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The Sex Blog Of Record
Sunday, August 11th, 2024 -- by Bacchus
There’s an anonymous cum-thirsty brown-complected cutie working the glory hole booths at Gloryhole Swallow tonight:
Click on the stills below to enlarge the triptych for a lot more glory hole deep throat details.
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Thursday, March 14th, 2024 -- by Bacchus
There is a delightful scene in Corey Doctorow’s new novel The Bezzle where our hero, a formidable forensic accountant, has been dragged to a party of the super-rich and is making friends with one of the only other people at the party who works for a living:
I tapped my left nostril. “You missed a spot,” I whispered.
She bared her teeth even more and wiped away the white powder from her own left nostril, rubbed it on her gums and then wiped her hand off on her dress, looked down to make sure she hadn’t left a streak, then back at me.
“I have some to share, if you’d like,” she said. “JK gets lots of it.”
I let her lead me to the powder room.
In the enclosed space, she smelled of expensive perfume, floral and fresh and outdoorsy. It was a good Catalina Island smell. As soon as she closed the door, I became uncomfortably, overpoweringly aware of her position relative to mine, the inches between her bare arm and mine feeling electrically charged. I was not the kind of guy who found himself in the bathroom with beautiful younger women who wanted to share their cocaine.
“Let’s do this,” she said. She bared those perfect teeth again, then dug a little bottle out of her clutch and held it up so I could see that it was nearly full of white powder.
“JK gets good drugs.” Draaghs. I loved that accent.
“Have you two been together for very long?”
She gave me a searching look, like she was trying to figure out if I was pulling her leg. “I see JK when he books me,” she said. “He likes variety, so only every month or so. But yes, for a year, I think.” She watched me absorb that and her smile got wider. “You’re a nice man,” she said.
She produced a small, silver coke spoon and held it so it caught the light. She mounded it high with coke and held it up to my face. She took my chin with long, cool fingers and tilted my head, brought the spoon up to one nostril and pinched the other, her fingers resting on my lips. “Cheers,” she said, and I took a deep sniff.
She stared into my eyes as the coke came on. My skin felt all-over tight. My pulse thudded in my throat, where her thumb still had my jaw, and in my lips, where her fingers rested. She looked at me this way and that, chin tilting, staring into my eyes like a jeweler assessing a gemstone. Finally, she gave the tiniest nod and withdrew her hand. My skin tingled where her fingertips had been.
She held my gaze for another minute. “My turn,” she said, and scooped out her own mound. She sniffed it daintily, wrinkled her nose, closed her eyes and turned her head to the ceiling, giving me a long look at her long neck, the vein in her throat, her collarbones and the top of her cleavage.
Then she shivered from top to toe and looked me back in the eyes. “I don’t think you’re rich, Marty,” she said.
“No,” I said. “Not like our host.”
“Not like JK.”
“No,” I said.
“At first, I thought you might be. You’re not one of these people, and sometimes that means you’re from a higher level. But you’re just someone’s friend, aren’t you?”
“I am,” I said. I looked at her cocaine vial, now noticeably depleted. That was a business-development asset, and she’d wasted it on me. I wanted to apologize, but I didn’t want to offend her.
She followed my gaze. “It’s okay,” she said. “I knew you weren’t rich before I gave it to you. You seem interesting. Not boring, the way those rich ones are. It’s nice to chat with someone who I’m not doing business with.”
There it was. I’d passed by an uncountable number of sex workers who were soliciting on the street, and objectively, I must have passed an equally uncountable number of sex workers who were just out shopping or going to the movies or the doctor’s office or the daycare center. I’d even learned to recognize the telltale signs of a man’s sex-worker habit from his financials, after a couple of divorce jobs where I got hired to audit the family books (big cash withdrawals, obviously, but that could also be drugs; for sex workers you also needed to look for regular charges from certain anything-goes payment processors, the kinds of places that host reviews or make arrangements).
But I had never (knowingly) conversed with a sex worker up until that moment. I was worldly enough to suppose that questions about the job, or how she got into it, would not be welcome.
Clearly she was good at what she did: not only was she carrying a two-thousand-dollar handbag and accompanying a very rich—if very dull—man, but she’d smoothly flirted with me in a way that had left me tongue-tied and disoriented. If I’d had the same kind of money as Tommy Bahama—JK—and she’d named a price, I’d have been very, very tempted.
But I was just someone’s friend. Thankfully.
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Thursday, November 10th, 2022 -- by Bacchus
At certain off-peak hours, you get long gaps between trains. There’s plenty of time for a skilled professional who knows where the gaps in the camera coverage are:
Artwork is by Tonton Ficelle.
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Tuesday, February 9th, 2021 -- by Bacchus
Since the earliest days of this blog, I have been reticent with the word “whore”. It has its uses, it is not always a slur, but my general sentiment has been that decent men don’t use it much: never in anger or derision, and only at all when the word itself is part of what the conversation is about, as when a sex worker uses it deliberately or provocatively in public discussion.
