aroused, tasting the other person on my lips, the scent of him on my skin, and doing it all over again. I miss loud, crazy, Cirque du Soleil—worthy sex acts that leave me gasping and incapable of speech and quiet, spontaneous quickies, clothes rumpled and shifted, messed-up hair, followed by giggles.
The two hefty block quotes I’ve featured so far could have been — perhaps, normally would have been — the blog post here. “Hey, folks, here’s a thing to read, this woman whose husband doesn’t want to fuck her, she writes pretty, check it out, it’s about the human sexual condition, that’s our beat, enjoy.”
But, um — you remember where I wrote that her story is “pretty unflinching about the ugly parts”?
In one of those ugly parts, she recounts her tendency to rape her husband. She doesn’t use that word. Maybe that’s a flinch; maybe she doesn’t know. No way for us to tell. She does call herself an asshole, but it’s unclear whether she ever conceptualized her behavior as rape. She writes:
I used to wake him up with kisses, teasing, boldly climbing on top of him and having my way. He responded by laying still, his eyes closed, sometimes with his fingertips on my hips, waiting for me to have an orgasm so he could go back to sleep. The one-sided nature quickly felt dirty and wrong. What kind of asshole was I, taking sex from him when he didn’t want it, just so I could get off?
I have a legal background, and I could quibble quite vigorously with my own use of the word “rape” in some jurisdictions, especially those where rape is still defined around use of force rather than lack of consent. But I cannot quibble away the consent violation. In this better world we are all trying to build here in the 21st century, sex without consent is, for want of a more precise word with an equal freight of unambiguous condemnation, rape.
And now, dear readers, I have a heartfelt and deeply honest question for you. Should this article have been sanitized off the internet because rape — unacknowledged rape, possibly unrecognized rape, but rape all the same — was among the topics of discussion? Because make no mistake, my social media feeds absolutely lit up with condemnation of the article, condemnation of The Establishment for publishing it, and vigorous passionate demands to “pull this article” down off the web.
It’s not all condemnation and attempted silencing. There’s a lot of understandable criticism of the lame-ish response offered by The Establishment when this blew up in their social media face:
I fundamentally agree with their “story worth telling” defense of the article’s publication, but given the expectations of their specific readership, it even makes sense to me that they ought perhaps to have framed the story inside a bit of disclaimer:
I’m not a participant in the culture of trigger warnings, and I don’t accept that a publication always must first condemn or disclaim the ideas it publishes lest it be assumed to support them. But I’m not opposed to trigger warnings and disclaimers, either; every publication has to find its own balance, appropriate to its own audience, between protectiveness of the reader versus the intellectual value of letting words speak for themselves. It’s fair to criticize a publication — especially against its own stated values — for how it finds or fails to find that balance.
In this case, however, even most of the more nuanced pieces say things like “For any publication that proudly boasts the importance of accountability and their feminist ideals, publishing (and defending) this kind of article on their site is reprehensible.” That article goes on to describe this act of publication as “supporting this kind of rhetoric and presenting rape in a sympathetic light.” I must say, the sympathetic light looks pretty dim to me. But mostly, I just fundamentally disagree that any honest act of publication is ever reprehensible. This woman’s story: she told it. We learned something from it. Perhaps we learned things from it that even she did not know. That’s what publication is for. That’s why people do it, that’s why we read it when they do it. I can’t say that The Establishment has nothing to apologize for, but I sure hope they don’t “pull this article down” as their detractors are demanding.
Update: It looks like The Establishment has pulled the story. (Fortunately, it’s still available on the Dame Magazine website where it first appeared.)
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Thursday, May 16th, 2013 -- by Bacchus
If this article in The Atlantic by Conor Friedersdorf is any guide, there’s a sort of debate going on in the intellectual press, triggered by this article, which is a more-detailed-than-usual and fairly sympathetic exemplar of the increasingly-common “I went to a Kink.com porn shoot and had some deep thoughts about it” genre. From my fast skim-reading pass, it appears that the ensuing debate consists of a conversation where various persons disagree with each other about precisely why they ought to hate and disparage kinky sex and porn. It’s all somewhat interesting, but The Atlantic piece deserves quoting, because of some paragraphs on the value of consent as the lodestar of sexual ethics:
My generation doesn’t treat consent as a lodestar merely because consent permits pleasurable sexual activity that more traditional sexual codes would prohibit. The ethos of consent is regarded as a lodestar because its embrace is widely seen as an incredible improvement over much of human history; and because instances when the culture of consent is rejected are superlatively horrific. The average 30-something San Franciscan has had multiple friends confide to them about being raped, and multiple friends confide about participating in consensual BDSM. Only the former routinely plays out as extreme trauma that devastates the teller for decades. Little wonder that consent is treated as the preeminent ethos even by many who suspect that transgressive sex like what Witt describes is ultimately unwise or even immoral.
Let us imagine that, 50 years hence, we have a society where the ethos of consent and attendant norms of sexual conduct have triumphed so completely that rape is as rare as cannibalism. Everyone would regard that as a civilizational triumph. Would it be a bigger or smaller triumph of sexual mores than a culture where consent was valued exactly as much or little as it was in 1950, but BDSM and kink, extreme or tame, was so widely rejected as to render it as rare as cannibalism? That I’d strongly prefer the former triumph explains why I cannot agree with Alan Jacobs when he writes of the San Francisco pornographers, “I do not believe that it is possible to be more uncivilized than they are, though one might be equally uncivilized in different ways.”
I think rapists are far more uncivilized, and that every champion of consent, however myopic they are about other moral norms they ought to follow, are trying to build “structures of thought and practice that harness humankind’s sexual instincts and direct them in socially up-building ways.” Consent isn’t, after all, entirely separable from other widely accepted norms of civilized behavior. Taking it seriously means refusing to watch certain types of porn (the hidden up-skirt camera, for example); it means being forced to conceive of every potential sexual partner as an autonomous individual with inherent worth and desires so important that they frequently trump yours; it means, in at least that one respect, treating other people as you’d want to be treated.
None of that means one must approve of the acts described in the San Francisco basement. I happen to think it doesn’t in fact threaten civilization, that transgressive sex cannot, by definition, become the norm. Others may differ, and I’m just guessing there; but it is to say that, whatever you think of the porn shoot, the scattered, unconsensual sex that went down in the Bay Area that night was more worthy of condemnation, more uncivilized, more destructive and less moral.
To me, the fact that Friedersdorf felt consent culture needed defending in the conversation says rather a lot about the conversation itself. Friedersdorf himself is at pains to disclaim any suggestion that his interlocutors “are insufficiently horrified by rape” — but how else are we to parse that “impossible to be more uncivilized” remark by one of them?
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Saturday, July 14th, 2012 -- by Bacchus
So @mistressmatisse tweeted (I’ve unpacked her link for better readability):
This is best article I’ve ever read on rape jokes: when they are funny, and when they are not, and why, with examples. How To Make A Rape Joke
I share her sentiments. It’s a great article, by Lindy West at Jezebel. I’ve always been a free speech absolutist who is nonetheless (1) opposed to people being hurtful dicks when they flap their gums and (2) quite capable of being an oblivious, hurtful dick when I flap my gums. West does a very nice job of explaining how (and how not) to exercise the freest of speech while remaining decent and humane.
I struggled with my word choices in the paragraph above, though. It’s that word “hurtful” — I don’t mean it quite literally. I mean something like “inflicting emotional pain”, yes. But avoiding that infliction, in my taxonomy of values, doesn’t cut too many onions when ranked against the importance of making one’s points, be they serious or funny or both. Some onions, yes; but not too many. Lindy West, though, talks about hurtful speech as if it’s literally harmful, like a blowtorch or a beating:
If you’re a comic performing to a reasonably full room, there’s a pretty good chance that at least one person in the audience has been sexually assaulted. If you didn’t know that, fine, now you do. Congrats. So when you make a joke in that room that trivializes rape or mocks rape victims, you are deliberately (because now you know!) harming those people. On purpose. Not because you’re a rapist–you’re probably not–but because you’re selfish and amateurish and lazy and scared.
It’s the one thing in an excellent article that I strongly disagree with. Because, no. Those people were harmed by their rapists. Of course it’s dickish to tell a joke that’s oblivious to that harm, or uncaring with respect to it; but we shouldn’t misplace responsibility for it by placing the responsibility on the shitty comedian who tells that joke.
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Thursday, December 1st, 2011 -- by Bacchus
I play an online game where the most commonly-heard phrase for “destroying the enemy” is “raping their faces.” Usage notes: “we really raped face last night”, “we caught them by surprise and raped their faces”, “who’s online and ready to go rape some face?”
By no particular coincidence, the voices you hear in your headset when you play this game are overwhelmingly male. Our crew is stunningly gender-integrated; we’ve got a triple-digit number of folks who use voice communication (“voice coms”) and there are perhaps five female-sounding voices among them. This is rare enough that new people have been heard to gasp “Girls? Did I just hear a girl? This game has girls?” In fact, no: pretty much the only female players we have are adult women. But that’s a whole ‘nuther thing, yo.
The politics of managing voice coms for a group so large are intricate. The more people using coms, the more social cohesion you have and the better your gaming group will fight together. But if coms are shitted up in ways that make various groups feel unwelcome (gays, women, ethnic minorities) these people will not use coms and may not stay in your group. So when your people start using “gay” as a derisive adjective, calling the folks who aren’t combat-oriented “Jews” because they are busy earning in-game currency, or throwing around words such as “cunt” and “bitches” like the unsupervised 14-year-old-boys many of them are, or using “rape” as a laudatory verb of victorious combat, it’s important to push back. Impossible to make this sort of thing stop entirely, but if you can’t keep it to a dull roar, you silently lose too many of your more mature and valuable people.
Note well: I’m speaking purely in practical terms here. I’m talking about what you need to do to make your organization functional and keep the coms working for the people you need to be on coms. I’m (so far) leaving the ethics of the the thing totally out of it. This is just practical management shit: keep the crap to a minimum or your org will drown in it and failcascade.
My own contribution to this problem in my own org has been to pick one battle and be tenacious about it. My chosen battle is Jew-talk. “Jewing it up”, “Don’t be such a jew”, “Who’s the Jew who’s been buying up all the [game items] around here and re-selling them for twice the price”, that sort of thing. It’s rare enough that I can challenge it consistently when I hear it without spending all day ranting into coms, and challenging it consistently seems to work. Gamers being gamers, being told to go fuck myself is the most pleasant response I ever get, but these exchanges, happening persistently when the verbal behavior recurs, seem to drive up the social cost of the behavior or reduce the transgressive fun-factor. Yeah, a few mostly-unthinking racists figure me for a humorless dick. You got no idea how much sleep I lose over that.
Funny thing? Right now I don’t even know any Jews in real life. Currently I live in a town so red-state and rural that there haven’t been any Jews here since the Cohens closed their dry goods store and retired, back in the 1980s. (I am not making that up.) But the thing you gotta understand is, Jew-talk in my game is a sort of coded “you’re not playing the game right” attack by combat-oriented players on crafter-and-accumulator type acquisitive players. Squelching it has a powerful practical purpose, since any good gaming organization needs both types of players. Also … duh … we don’t, can’t, know who the actual Jews in our org might be. Stupid to maybe insult people that you will need at your back in a fight. Ethics don’t need to figure into it.
But of course they do anyway. And that’s true about face-rape talk, too.
I come from the sort of cultural place where I feel it shouldn’t be necessary to explain to anybody why rape talk should never be light-hearted and why rape should never be used as a laudatory metaphor for anything. I’m like “Dude, it’s just rude is all. You don’t shout I AM A HUGE DICKHEAD! in the halls at school or work, do you? Then why are you talking like this? It makes you look like a huge freaking douchebag, shaddup allready!”
It shouldn’t be necessary to explain that, but sadly it often is necessary. Fortunately I don’t have to (at least not out here on the intarwebs) because Shakesville has already done it better:
Following is a primer for men who are interested in learning more about the practical effects of rape humor. … [T]his post in particular is addressed to men, not because women don’t rape and women don’t make/laugh at rape jokes and not because men can’t be raped, but because, by nature of the existing gender disparity, men are in a unique position to be taken seriously when they raise objections to casual language and humor regarding rape. Men are also in a unique position to prove to rapists and douchebags that not all men rape or take rape lightly by being able to embody living proof of that fact.
…
A lot of people accuse feminists of thinking that all men are rapists. That’s not true. But do you know who think all men are rapists?
Rapists do.
They really do. In psychological study, the profiling, the studies, it comes out again and again.
Virtually all rapists genuinely believe that all men rape, and other men just keep it hushed up better. And more, these people who really are rapists are constantly reaffirmed in their belief about the rest of mankind being rapists like them by things like rape jokes, that dismiss and normalize the idea of rape.
There’s a lot more in that vein. And, you know, it matters. It’s not just that they are shitting up my game coms and degrading our combat efficiency. Fuckers.
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Sunday, June 5th, 2011 -- by Dr. Faustus
Mark Kleiman, one of our more distinguished academic analysts of crime has a short post on the incidence of forcible rape as reported in large-scale victimization surveys over the last generation. The news is good: rape is down in that period — way down. From 2.8 per 1000 population in 1979 to 0.5 in 2009. Kleiman comments that he doesn’t know what has caused this dramatic and welcome change, but then adds:
But the theory that pornography causes sex crime would seem to have a hard time surviving comparison with the data.
Well put, professor. Also, love your beard.
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Wednesday, April 13th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
The research has been out there for awhile, but the suggestive numbers just keep getting stronger: there’s evidence that as access to the internet increases in the US population, rape rates fall. (Dr. Faustus blogged about this, and about a Salon article discussing the same research paper as today’s story, back in 2009, as did I when the research was new, back in 2006.) An attractive theory that might explain this is that access to porn (which as everybody knows, is what the internet is for) reduces the urge to rape — but that, of course, is merely what the data are suggestive of, it’s far from proven.
Today’s link (via Violet Blue) is to a blog by Canadian econ professor Marina Adshade, in which she updates the rape and internet stat numbers and discusses the hoary old research paper in greater detail:
The FBI’s Uniform Crime Report has recently released the preliminary statistics for 2010. The incidence of violent rape in US has declined once again, this time by 6.2% between June 2009 and June 2010. The most recent decline is not an anomaly; rape rates have been falling since their peak in the early 1990’s (see the figure I have included below which uses annual data from the FBI). Over the same period internet access in the US has skyrocketed; in 1997 (the first year that the current population survey collected this information) only 18.6% of American’s had internet access in their homes. Today that number is above 71%.
It may seem like the relationship between internet access and rape is spurious, but evidence suggests that even after controlling for known determinants of rape rates (such as policing, urbanization, poverty and the age distributions), a 10% increase in internet access coincides with a fall in rape rates of 7.3%.
And here’s why it’s worth revisiting this as the journalistic dinosaurs in TV and print media continue to ramp up their anguished bellowing and braying against internet porn:
[N]ot good results for those who have tried for years, largely unsuccessfully, to prove that access to porn increase male violence. There are also some interesting implications for how we think about the motivation for rape. It is difficult, for example, to reconcile a belief that rape has nothing to do with the act of sex itself if the evidence suggests that teenage boys are choosing to masturbate in front of their computers instead of being rapists.
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Monday, November 9th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
College newspaper sex columns have long provided rich fodder for sex blogging, but too often (especially in the early days when campus sex columnists tended to spray burbling prose in a “Squeee! I’m writing about sex like a grownup!” sort of tone) they’ve tended to instigate mockery rather than respect. However, when “Dr. Strokes” addresses the extremely tricky subject of the rape fantasies so many women enjoy, the result is just about the calmest and sanest such discussion I’ve ever seen. Here’s an excerpt from Anatomy of A Rape Fantasy:
What are some of the reasons that people want to pretend rape?
1. Guilt avoidance. It sucks, but we still live in a society where people, especially women, are made to feel guilty about wanting sex. Let me quote Nancy Friday, from her classic 1973 book of women’s fantasies:
“The most popular guilt-avoiding device was the so-called rape fantasy… it simply had to be understood that what went on was against the woman’s will. Saying she was ‘raped’ was the most expedient way of getting past the big No to sex that had been imprinted on her mind since early childhood.”
2. Being irresistible. It can be fun to imagine that you’re so attractive that nobody can resist the urge to touch you, and that they need to have sex with you so much that they’re just going to take it. Let me repeat: it can be fun to imagine when you are in a highly sexually aroused state and completely in control of who is touching you and how. Not so much otherwise.
3. Fear can heighten excitement. This is a known fact–fear gets our adrenaline up, our heart pumping, our pupils dilate, even our genitals aroused. Think of a rape fantasy as like a roller coaster–a controlled fear experience which you can get off of, and not you being thrown around out of control at 150 mph.
4. The more positive side of guilt avoidance is “pressure to perform” avoidance. In my violent rape fantasy, nobody really expects me to “perform” or to be “good” or to really do anything but what my instincts tell me to do. And it’s fun to imagine a situation where we’re expected to just run on instincts. (This is another gradation for me between “BDSM” and “rape” fantasies–in my BDSM fantasy, I have less pressure to perform because I have less ability to perform, but in my rape fantasy, I become a purely instinctual creature.)
2024 update: Somewhere between 2008 and now, the link not only broke, but the entirety of the Swarthmore Daily Gazette at that URL has been excluded from the Internet Archive. That in turn presumably has an associated controversy or story, but I do not know it:
Sunday, August 31st, 2008 -- by Bacchus
An alert reader sent me this link to a Craigslist post featuring what looks like a semi-nude (one boob) shot of vice-presidential candidate Sarah Palin in her beauty queen days, complete with huge 1980s hair.
The nude picture was found in company with this pageant bikini-contest shot:
Is this Palin? I dunno. It could be a random brunette with “Alaska” photoshopped onto the banner. It could be her. I just dunno.
Moving along to the nude picture you’ve all been waiting for:
Now, understand, I’m terrible with faces. My face recognizer is so bad that I don’t recognize my friends at the grocery store, half the time. And to me, this grainy black-and-white face doesn’t jump out as “obviously” Sarah Palin — either the current mother of five or the pageant beauty we saw yesterday. It’s just some random brunette showing a breast.
But if we believe the bikini shot…
It’s a clever sort of misdirection. Similar backgrounds, same white drape, similar hair. But to my eye, the face is much more bland. I can’t say it’s the same girl; I don’t think it’s the same girl. But, you know, it maybe could be, if a guy wanted to believe badly enough.
While still trying to decide whether I had a picture worth showing you, I moved my attention to the awesome hot leather miniskirt photo in the same Craigslist post. I was suspicious of that one; Palin is not that tall and her legs aren’t quite that thunderous. Final nail in the coffin: The Museum of Hoaxes has the source photo that Palin’s headshot was chopped from.
From there, I followed links through a ValleyWag story to this photoshop contest page, where, hey guess what? They have the nude picture already! It turns out to be an old internet photo widely circulated as being a nude photo of some celebrity I’ve never heard of, one Julia Louis Dreyfus. And even then, the majority of the sites showing it advertise it as a fake — so it may not even be Ms. Dreyfus.
I deem it unlikely that a nude photograph of Sarah Palin has been circulating for years on the internet, being deliberately mis-labeled as a Julia Louis Dreyfus nude. I guess it’s a theoretical possibility, but if I were you I’d be more worried about flying monkeys shooting out of John McCain’s ass.
Bottom line, folks: You can’t believe just anything you see on the internet. This will not be the last “nude Sarah Palin” picture we see. It may not even be the last nude Sarah Palin photo you see on ErosBlog. But the next time you see one, it would be good to remain skeptical.
To be honest, the most interesting photo to me is the bikini one of the girl with the “Alaska” sash. Is that Palin? Finding it in company with Photoshops makes me skeptical, but it’s an attractive photo (actually, video screen capture I believe) and I’d enjoy having it confirmed.
As always when Photoshop enters a discussion on ErosBlog, commenters need to remember that I am ruthless about deleting expressions of insupportable certitude. Opinions and arguments are welcome, but absolute claims and excessive certainty (“that’s obviously fake”, “Of course that’s real”) are rude and foolish and will be moderated away.
Thursday, August 14th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
I won’t go so far as to claim this image (big version here) is before towels precisely, but it does depict the era when they considered a bronze scraper (strigel) superior to a wash rag, for getting clean:
Thanks to Josh for the link.
Tuesday, June 3rd, 2008 -- by Bacchus
In making this post, I feel like some guy in 1996 going “there’s this little website called eBay, it’s like an auction but it’s all over the world at once, right now it’s just got a few old lunchboxes and some busted electronics, but I think it could be huge someday!”
First, some background. Nobody I know of is happy with the current search monopoly situation. You search one place because they have the best results, nobody else even comes close. But when those results suck, what can you do? Nothing.
This problem is particularly acute with adult blogs, which often perform poorly in the search engines despite having some of the most detailed textual discussions extant of many sexual issues. There’s presumably a complex of reasons for this, the biggest of which is probably spam. So many porn spammers attempt to game the search engines to promote their sex sites, that the search engine “immune systems” (filters and controls) are quick to kick in when adult search terms are present. There’s also some evidence (endlessly blogged about elsewhere) that the search engines, being corporate, are fairly hostile to sexual material, or at best indifferent to the quality of adult searches.
Anyway, what can be done? The paradigm of automatic crawling plus automated anti-spam filters yields a functional index, but in adult areas the subjective quality of the results often seems low. And, in my experience, the more I know about a search term, the worse the results look to me — there are too many “where is that site, it should be here?” and “that site is just a slick-looking front end for spammy scraped-and-morphed RSS” moments.
Enter Jimmy Wales, the guy (love him or hate him) who was instrumental in making Wikipedia what it is today. He’s been working for quite awhile on using wiki-style user interaction to create better search results than anything available today. It’s an insanely ambitious concept, because the easier you make it for folks to “improve” search results, the easier you make it for them to game them, spam them, and crap all over them in wild orgies of sheerest vandalism. Is it possible for the crowdsourced wiki magic to overwhelm the forces of spam, or at least to fight them to a useful draw? Right now, it seems unlikely. But everybody thought Wikipedia could never be useful, either. That turned out to be dead wrong; for all its manifest flaws, Wikipedia is insanely useful on many topics.
If — please join me in my pipe dream — if only the new Wikia Search (re-released today in open Alpha with, for the first time, useful user-editing features) could produce a user experience that’s competitive with the current search behemoth, wouldn’t that be awesome? It doesn’t have to win or be better — it just needs a fan base and an integer percentage of total search volume, enough to trigger some concern and competition from the corporate search providers. We all know that internet users search for adult stuff (including, but not limited to, porn) a whole lot. Right now, those search outcomes are poor, and nobody in corporate America seems much interested in improving them.
I am hoping that Wikia Search offers a way forward. Why not check it out, play around with the very intuitive tools for improving the results of the searches that you do, see if it isn’t fun to use and fun to improve? (I got sucked in on my first visit; before I knew it, I’d deleted tons of spammy results from several searches and fixed the ugly “snippets” for several favorite sites. I even added a few worthy sites that weren’t showing up. It’s addictively fun, and much easier than working on a Wikipedia article.)
We know the spammers — including the porn spammers — are going to be all over this if it gets any traction. In my (metaphorical) pipe dream, I’m imagining the non-spammy adult web people getting there first, to help build and defend useful search results for adult terms. Idealistic, I know, and pointless if this turns out to be a failed experiment. But imagine the fun if it succeeds!
Here’s the TechCrunch article where I learned of today’s relaunch, and there’s also a short video there explaining how to use the user-modification tools to improve the search results:
Today, Wikia Search is beginning to suck a lot less. It has only indexed 30 million Websites, but it is finally rolling out a set of editing features that lets searchers reorder, add, remove, rate, annotate, and comment on results. It also makes it easier for anyone to try to game the search results. Although, as with Wikipedia, an spammers can be banned by the community. We should see some fierce edit wars on this one.
Here’s Jimmy himself, in Forbes:
Participation in Wikia search has the same incentive as anything online–it’s something people enjoy doing. People edit wikis not because it’s a charity, but because they have common interests and because it’s fun. Also, we’re making the barriers to participation very, very low. If you search for something and find a result that’s not relevant, it’s gone with a single click, and you’ve made the search results a little better.
…
Right now search is a closed box, and there are some plausible reasons for that, like preventing people from gaming the algorithm for commercial gain and keeping out malicious players. But can we create something that’s as open and transparent as possible and publicly accountable? That’s what we’re shooting for.
Two years from now, people may point at this post and go “LOL, whut?” But I’m hoping, instead, that everybody goes “You mean, search used to be done by brainless robots trying to follow clever rules? Wow, that must have really sucked.”
Because, it does.
Wednesday, February 27th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
I’ve long felt that public fears (mostly among folks who aren’t particularly computer-literate) about internet sex predators were mostly press-fueled frenzy — the normal sensationalism that we get served with any new technology, where the press tries to “sell papers” (or whatever it is they are selling these days) by taking a tiny tiny handful of crimes that involve the new technology and turning that tiny handful into an endless parade of breathless handwringing and fear-mongering. All of which is eagerly devoured by the sort of casual Luddites who don’t much like the new technology and sort of wish it didn’t exist because then they wouldn’t have to deal with.
Well, it turns out I was right. Research by sociologists at the Crimes against Children Research Center, University of New Hampshire in Durham has debunked several widely-believed myths:
Myth: Internet predators are driving up child sex crime rates.
Reality: Sex assaults on teens fell 52 percent from 1993 to 2005, according to the Justice Department’s National Crime Victimization Survey, the best measure of U.S. crime trends. “The Internet may not be as risky as a lot of other things that parents do without concern, such as driving kids to the mall and leaving them there for two hours,” Wolak said.
Myth: Internet predators are pedophiles.
Reality: Internet predators don’t hit on the prepubescent children whom pedophiles target. They target adolescents, who have more access to computers, more privacy and more interest in sex and romance, Wolak’s team determined from interviews with investigators.
Myth: Internet predators represent a new dimension of child sexual abuse.
Reality: The means of communication is new, according to Wolak, but most Internet-linked offenses are essentially statutory rape: nonforcible sex crimes against minors too young to consent to sexual relationships with adults.
Myth: Internet predators trick or abduct their victims.
Reality: Most victims meet online offenders face-to-face and go to those meetings expecting to engage in sex. Nearly three-quarters have sex with partners they met on the Internet more than once.
Myth: Internet predators meet their victims by posing online as other teens.
Reality: Only 5 percent of predators did that, according to the survey of investigators.
Myth: Online interactions with strangers are risky.
Reality: Many teens interact online all the time with people they don’t know. What’s risky, according to Wolak, is giving out names, phone numbers and pictures to strangers and talking online with them about sex.
Myth: Internet predators go after any child.
Reality: Usually their targets are adolescent girls or adolescent boys of uncertain sexual orientation, according to Wolak. Youths with histories of sexual abuse, sexual orientation concerns and patterns of off- and online risk-taking are especially at risk.
Thanks to Bruce Schneier for the link.
Friday, February 22nd, 2008 -- by Bacchus
I’m not a comics guy, so I don’t know much about fumetti comics except that the vintage ones I keep stumbling over tend to be Italian and feature sex and violence combined in shocking and politically incorrect ways.
Lately I have several times run across the Groovy Age of Horror blog while doing Google image searches. It’s a resource for all manner of vintage pulpy wonderfulness, but the excerpted fumetti comics (complete with high quality scans of every panel) are one of the best features of the site. Example: all the good parts from Macho #3 as reprinted in Pecatti #1. You really need to follow the link, because while I’m “borrowing” Jaakko’s dry commentary in the block-quoting below, I’m only reprinting cropped and reduced details from a few panels of the artwork; the commentary-plus-complete-panels is a much more vivid experience. As Jaakko tells the story:
It’s called Il Clan Dei Centurioni (The Clan of Centurions), and it teaches us a new, fun way of defusing a stick of dynamite stuffed into a bodily orifice. Watch and learn, kids! First the bad guys chain Macho to the roof. Then they rape him, much to his delight. Then they stick a dynamite stick up his butt. Fortunately Macho is bisexual, and his girlfriend soon rushes to help him.
Wait a minute, what the hell?
Apparently this girl really loves using her mouth.
And thus, when Macho’s gay friends arrive, they find a horrifying sight: Macho is getting a blow-job… from a woman. Oh, the humanity! The End.
Friday, January 25th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Offered for discussion, an excerpt from “Nicole Gets An Education” by Vulgus. It (the excerpt, not the story, which is very long and somewhat tedious in the common manner of free internet sex fiction) is a short fictional account of a woman who has her best orgasm ever while being raped, so some of you may want to pass it by:
I am very aware, however, that the second best orgasm I ever had was when Bill Harris was making love to me. He held my hands over my head in one of his strong hands and I felt totally helpless. He stared into my eyes and I felt well and truly taken. He was large and strong and I felt overpowered. It was very exciting.
My best orgasm, however, was when I said “No” to Tom Phillips. We had gone out to dinner and spent a little time at a club. I had to get up early so we couldn’t stay too long. He grudgingly took me home and somehow wormed his way into my new apartment. It was my only experience with ‘date rape’. He took control as soon as my door closed. We had been dating for a month or so and we had sex a couple of times. Tonight, though, I was not in the mood. I was tired and a little pissed at him for being such an ass.
But he started pushing me toward my couch and pulling my clothes off. I was fighting him off, but not screaming or trying to hurt him. Finally he got tired of it and he used the cloth belt from my dress to tie my hands behind my back and he pulled my dress down to my elbows and pulled by bra up over my breasts and roughly mauled them while he held me close and forced his tongue into my mouth. I was struggling and begging him to stop, but he just ignored me.
Finally he pushed me to the floor and bent me over the sofa. He pulled my dress up in back and ripped my panties off violently. Then he held me down while he unbuckled his belt and slid it out of his belt loops.
As soon as it was free he doubled it over and started beating my ass. As he was beating me he was yelling at me, “Don’t you ever say no to be again, god damn it. You fucking tease, you bitches are all alike. You just use men to get what you want and send them home with blue balls and think that it is just great fun. Fucking bitch!”
I was crying hysterically, but he didn’t care, he must have beat my ass for several minutes before he pulled his pants off and raped me from behind.
I knelt there helplessly, my hands tied behind my back, his hand holding my hair in his firm grip and pulling my head up so that he could see my face while he fucked me. His other hand kept moving under me and squeezing and pinching my by breasts and my nipples. It was horrible. And I came harder than I had ever come in my life! Over and over. I lost track of how many times I came. I had never been so aroused in my life. Some of those rape stories I read on the internet flashed through my mind as Tom violently raped me and I screamed in pleasure.
Tom finally came in me. He stood up and wiped his cock clean in my hair. Then he dressed and left without ever saying another word. It took me almost fifteen minutes to get my hands free!
I sat on my dress on the floor for a long time sobbing and sad and furious and confused.
Finally I got up and took a shower and as I washed my sore body I pictured what had happened tonight in my mind and as I washed my sore pussy I was on the edge of another orgasm. Well, I had no reason to disappoint me, so I rubbed myself until I came again. But then I was mad at myself for doing it.
This excerpt is a fairly stark and unequivocal example of a blindingly common meme — the meme of the woman who is overpowered by brute male force, raped with a modicum of violence, and, on a sexual level at least, enjoys it.
There are plenty of controversies swirling around this meme. Many men, for example, enjoy pointing out that it’s a predominantly female fantasy, at least measured by sales dollars — because, lightly prettied up, it’s at the heart (or somewhere lower) of an entire genre of commercial fiction marketed to and mostly consumed by women. In certain feminist circles, this fused grenado gets lit and tossed back over the wall by means of various arguments to the effect that the fantasy is thrust upon women or defensively adopted by them in response to the miscellaneous oppressive mechanisms of patriarchy.
But my interest is not in the question of whether the meme is prevalent — for it surely is — or whether it is popular with women — for it surely is that, also. Readers of this blog will know by now that I am predictable to this extent: memes expressed in erotic fiction, consumed and enjoyed as such, will attract no condemnation from me.
No, my question is: What do you think is the propagandistic effect, if any, of the meme? Do you think expressions of it are intended to convince (or, regardless of intent, do have the effect of convincing) anyone (male or female) that real world rapes are less evil or pernicious than they actually are? In other words, does fiction like this have the intent or effect of reducing the power of “No”?
Of course the forces of censorship — against which ErosBlog lives in opposition — are quick to say yes, and to assume that a “yes” should end the conversation. I think erotic expression is important enough to defend even in the face of real-world negative consequences, could they be established, so I will doubtless continue to oppose censorious impulses. But it remains an important question. Is there danger in the expression of such fantasies? And if so, what’s the appropriate reaction, given the toxic sexual pressure cooker environment you get when a society chooses repression and censorship?
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, October 18th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
The thing about erotic story repositories on the internet that makes them so interesting is that they are structurally noncommercial. Which is to say, for the most part, they accumulate the sort of erotic fiction that nobody wants to be in the business of selling in print.
It would be easy to say more generally that amateur erotic fiction isn’t of commercial quality, but that’s a cop-out; it’s so hard to make money selling erotic fiction that, strictly speaking, virtually all of it that exists isn’t “commercial quality” if you define that as “you could sell enough of this to be worth publishing it.” No, I’m talking about thematic elements that would, at the very least, complicate any commercial distribution, themes and scenarios that make business people nervous and/or queasy. Rape, incest, sex at any age, bestiality, rare fetishes, social taboos, and every imaginable combination thereof: “I caught my teacher fucking her dog and blackmailed her with the photos, I made her wear sweaty rubber boots, call me Master, and suck my cock in the supply closet — and then I made her take my little brother and his Nintendo buddies on a field trip to the petting zoo!”
This, of course, is a specific instance of the general case, the root nature of the internet that makes it so wonderful and terrible. No matter how narrow your interest, you can get anything you want, but you’ll find it cheek-by-jowl with a million things that will raise your eyebrows until they ache.
Doubt me? Go have a look at The Kristen Archives. If there’s a better place on the internet to find sex stories, I haven’t seen it. But you simply must be adult about it. Skim the summaries; if a story’s not for you, don’t read it. For extra credit and true advancement toward mastery, cultivate the ability to appreciate what’s hot about a story while disregarding the elements (stylistic or thematic) that aren’t.
Your example for the day is Screwed, featuring an amoral attorney who’s clearly more excited by the financial screwing he gives his client than he is by the blowjob he enjoys from her. If you’re a professional of any kind, you might find yourself too outraged to enjoy the story. Which would be a shame, because there’s no law that says villains can’t be funny in the conduct of their villainy:
I wound my hand in her hair and jerked her head back and forth, each time forcing more of my dick into her mouth until she was almost choking, but she never pulled back. When she reached between her legs and began playing with her pussy as I roughly jerked her head onto my cock, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. She was getting off on the rough treatment. I would like to have experimented more, but the tremendous mental and physical stimulation pushed me over the top, and with almost painful jets, I shot a copious load of jism down her throat, my cock unbelievably huge and purple looking, the orgasm without a doubt the best I’d ever experienced in a woman’s mouth, making it feel even better.
I collapsed backward onto my elbows, basking in the after-glow, my cock still twitching in her hand as she licked her lips and swallowed the remains of my wad. Then, squeezing up the length of my cock, she forced up a final dollop of sperm, and looking at me, and squeezing the huge drip onto her tongue, she let me watch her spread it around her mouth and slowly and with a sensuous grin, swallowed the entire thing. Then, as though not yet satisfied, she sucked my cock clean of every last drop of cum, kissed my balls tenderly and sat back in her chair with a brilliant smile, rearranging her skirt, giving me a shot of her unpantied beaver before dropping the skirt primly into place.
I let my head drop back onto the desk, eyes closed, trying to regain my strength. I’d never had a head shot like that. The woman was a vampire — she positively loved cum. I glanced at the clock and with a shock realized that she’d sucked me for almost 20 minutes, and that we were almost through the lunch hour. Quickly, I refigured her bill. I’d need to get paid for that extra hour now, and — what the hell — she’d just had her lunch on me! I tacked $50.00 dollars onto her bill. That would make it $350.00. But then I realized that she’d probably dicker with me, so I threw on another $100.00 to give me something to work with, for a total of $450.00 less her discount. I’d just gotten paid $150.00 for blowing my wad down my client’s throat!
As I watched her repair her lipstick, I thought about the glimpse of her hairy cooze I’d gotten as she’d pulled the skirt down. I was still excited and the thought of fucking this ‘respectable’ mother of two made my cock start to stand up again. I didn’t bother to put it away.
“Well, Karen, that was great — you certainly have talent — but now there’s the matter of your bill.”
Well, of course, she’d expected that the entire bill would be forgiven based on her performance, but I gave her a lecture on overhead travel fees, etc., then made my pitch for the discount. But before I did it, a perverse streak caused me to quote her $550.00 as my bill to see what she’d say. She seemed taken aback, but I pointed out that I’d done a lot of research before we’d gone to court. I gently explained to her that just because she’d assumed that I’d dismiss the whole bill didn’t constitute a contract because we’d had no discussion beforehand. Then I asked her what she thought her services had been worth. Just as I thought, she undervalued them-obviously low self esteem-and dubiously quoted $100.00. I could have backed her down, but I had another plan in mind. I accepted her offer, and generously knocked off another $50.00 to show good faith. That term always gets them, even though it meant nothing in this case. Now we were down to $400.00.
She had brightened appreciably. I then offered her a chance to knock the bill down another $50.00 if I could fuck her — and I said it just like that. She acted as though the very words turned her on. But, believe it or not, she was getting bolder, and came back with $100.00. We finally settled on $75.00. I was on a roll, and I could have gotten her down to $50.00 — but, what the hell, I’m not totally devoid of conscience!
Friday, August 24th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
The naked man wrestling seemed to be a big hit, so here’s some more, only this also has women in it and erect penises and a prodigious ejaculation. Don’t see how I could possibly go wrong with a modest orgy in a vineyard:
I don’t know a thing about the art or the artist or the context, but I think it’s safe to say it’s old and French. (I say French because it’s a detail from this, which has French words on it.)
Wednesday, June 6th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Thanks is due to Fleshbot for attracting my attention to some old news about Kink.com. I’m talking about this article in the New York Times, which, except for one token sentence filled with gratuitous slams (“wince-inducing grisliness”, “morbidly eccentric”), is a perfectly normal and quite interesting business profile of one of my favorite porn companies.
Having commented repeatedly on the pleasure and the significance of Kink.com’s smiling models, I particularly enjoyed reading this passage, in which we learn that running a photoshoot that leaves the models smiling, and then making sure to catch them doing it, is indeed the explicit company policy:
[Kink.com’s Peter Acworth] describes the company as having a certain social mission. Too often, he told me, B.D.S.M. is conflated with rape or abuse. He realized early on that building a respectable company devoted to the fetish could help “demystify” it. People who felt conflicted about their kinkiness, as he once had, “would realize they’re not alone and, in fact, that there’s a big world of people that are into this stuff and that it can be done in a safe and respectful way. Loving partners can do this to each other.” Kink’s required pre- and post-scene interviews, like the one I watched Wild Bill and Adams tape, for example, are meant to break the fourth wall, assuring audiences that, as in real-life B.D.S.M. play, everything is negotiated in advance and rooted in a certain etiquette and trust – that everyone is friends. The company actually requires that each model be shown smiling during the segments.
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Monday, April 23rd, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Sounds to me like somebody’s just itching for a spanking, but hey, maybe that’s just me:
I created a game in my head one day when Gadget was plunging his most needy part inside my most needy bit. I thought,
Men can get so heated when it comes to sex, and I love that. How can I inspire him to become more heated, even if we’re both a little down, and while at the same time, have a little bit of fun?
The game is called The Deprivation Game and is composed of just that, momentary sexual deprivation. When he strives to fuck me ever harder, I thrust down my pelvis so that his energetically pumping cock slips out. His usual reaction is along the lines of,
Oh no please baby, please! No, no, no, please. Please baby.
Accompanied by whimpering, a scrunched up emotional face and phantom fucking, as my strong thighs push down on his, barring access to the bits he wants most to plunge into. His struggle against me can get quite heated at times, and then one of two things happen:
1. Just as he starts to give up and rest his forehead against my shoulder, I slip my hips down agasint him and he slides in, and happily restarts his rhythm against me.
2. Or, (my favorite) he grabs my shoulder and under my neck and pushes down on top of me, conquering my sex with a forceful thrust and begins his pace once again.
Either way its bravo for both of us because the sex continues. Though I’m not a fan of violence or rape, as I’ve been a victim to both, I love how his carnal side comes out in full force. I also love the flip side of it: He becomes a whimpering sex deprived little boy.
So again either way I’m turned on and entertained. Wicked am I.
Wednesday, February 21st, 2007 -- by Bacchus
I got this story from Boing Boing, but I was surprised to see Xeni report it straight, without the least hint of commentary. Seems a fellow overheard the soundtrack of a woman screaming and pleading for help, so he grabbed an antique sword and rushed to the rescue. Alas, what he was hearing was the soundtrack from a porn DVD, and now he faces three criminal charges and the chance at close to three years in jail:
Man mistakes porn DVD as woman’s cries for help
He faces charges after entering apartment with sword in tow
Oconomowoc – Instincts took over, James Van Iveren says, when he rushed out his door to the sound of a woman being raped in an apartment above.
“It was a woman screaming,” he recalled Tuesday. “She was screaming for help.”
Sword in hand, he bounded up the stairs, kicked in the door and confronted a man who turned out to be alone – watching a pornographic movie.
“Now I feel stupid,” Van Iveren said.
Worse yet, police seized his sword – a family heirloom – carted him to jail and referred the case to a prosecutor who charged Van Iveren with three criminal counts.
“This really is nothing,” Van Iveren insisted, “nothing but a mistake.”
Van Iveren’s “mistake” unfolded on the morning of Feb. 12 when Van Iveren, 39, of Oconomowoc, was listening to music in the apartment he shares with his mother behind Red & Bunny’s Diner on S. Main St.
Suddenly, according to Van Iveren, the distinct cries of a woman pleading for help could be heard coming from the apartment above him. He tried putting them out of his mind at first, but when they persisted, Van Iveren decided something had to be done.
“I don’t have a telephone,” he said. “I couldn’t call the police.”
The cries seemed to be coming from the apartment of a tenant he barely knew, but that, Van Iveren said, didn’t matter.
“It had nothing to do with him,” he said. “I didn’t even know if he was there. It was the woman. I thought there was a woman.”
The woman, according to a criminal complaint, was on a DVD being watched by the neighbor, who later played part of the movie back for police to point out what he figured Van Iveren heard downstairs.
To Van Iveren, the neighbor’s film sounded like a rape in progress.
“So I grabbed the cavalry sword and ran upstairs,” he said. “I intended to hold it behind my back and knock.
“But I froze and instead, what happened happened.”
According to the criminal complaint, the neighbor told police that Van Iveren pounded on the door and kicked it open without warning, damaging the frame and lock in the process.
“Where is she?” Van Iveren demanded, thrusting the 39-inch sword at the neighbor, according to the complaint. “Where is she?”
The neighbor told police that Van Iveren became increasingly aggressive as he repeated the question, insisting that he’d heard a woman being raped. With the sword pointed at him, the neighbor led Van Iveren throughout the apartment, opening closet doors to prove he was alone, according to the complaint.
Van Iveren said it wasn’t nearly that dramatic.
“I walked in the front room and looked around,” he said. “When I saw there was no woman, I left.
“I went downstairs and when I looked out the window, I saw the police had come, so I went out to tell them what happened.”
Van Iveren insisted that he never threatened the neighbor with the sword.
“I had the sword extended,” he said. “But that was all.”
The neighbor wasn’t home when a reporter visited the building Tuesday, and he could not be reached by telephone.
For his effort, Van Iveren was charged with criminal trespass while using a dangerous weapon, criminal damage to property while using a dangerous weapon and disorderly conduct while using a dangerous weapon, all criminal misdemeanors that carry a maximum total penalty of 33 months in jail.
“All of them are going to be dismissed,” he predicted. “They have to.
“This was all just a big mistake.”
I find this a troubling story. On the one hand, I’m all for the rights of people to the peaceable enjoyment of pornography in the security of their own homes. But on the other hand, I’ve seen some porn DVDs that had pretty disturbing soundtracks. I can imagine this being an easy mistake to make.
That said, the sword and the forcible entry seem a bit over dramatic. There’s a certain lack of judgment on display. But what do we want people to do when they hear a rape in progress? I’m just old fashioned enough to think that, had events been what Van Iveren thought they were, he would or ought to have earned himself a good citizen’s medal and the thanks of a grateful populace.
Fortunately, I think the prediction of dismissal is likely to come true. There’s something called “the defense of necessity” which exists for any crime, and in most jurisdictions all you have to do is convince a jury that a reasonable person would have believed the otherwise criminal acts were necessary to save a life or avert a serious injury. Given that hurdle — and Van Iveren’s arguably heroic motive — I think the prosecutor would be insane to push this to trial.
Thursday, November 2nd, 2006 -- by Bacchus
A friend of mine, a real-world meatspace friend going waaay back to my mis-spent youth, sent me a brief email note and a link the other day. This friend of mine is, I’d say, amused to find himself acquainted with an internet pornographer, but I do not think he’s convinced I’m making the best use of my talents and education. The email said, in its entirety but for salutations:
Of the various virtuous roles you might occupy in the greater human scheme, defender of the public peace didn’t come to mind first, but perhaps it should.
Yeah, he talks like that. It’s one of his many charms.
The link he sent was this one, to an article in Slate: How The Web Prevents Rape.
I’d seen previous references to the research documented in the article, but nothing so cogently written. A few excerpts:
First, porn. What happens when more people view more of it? The rise of the Internet offers a gigantic natural experiment. Better yet, because Internet usage caught on at different times in different states, it offers 50 natural experiments.
The bottom line on these experiments is, “More Net access, less rape.” A 10 percent increase in Net access yields about a 7.3 percent decrease in reported rapes. States that adopted the Internet quickly saw the biggest declines. And, according to Clemson professor Todd Kendall, the effects remain even after you control for all of the obvious confounding variables, such as alcohol consumption, police presence, poverty and unemployment rates, population density, and so forth.
Well, duh.
OK, so we can at least tentatively conclude that Net access reduces rape. But that’s a far cry from proving that porn access reduces rape. Maybe rape is down because the rapists are all indoors reading Slate or vandalizing Wikipedia. But professor Kendall points out that there is no similar effect of Internet access on homicide. It’s hard to see how Wikipedia can deter rape without deterring other violent crimes at the same time. On the other hand, it’s easy to imagine how porn might serve as a substitute for rape.
I said “Well, duh” because, as I wrote back to my friend:
To me, that’s one of those studies with a result that’s intuitively self-evident. (Not to devalue it; so much that is self-evident is also wrong.) The crux for me is in the sentences “It’s hard to see how Wikipedia can deter rape without deterring other violent crimes at the same time. On the other hand, it’s easy to imagine how porn might serve as a substitute for rape.”
In the canonical feminist view of rape, the brainless chant is that “rape is not about sex, it’s about violence and power.” I’ve always thought that to be arrant nonsense. Rape *is* violent, but that’s a statement about practicality and means, not motivation. It’s always seemed to me that rape must be about sexual frustration. Reduce the frustration, reduce the incidence of rape, quod erat demonstrandum. About as controversial as arguing that feeding people reduces hunger.
(If I had been writing the above for this blog rather than in email shorthand to someone who knows me well, I’d have been more cautious. Specifically, when I wrote “rape must be about sexual frustration” I’d have disclaimered it a bit; “many rapes are”, perhaps, rather than “rape must be”. And I would have been more tactful in my description of the opposing view.)
My own belief is that the internet porn effect is broadly beneficial, whatever its debatable effects on the rape statistics. Peeping Toms in the bushes used to be a staple of the suburban police blotters, but when was the last time you heard of one? Didn’t we used to get more high street raincoat flashers, before the internet came along and offered the sending of unsolicited dick pictures as a safer alternative?
I don’t have numbers to prove any of that, of course. Which is why I find the research quoted in Slate to be so interesting.
Sunday, September 10th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
I’ve been reluctant to post this image, because I don’t know enough about its history and context. Probably propaganda judging by the style, possibly racist in effect if not in artistic intent, perhaps depicting a rape (given the different uniforms, and the common theme of rape in military propaganda as a metaphor for brutal victory/defeat), though there are no overt indications thereof and both men have their weapons handy.
So why post? Because it’s two men in uniform fucking, that’s why. Guaranteed hotness for a certain fairly large fraction of the ErosBlog readership. Without further ado:
If anybody with the appropriate linguistic skills cares to comment on the meaning of the visible text, that would be appreciated. Larger version is here.
Saturday, September 9th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
I know I’ve been quoting Susie Bright a lot recently, but then, Susie always has been a woman with a lot to say. Her latest big essay grabs firmly ahold of the seeming paradox of women and their rape fantasies:
I didn’t acknowledge having perilous fantasies until I was in my twenties. In a women’s studies college course, our teacher asked us if we had experienced arousing “rape fantasies”?
One girl tearfully raised her hand and said this was true for her. My heart beat so fast it was all I could do to stay put. I was just as ashamed as she of these fantasies, but I would never have admitted them. Our professor was quite kind to her, if misinformed.
Our professor comforted the girl by saying that, as women, we had been brainwashed by the patriarchy to eroticize our subordination to men. She said these fantasies were very common, which is true, and that we could “overcome” them by exposing our fantasies to feminist analysis and by our increasing self-esteem.
She was wrong on that count. In fact, I knew she was wrong later that same night. Despite my assertive self-confidence, rock-hard feminist analysis, and weekly shift at the rape crisis hotline, I could still crawl into bed and successfully masturbate to the same disturbing fantasies that had aroused me since I was a child.
Feminism and self-esteem had no more effect on my erotic hot spots than the communion wafers I used to take every Sunday, hoping they would wash away the devil’s seed inside of me. Clearly, religion and linear politics were useless in explaining the unconscious and subversive quality of eroticism.
…
It’s normal, it’s common, to fantasize about the bizarre– the things that in real-life circumstances would trouble us, frighten us, or maybe just make us laugh. Erotic fantasies take the unbearable issues in life and turn them into orgasmic gunpowder.
…
In our fantasies, no matter how much we struggle to deny it, we control every frame. Whether we stand tall in thigh-high boots or kneel breathless on the ground, it’s a matter of our well-lubricated chosen position. We run the fuck in our minds, the exact amount of ambivalence, the perfect timing of climax. When did that ever happen in a real sexual assault?
These are just the tiniest of highlights; there’s much much more. Complete with bonus analysis of Nancy Friday’s “My Secret Garden”!
Thursday, March 30th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a hilarious transcript of cybersex gone terribly … right? Some goon tries to pretend to be a master, but he seems to think it mostly involves virtual punches and namecalling. And then the hunter becomes the hunted:
mia: *gets out strap-on, and slips it on*
jblack: whoa
mia: *attaches 14″ dildo to strap-on*
mia: *lubes the dildo up*
jblack: where’s the girl? you’re going to fuck a girl right?
mia: you’re the girl. i’m going to fuck you.
jblack: master does not approve
mia: no, see. this whole time you’re under the assumption that i needed to be dominated
mia: the truth of the matter is, I do the dominating.
mia: and to prove it
mia: i’m going to fuck your cyber ass until it cyber bleeds
jblack: master says no
mia: no, YOUR MASTER says yes
mia: bend the fuck over
jblack: i don’t like this
mia: too fucking bad, worm. you’re gonna get it now
mia: *bends you over. spreads your ass.*
jblack: no i don’t want this
mia: he doesn’t WANT this, he says. what about what i said, before you cyber raped me, DICK?
mia: all i’m doing is what you did to me. you think that’s unfair?
jblack: yes
mia: and why is that
jblack: because i aint a fag
mia: oh but i am?
jblack: different. your a bitch
mia: no, actually, YOU’RE the bitch right now
mia: *slams my big dildo into your ass*
mia: oh that feels so good doesn’t it, bitch?
jblack: this is rape
mia: “shut up, bitch. enjoy it”
mia: oh yeah, you like that?
mia: you like Master’s cock?
*jblack has signed off*
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Saturday, March 11th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
One feature of vintage pornography, now mostly vanished, is the anti-clerical, anti-papist depictions of Catholic clergy. Early erotic novels, which mostly tended to be contraband anyway, were chock-full of priests, nuns, and monks run sexually amok in orgiastic golcondas of kinky sex, rape, and flagellation involving each other, whatever innocent children they could seduce or kidnap from their flocks, and sundry nearby farm animals. One doesn’t see so much of that in modern pornography, but there was a bit of it remaining in the hardcore porn of the 1960s and 1970s, which this appears to be:
One could almost surmise, from the hopefully expectant expressions on the nuns’ faces, that they are praying for (and working for) a sudden shower of manna. Nun bukkake, anyone?
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Wednesday, September 28th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
I don’t think there’s much chance I have anything philosphically in common with the woman who writes Den of the Biting Beaver. Indeed, her views strike me as horrifying and repressive; she hates pornography, reveres Andrea Dworkin, and slammed her own 14-year old son for having the temerity to suggest that fighting and dying in a war might be worse than being raped during one. (In her own words: “I stomped out that little glimmer of Patriarchal nonsense before it had taken a real root in his tender little psyche.” Nice parenting, yo.) Worse yet, she actually believes in thought crime; she’s got a detailed theory of why it’s wrong and bad to fantasize about things you shouldn’t or wouldn’t actually do.
So why the attention? In a word, quality. Her posts are entertaining-tending-toward-rants, well-written, considered in the sense of acknowledging and addressing obvious counter-arguments, and fun to read. If everybody in this multi-sided culture war we’re fighting came to battle in the same spirit as she does, we would all be having a lot more fun.
Tuesday, June 28th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
It’s true that the drapes are finally off the Spirit of Justice’s perky aluminum boobies, but Homeland Security is still busily spending its budget to protect you and me from the pernicious effects of — wait for it — Naked Jen. Here she is in front of the Capitol — three cheers for good old fashioned American anti-authoritarianism — but she says the climate for nudity in D.C. ain’t what it used to be:
That picture I’ve shared is 100% genuine. I really wanted to take pictures with all the national monuments while I was in DC (especially the White House), but let me tell you that DC is a whole new place since 9/11. Gah. I have never seen so many special police officers in all my life. And the Washington Monument is “under renovation” and I couldn’t even get near it. Boo. I felt kind of sacrilegious taking a naked picture at the Lincoln Memorial as well as any of the War Veterans Memorials, but the Capitol. No problem, obviously. Although, as soon as we took this photo we noticed that the special police for the Capitol had taken notice of us and we abandoned our thoughts that taking a picture on the actual steps of the Capitol would be a good idea.
Funny thing, I can still remember living in an America that used to revile the sort of countries where a mischievous citizen had to worry about being noticed by the “special police”.
Tuesday, May 17th, 2005 -- by Dionysus
I wish I had a picture to post. There seems, as yet, to be no good graphic representation of this entity floating around the internet.
However, there seems to be a new bad boy in town, down Zanzibar way, who goes by the name of Popo Bawa.
CHAKE CHAKE, Tanzania (Reuters) – Mohammed Juma starts to sweat and fidget as he recalls his rape by Popo Bawa, the most feared spirit-monster of the Zanzibar spice islands.
“We believe reading the Koran is our only defence, nothing else,” says the 41-year-old driver and father of four. “But Popo Bawa is real, and well prepared.”
Holidaymakers on the Indian Ocean islands tend to smile dismissively at accounts in guidebooks of the bat-like ogre said to prey on men, women and children. But for superstitious Zanzibaris a visit from the sodomising gremlin is no joke.
Although no one ever has seen it, belief in the monster and his unnatural lust is so strong that entire villages will sleep out of doors for protection: Popo Bawa (Swahili for Bat’s Wing) prefers to attack behind closed doors at night.
In huts set amid rustling groves of jackfruit and mangoes on Zanzibar’s Pemba island, victims told Reuters in interviews that they detected a bad smell, became cold and went into a trance in the moments before they felt the creature’s inhuman strength.
Some attacks were heralded by the sound of giant wings and claws rattling and scraping on huts’ tin roofs. Others cringed in terror at what sounded like a car engine ticking over.
“We heard a rustling on the roof,” recalls Asha Saleh, in her late 50s, in Machomanne village near Pemba’s main town of Chake Chake. “I felt someone fondling me. I felt very cold. I felt weak,” she said, recalling the attack some 35 years ago.
You know, one simply has to love anything called a raping demon. It puts one in the mind of Incubi & Succubi, a most twisted erotic fantasy.
To have one’s will sapped, in bed, asleep. The most vulnerable of positions, the most secure, safe, friendly place in one’s home. To have it take, violated, not by force, but by cold, evil, supernatural coercion.
To have this power — to be this entity. To slink in and take control, do wicked, carnal harm.
What’s not to like in this fantasy?
Thanks to the wonderful BoingBoing for this story.
Monday, February 28th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
Via Pursed Lips, this hilarious anecdote from a New York City screening of Inside Deep Throat:
The New York screening of Inside Deep Throat at the Paris Theatre was a hoot. … The hapless lot of directing a post-screening panel fell to Elvis Mitchell, former movie critic at the NY Times. … Mitchell looked on helplessly as McKinnon did her thing, claiming that the film we had just watched was promoting the acceptance of rape. At one point, however, her righteous zeal became unhinged when she claimed that it was not possible to do deep throat safely, that it was a dangerous act that could only be done under hypnosis. “What’s so funny?” she snapped as the audience rippled with mirth. Todd Graff’s hand shot up – “I can do it,” he said, and the room echoed with a chorus of gay men going “me too!” (Gigi Grazer – wife of Brian – later told Graff to stop bragging and that she could do it better than him and had the rocks on her fingers to prove it. Touché).
Sounds like McKinnon picked the wrong audience to spout her anti-sex drivel….
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Thursday, November 11th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
I am stunned to announce that I’ve just done something unprecedented (for me). I just deleted a blog from my blogroll because of the content. Not because it was stale, not because it was lame, not because it was badly written – I prune blogs for that sort of reason all the time. Nope, I deleted it because it flat-out pissed me off…and because I could.
The offending post? A jocular statement of warm anticipatory approval for the “forced anal intrusion” (aka prison rape) awaiting sex offenders once they get to jail.
Sorry, folks, but civilized people don’t use rape as a punishment, much less gloat about it. And I just discovered that I can’t stomach linking to that particular flavor of barbarian.
Friday, August 13th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
I pretty much think these pictures speak for themselves, when viewed in the proper sequence:
Thanks to Ropeguy at Bondage Blog for the pictures.
Saturday, July 3rd, 2004 -- by Bacchus
This Wired article discusses Sociolotron, an online roleplaying game (currently in beta) with mechanics that allow sex, bondage, even rape. The article talks a lot about the experience of players who are “raped” in game. It sounds to me like the engine is of broader interest, if only because it brings some of the social freedoms of ancient MUDs into the MMORPG world of today. Critically missing from the Wired article: screen shots.
Thanks to Daze for the link.
Sunday, June 13th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
I recently stumbled across this interesting article on the use of sexual imagery in propaganda. The article is profusely illustrated, but unfortunately the image quality tends to be rather low. Here’s one of the clearer ones:
From the article:
During the Korean War the above leaflet was released in both Chinese and Korean versions. The leaflet above is the Chinese version and depicts a Chinese woman being raped by a horrific looking Russian soldier while two other soldiers hold another poor woman prisoner while they wait their turn. The message, intended for Chinese soldiers fighting in Korea, was for them to stop fighting and return to China to “Guard your Homes and Protect Your Country.”
Friday, April 2nd, 2004 -- by Bacchus
This from Yahoo News is really unfortunate:
Man Pleads Guilty in Mistaken ‘Rape Fantasy’
A California man has pleaded guilty to residential burglary after he set up a meeting with a woman on a rape fantasy Internet chat page, but instead broke into a different woman’s apartment.
…
After he entered the wrong apartment, he hit and struggled with the 25-year-old woman inside, who told law enforcement officials she thought she was going to be killed.
The victim stopped the attack by yelling and attacking Howard’s testicles. Howard then asked for the name the victim used in the chat room and she responded by saying she had never visited a chat room and did not have a personal computer.
My first reaction: Daze is right; some people are too stupid to be fetishists.
My second reaction: There are still people out there, ones who have apartments and electricity, who don’t have personal computers?
Sunday, February 29th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Speaking of vibration, the fine folks at Eros Boutique sent along a box the other day with a couple of vibrators. (Yes, Virginia, Bacchus is always happy to accept free sex toys in exchange for a review.) Although they have a lot of excellent goodies for sale, The Nymph and I were disappointed in these two items.
First: Spice Incognito Nail Polish Vibe. Powered by included watch batteries, this vibe looks like a bottle of nail polish and is very discrete. So discrete, in fact, that at first I couldn’t figure out how to turn it on. I finally figured out that I had turned it on, but the vibration was so faint I had to stand completely still and concentrate in order to detect it humming in my hand. Nifty if that’s what you like, but as a guy I’m in the “more power” camp and the Nymph doesn’t appear to disagree. When they sell a vibrator with a built-in cold-fusion reactor so the neighborhood lights don’t dim when it starts up, I’ll probably want one.
Second: I Kit – The Pocket Rocket Complete Kit. No complaints about the base vibrating unit on this model; it buzzes quite vigorously and made The Nymph happy. However, the attachments don’t stay attached very well; even the slightest sideways pressure and they pop off. Since the attachments are small, this raises the spectre of one disappearing into an orifice – which is never sexy unless you have a medical fetish. Also, the attachments are apparently supposed to be flavored (the box advertises availability in “three blissful flavors” including strawberry, blueberry, and grape) but in fact they have a very strong odor and flavor of PVC plasticisers — you know, that vinyl air-mattress smell. You can tell (sort of) that there’s a hint of fruit smell blended into the mix, but it’s overwhelmed by the vinyl smell. Great for folks with a vinyl fetish!
Wednesday, February 25th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Sasha, the sex columnist who writes Love Bites, is an unflappable non-judgmental sort, whose level-headed advice is surely a comfort to her readers and question-askers alike. But I guess I’ve become addicted to Dan Savage’s willingness to pass judgment, especially in cases where the seeker-after-wisdom is sorely in need of a swift kick-in-the-pants reality check.
An example. Someone asks Sasha a question that starts like this:
My girlfriend of three years has all the signs of vaginismus. Needless to say, there hasn’t been much funky lovin’ going on, and though I sure wouldn’t mind some, it’s not my primary concern — sex has been ruled out for other health-related reasons.
Ooh, sympathy begins to set in. Vaginismus and some other unspecified-but-surely-vile health problems that are none of our business. What, paralysis below the waist? Fibroids the size of grapefruits? Rampaging uncontrollable full-body yeast infections? We’ll never know, but it must be true love if it’s lasted three years nonetheless.
The question goes on:
It does concern me, though, that she’s never seen a gynecologist.
Well…yah. That’s putting it mildly.
So much for true love. This woman claims to love you, but she’s got health problems so severe she won’t-or-can’t make love to you, and she won’t even go to see a doctor?
Yeah, right. Sorry, buster, but you are being strung along. There’s just no other reasonable explanation.
The questioner goes on to request info on finding a doctor who knows about vaginismus, which info Sasha provides deadpan. She never even raises a metaphorical eyebrow to suggest that there might be some problem with this relationship beyond the purely medical. She just accepts this deeply implausible situation at face value.
Dan Savage would never have been so gentle.
Thursday, February 12th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Despite its title, the article “Why I Can’t Rape My Wife” is pretty damned funny:
I’ve always wanted to be the High Lord of Depravity, but being fundamentally lazy and naive, I’ve come to realize that frankly, kinky sex is just too much work.
I broke up laughing at this:
Here’s the secret of cheap bondage: Your partner’s faking it. That ad-libbed knot at the right bedpost slipped twenty minutes ago, and he’s been working overtime to keep his hand in place. That blindfold-cum-scarf? She’s been peeking out from under since you started. Unless you’re some kind of sadistic boy scout, your trivial attempts at impromptu bondage are doomed to failure. You need the professional equipment, pal.
Long but worth it.
Friday, November 21st, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Doxy writes about the joys of vanilla phone sex Johns:
Please, any of you guys reading this — whether you ever intend to call me or not — don’t sell yourselves short because you don’t want to anally rape aardvarks with Japanese-anime elastic penises. Phone sex, or any sex for that matter, isn’t all about what’s new and different or what’s wilder than the last. Sexuality isn’t about keeping up with the Joneses (or getting up with the Joneses for that matter).
It’s about getting hot and getting up with what you HAVE. It’s about stretching the intensity of what already gets you going. It’s about that trembling rush that shudders through you after you’ve cum in buckets and that last tremulous whimper of exhaustion. And it’s about feeling so fucking content that you whistle and head for the shower with a grin on your mug.
If phone sex is anything, it needs to be FUN first and everything else second. And if fun for you is fantasizing about cumming on a cheerleader’s perky tits or shoving jellyfish sushi tentacles up Lucy Liu’s twat, neither is better or worse than the other.
Which is all fine and good. But the real reason I quoted it was to honor and celebrate the unforgettable turn of phrase “shoving jellyfish sushi tentacles up Lucy Liu’s twat”.
Let the search engine hits commence!
Wednesday, November 19th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Ever since the erstwhile Reverse Cowgirl packed up her digital tent in the night, scraped a pine branch over the digital ground to erase her website and all sign of her passing, and led her horse silently out of the sex blog camp like a cowhand who just learned he’d impregnated the Big Boss’s only daughter, I’ve missed her intelligent eye for the sexy-but-odd. Fortunately, the new Fleshbot is proving to have moments of link-choosing brilliance that remind me of her. Today they even have a bukkake link! Fleshbotties, are you sure you don’t have the Cowgirl locked in your closet and enslaved via the use of industrial strength remote control vibrating panties?
The link of the day, though, and the treasure that really reminded me of the inexplicably deleted Cowgirl blog, was their link to the art photo 76 Blowjobs. It’s awesome.
Tuesday, August 5th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
What is it about this summer? Seems like good new sex blogs are sprouting up all over. This one’s called Erotic Truth [since gone defunct] and it’s a multi-author blog with lots of posts, all of them quite explicit and interesting.
You know that too-common complaint women have about some guy who tried to get them to do anal sex by “accidentally” just trying to slip it in when they weren’t expecting it? Well, one of the early posts on Erotic Truth is a very graphic, very bad example:
My first time was somewhat of an accident (or so he says). Scott and I are in the shower at his older cousins house doing the nasty. Little tub, and a shower curtain hanging from the ceiling. I am bent over, ass in the air (as usual) and he is fucking me harder than a raped ape. Suddenly he pulls out and with all the fucking force one man could muster he rams it into my ass. Shower curtain flies off, I scream…tears well in my eyes…ass bleeds. I was like WHAT THE HELL were you thinking about? He looks back at me as if I am on drugs and says…what? What? you stupid fucking waste of skin….you just rammed a good sized piece of meat into my virgin asshole. He’s like”I did?” YOU COULDNT TELL? No says he…..it felt just like the other hole. Alrighty then, either my pussy is so tight it feels like an ass or my ass is loose enough to feel like a pussy. Either way, he did not earn brownie points that day. Assfuck.
A gentleman, adept navigator, and credit to his gender. Not.
Wednesday, May 28th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
The news from Thailand:
SRISAKET (AFP): Five Thai women have agreed to pay compensation to a man they allegedly gang-raped on Songkhran Day, police said today.
Police said the women, aged between 20 and 40, admitted to plying the 47-year-old man from this northeastern Srisaket province with alcohol, tying him up and stripping him naked before taking turns having sex with him.
“All the women claimed that they were fed up by the man’s loud boasting about his sexual prowess,” said Pol Capt Gene Puangmala, of Khukhan district police station. “Some of the women were married,” he added.
He said the man complained to police of having a swollen and damaged organ after the incident, but after some negotiation agreed not to press charges in return for financial compensation. The agreed sum was 400 baht per woman.
Saturday, May 10th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Mike Snider, a modern (as in, currently alive) poet who actually writes poems real humans can read and enjoy, says that any straight man who writes about sex is automatically suspect in some feminist circles. Yeah, but that’s hardly surprising, since sex itself (at least, sex involving a penis and any female orifice) is automatically suspect in some feminist circles. It may be that Andrea Dworkin never actually wrote the exact words “All sex is rape” — but she wrote some things that sure suggested she felt that way, and the idea has surprisingly persistent “legs” in, as Mike Snider put it, “some (not all) feminist circles.”
But that’s OK. Somehow it doesn’t seem likely that too many Dworkinites are loyal readers of ErosBlog.
Anyway, it bothers Mike that “there’s not much explicitly sexual poetry by men about sex with women.” Fortunately, he’s doing something about it:
We woke entangled in new love’s designs
And scrapped a plan to breakfast in the park….
Thank you, Mike.
Saturday, April 19th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
EverQuest Porn? You betcha!
Setting the scene:
The morning in Kelethin was crisp as always. High in the treetops the temperature was much cooler than down on the forest floor. Sunshine speared it’s way into the lofty wooden structures in narrow rays and sharp angles. Bird chirps and wolf cries filled the air in a gentle cacophony.
And occasionally, a mysterious song could be heard.
It took skill to hear it; you could only listen for it among the other sounds of nature if you knew precisely what you were listening for. Visitors to the vast Faydark never gave a second thought to the melodic wailing which seemed to whisper through the trees on occasion, the quiet cry never lasting much more than a minute or two, and always blending as though it were nothing more than the call of an owl, or the howl of a wolf.
But the Elves knew the sound and when one of them listened carefully, paid very close attention, they would hear the infrequent melody. A quiet, high-pitched tune, different every time, like a long feminine sigh that varied it’s pitch just enough to distinguish itself as musical. Then they would smile knowingly and go about their business.
And then getting down to business:
“Take me ” she whispered. “I will warm you both ”
With only a few languid strokes, she felt them grow hard at her touch. She briefly wondered why Barbarians never seemed to freeze in the arctic when they nothing beneath their kilts, but the thoughts were wiped from her mind as she suddenly felt their hands upon her. Big, strong hands, grasping her bare shoulders, their huge palms and fingers nearly covering her entire upper arms. She felt herself laid on her side.
…
“AH!” she cried out. He was so huge, his cock filling her delicate elven body completely. He was as hard as wood, and glided easily within her moistness. Tremors of pleasure rippled through her body.
At the same time, she finally felt the warm, nude body of the second Barbarian pressed up behind her. Joe’s body nestled against her own, his warm chest finally covering her back, chasing away the chilling air. His thighs rested just beneath hers, warming her even more. His arm draped over her hip, holding her steady while Gregor rhythmically slid in and out of her, his thick cock stretching her nether lips tight around it. “Yes Yes ” she grunted with each of his thrusts. Behind her, she felt Joe’s finger slide further back along her bottom, gently spreading her wetness along her tender flesh, pressing gently between her buttocks, into her tender hole.
“OH . OH TUNARE!!!” she cried out as she felt Joe slide his finger gently inside her forbidden region. She felt so very filled by the both of them, and they moved in time now, in and out, in and out. Gregor’s cock from in front, Joe’s finger from behind. It felt so perfect, her body was awash with sensations, the nipping cold still stinging her skin wherever and whenever it was uncovered, the fiery warmth of the two strong Barbarians around her, the wonderful sensations coming from her filled wetness and her behind. Her body shifted with each stroke, moving in time with each of their thrusts, over and over, the pleasure inside her building, and building…
Monday, April 14th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Eugene Volokh has posted a provocative inquiry about vibrators. In a nutshell, he wants to know why progressive modern individuals are quite hunky-dory with the concept of a girl spending quality time with her vibrator, but they get all squicked out and squeamish about a guy using what he (Volokh) delicately calls a “vagina-shaped vibrator.” Several theories are aired.
First of all, a more descriptive, if no more erotic, phrase might be “male masturbator”, since these come in many varieties, only some of which vibrate.
Second, it seems likely that Eugene’s primary theory has merit: A woman who uses a vibrator is assumed to be substituting it for “actual” sex, and society is quick to approve of her many and varied sound reasons for abstaining in that fashion. Whereas, in contrast, a guy who uses a “male masturbator” or a “fake vagina” is assumed to have no alternative; he’s a pathetic dude who can’t “get any.” Given the very real sexual power imbalance, as old as the invention of outlawry for rape, between men who propose and women who dispose, it seems not at all implausible that a woman with her vibrator is assumed to be choosing it over an array of available sexual partners, while a man with his toy is assumed to be a loser with no better offers.
Striking in its absence from the Volokh list of theories, however, is a simpler hygienic theory. Male masturbation results in an emission which is, Bacchus would think, broadly viewed by men and women alike as more “yucky” than typical feminine lubricities, or even than that rarest of nectars, outright female ejaculate. Worse yet, a vagina substitute’s inherent concavity makes careful cleaning a more problematic task than the quick wipedown of a briskly convex vibrator.
Mind you, in objective terms the hygienic concern is arrant nonsense. Men have mastered cleaning tasks of a far more intricate nature, and will even voluntarily indulge when the object of their cleaning affections is, say, a much-beloved rifle. Nor is it implausible that a truly decent technology for assisted orgasm would command every bit as much gadgeteering enthusiasm as gun guys lavish on the contents of their gun safes. But still, at the end of the day the squeamish objection to concave male sex toys may well boil down to an “Ew, but it’s gonna be icky to clean out when he’s done with it…”
Similar Sex Blogging:
Friday, April 11th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
This sort of naked abuse of official power is enough to make an anarchist out of a person.
Women motorists forced to strip by cops:
“A former police officer pleaded guilty to charges that he forced four women to strip after he pulled them over for traffic violations in New York. Prosecutors said Frank Wright, 36, forced one woman to walk home wearing only her underwear.”
Via Yahoo News [link gone dead]. [Edited to remove a title that too-lightly invoked an abusive practice in US prisons.]
Friday, December 27th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
Norma Brown has invented a “Female Security Device”:
The Female Security Device is designed to defend and protect a woman against rape. It is placed within the vaginal cavity of a female to protect and minimize physical damage caused by sexual intercourse. The device is able to retrieve evidence of rape and provide evidence for identifying a perpetrator. This is done by using a needle to to obtain a penile tissue sample and to cause penile tissue irritation, and by obtaining a semen sample.
From the pictures, it appears that instead of the needle, you can get it with a superglue option or an airbag option. Not making this up. The function of the airbag is labeled on the diagram (“deployed as barrier to penetration”) but the “surgical glue spray” option seems as if it would be counterproductive.
Bacchus is an absolutist when it comes to a person’s right to control what enters his or her orifices, by whatever means necessary. (Large caliber handguns are quite effective for this purpose.) Unfortunately, the proposed “Female Security Device” puts one in mind of a man who stays locked in his own concrete basement to avoid the risk of kidnappers. Would not a woman who routinely used such a device be, in a metaphorical sort of way, preemptively raping herself?
Thursday, December 12th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
Debra Hyde at Pursed Lips has an important discussion [link has unfortunately vanished] about the difficulty of discussing appalling abuses that have a sexual component. It’s a real problem for this blog.
Anyone who has a rich fantasy life can find an erotic component in almost any tale of sexual atrocity. And, since horror is often an unwelcome emotion, the temptation to eroticize horrific stories by translating them into more palatable fantasy terms can be overwhelming. The downside is that the story itself is often trivialized in the process — if one gets too busy picturing Uday Hussein’s pony girls in the mind’s eye, one could forget to empathize sufficiently with their terror, shame, and humiliation. Worse, one could forget to be outraged by Uday’s behavior.
For this reason, sexual atrocities are featured much less often on this blog than they might be. It’s unseemly, at best, to treat actual human suffering as mere fodder for an erotic fantasy — and almost any discussion of real world sexual suffering in the context of this blog is subject to that risk. And yet, having a category of stories about sex be off limits to a sex blog is, itself, rather perverse.
Debrah’s article suggests a path through the maze. She acknowledges, first, the impossibility of discussing such events without the discussion having a pornographic quality. But then she points out that pornography is not always erotic, having a long history as a protest and propaganda tool aimed at political change. And she suggests that we not shrink from such uses of pornography, but rather embrace its power to incite moral outrage. She’s a wise woman.
That’s a lot of preamble for a short block quote about a professional government rapist. Perhaps if Jonah Goldberg had read Debra’s blog, he would have managed a little less flippancy in this story:
There are some professions American colleges simply don’t prepare you for. Consider Aziz Salih Ahmed. He works for the Iraqi government. His technical specialty? He’s a “violator of women’s honor,” according to his Iraqi identity card. In other words, he rapes women. Presumably he likes it. But he does it on the government’s dime so whether he likes brutally raping women or not, he’s probably good at it or at least he’s good enough for government work.
Monday, November 4th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
Here is a Usenet classic you may have seen before:
THE COMPLETE GUIDE TO UNLAWFUL CARNAL KNOWLEDGE FOR FANTASY ROLE-PLAYING GAMES
This guide for the D&D crowd comes complete with lists like “Magic Items Your Mom Wouldn’t Approve of.” Bacchus could find uses for the Spectacles of Revealing, and the Wand of Elenora’s Embarrassment sounds rather fun also. The list of “Spells With Zip” includes goodies like Annihilator’s Penis of Power. If that’s a little too patriarchal for your taste, probably Kiss Of Slavery won’t cheer you up — you may want to get your hands on the Jackknife of Circumcision. Bacchus does not approve and is likely to retreat into his Marishar’s Miraculous Bath House, which might have been designed for him — note the command word, which Bacchus did not make up:
This one square inch marble block is carved in the appearance of a Roman-style villa with pillars at the front and erotic mosaics on the side and back walls. Once a day, the bathhouse can be invoked (command word Bacchus). It immediately grows in size until it is as large as a small house. It is identical to the statue, with high marble walls, and pillars at the front covering the entrance. The doorway is only large enough to allow one person at a time to pass through, and has a large brass door that can be bolted from the inside. Two large Iron Golems cast as Nubian slaves with scimitars guard the doorway. Whoever passes inside first is the master/mistress of the bath house, and all the creatures of the bath house will obey them. Inside the house is only one room, with two pools (hot and cold) and several marble slabs. gauzy silk curtains, cushions and tapestries decorate the place. Several swans (white if the master is good/neutral, black if evil) swim calmly on the cold pool. In the bath house are 2d6 beings of the same race and opposite gender, with 18 charisma and 18 comeliness. They are happy to please and have 20’s in any and all the new sexual proficiencies. If the master/mistress of the house wishes, the companions can be switched to any gender or species. Inside the bath house, it is always comfortably warm, and there is always food (as long as you like grapes and dates) and fresh water. Nothing from the bath house (golems, companions, cushions, water, food) can leave the bath house. If taken outside they vanish.
For the serious sex gaming grognard, there are detailed rules on the calculation of the duration of an in-game sex encounter:
After the initial rounds pass, the character must make a Constitution check for each round he/she wishes to continue. Modifiers to this check are from Table 1 and Table 2 And Table 3, plus cumulative modifier of -1. The character also needs to make a time to climax (TTC) check. A 1 on a 1d6 for males and a 1 on a 1d10 for women indicates such an occurrence. An additional TTC roll is made and a result of 1 indicates multiple orgasms (keep rolling while 1s come up).
Bacchus gives this link two thumbs (nay, Wands of Love even) up!
Thursday, October 24th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
Gentle readers, although this sex blog is not yet a month old, it’s time for that ever-popular favorite, the sharing of odd search queries. Prompting this exercise is today’s new instant classic:
rape my cameltoe
I don’t know whether to be proud that, as of this writing, ErosBlog does not even appear on the first page of Google search results for this query — or dismayed that it appears at all.
Also rather fun is:
bondage rooms for rent
Now, the neat thing here is, Erosblog appears on BLOODY PAGE FOURTEEN of the Google search results. Somebody paged through a hundred and forty fricken’ results, apparently looking for a quiet place with a cage and some overhead rafters and a bondage bench where they could spank their sweetheart in privacy (paying by the hour) while avoiding the watchful eyes of Mom and Dad. Is this an entrepreneurial opportunity for some clever landlord with an extra truckload of soundproofing panels?
Tuesday, October 22nd, 2002 -- by Bacchus
From Japan we have a discussion of the three most popular types of dirty comic books for women:
And most of the women’s carnal needs that extend beyond the bounds of regular publication respectability are being sated by what are referred to as Ladies Comics, or redikomi, as they’re known in Japanese. Apparently, there’re three broad genre of redikomi.
“Firstly, you have your rape types. These aren’t like guys comics, where the woman is brutally violated. Usually they involve a story where a woman is caught up in some situation where somebody is virtually forced to rape her. Following that are the S&M stories. Again, they lack the violence of men’s S&M comics, and usually focus only on soft stuff, like blindfolding or binding the hands,” the editor in chief of “Love Experiences Special Deluxe,” a redikomi, tells Shukan Taishu. “Finally, you have the incest types. These are either loved or hated, but they often tell the story of a married woman falling for stepbrothers or brothers-in-law.”
Friday, October 4th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
On a much more serious note, an American expat in Moscow rants in The Exile about the sexual torture prevalent in U.S. prisons. It’s a hateful rant in many ways, anti-American and arguably racist, but the horrifying phenomenon of prison rape is not often described so starkly:
Recently a British paper printed the story of a man in Illinois who is suing the state prison system. At the whim of a sadistic functionary in the prison system, this man, who is white, was placed in a cellblock which was all black and controlled by a very tight, military-style prison gang. He was, of course, gangraped, taught to suck cock on demand, used as a urinal and toilet, and otherwise made to entertain his fellow inmates.
There is more, some of it even uglier. (It would be more convincing if the author had backed up his anecdotes with links.)
Someday we may have to face up to the fact that prison, the way we do it, violates this constitutional prohibition, found in the Eighth Amendment: “nor [shall] cruel and unusual punishments [be] inflicted.”
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