My experience is that if you hear “whore” uttered easily from a male mouth, that dude will turn out to be a misogynist, or at least somebody who is deeply troubled about the power of women’s sexuality.
Meet this perfectly pleasant nude beach exhibitionist. She’s been circulating on the internet since at least 2013. Some sources call her Andrea, and say she’s in the Seychelles. I can’t confirm that. But she’s a pretty lady on a nice beach, clearly having a good time.
Somewhere on the internet, there’s a dude who saw her and thought “I want to mark her as a whore.” And then, he just went and did it, through the power of Photoshop:
Folks, I can’t prove it. But I would happily place large bets on what I am about to say. That dude? He’s one of the guys who fear women and hate the very idea of their sexual power. Avoid!
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Tuesday, December 29th, 2020 -- by Bacchus
This is a detail from a print by Thomas Rowlandson titled Quaker In Love:
The full print makes it clear he’s propositioning a woman outside her brothel door while various people watch. Lines of poetry at the bottom are from Charles Dibdin’s The Quaker: A Comic Opera, and introduce a bawdy pun, if we imagine that our man is “upright” in a more earthy sense than Dibdin’s:
I love thee
Would move thee
Of love to be partaker–
Relent then
Consent then
And take an upright Quaker.
Dibdin’s comic opera Quaker, on the other hand, seems respectable enough:
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Friday, November 6th, 2020 -- by Bacchus
I feel like this photo might have been taken at, I don’t know, maybe a busy tourist camp/resort in Florida, circa 1958? And this woman has just said “Hey, stranger. You got twenty bucks? Because I know a nice quiet place we can go…”
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Monday, August 19th, 2019 -- by Bacchus
The so-called “Tijuana Bibles” that had their pornographic heyday in the 1930s mostly featured parody versions of comic strip characters from comic strips that are long forgotten today. Fortunately, the action in these dirty little books is timeless, featuring delightfully rude filth that we have no trouble recognizing. The character “Boots” in this one was a bit of a flapper in Boots and Her Buddies, the presumably staid and boring 1924 newspaper strip by Edgar Martin. When we meet Boots’s pornographic alter ego, she’s picking up a small town yokel and offering to show him a good time:
He’s totally game: “Hot darn it, let’s go!” I guess street corners outside the local train station were the fuck pal hookup hot spots of their day. Where else was a bored and horny flapper chick looking for a good time supposed to go?
Whatever he thought or hoped was going to happen once he got back to his new flapper friend’s place, her direct dialog and especially her hand down the front of his pants quickly dispels all ambiguity. But yokel or not, he’s still a little bit worried that the lady might have an “old gent” who could walk in and disapprove of their sport:
Our man doesn’t need to be told twice. But even while laying some creditable pipe, he’s not so much the yokel that he doesn’t wonder: why him, exactly?
Some things don’t change across most of 100 years, and the ability of the average male ego to swallow implausibly large lumps of flattery is one of those immutables. She calls him “Daddy” and “a great big handsome brute” and sure, of course, it all makes sense!
The thing about these 8-pagers is that they were pornographic comics. And the “country bumpkin” yokel used to be a highly comic figure among city folk. Much of the comedy in this short book is wondering when the yokel will finally realize that his friendly city-girl fuckbuddy has a mercenary motive, which every worldly person would have understood from the stereotypical offer of a “real good time” in the first panel. His impenetrable lack of comprehension does not even give way when she matter-of-factly calls him a john. Perhaps that’s not a word they use in Oshkosh?
Finally she gets around to the the straightforward ask. Sometimes with the slow ones you have to be direct. “How about fifty dollars?”
And the joke slides home! “Gosh, no! Don’t give me money!” Nobody could be this stupid… or could they?
I’m not sure whether the entire joke is about the stupid yokel who never understood that he was with a sex worker, or whether there’s a less pleasant undertone. Is there a layer where we are supposed to wonder if the “yokel” was playing dumb the whole time, to take advantage of Boots and her “payment after services” business model?
Wednesday, June 26th, 2019 -- by Bacchus
I believe we are to take this woman for a sex worker, watching her client (offstage, left) get dressed and go:
With the larger cartoon from Le Rire of which this is but a detail, there is both a caption and a title, in French; the Google Translate on the title is cryptic and on the caption, banal. Presumably a better understanding of them, and possibly of social signifiers in the artwork that I’m not equipped to see, would help me “get” the point of the cartoon. [Update: see the comments, where my erudite readers have taken a good whack at it.] But the room is simple, furnished only with a nice bed, booze, smokes, a wash basin, and a sponge in a basket. That much, even a century later, we understand.
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Thursday, January 10th, 2019 -- by Bacchus
What’s a poor blonde cheerleader in Hollywood supposed to do, when she gets low on spending money? If we trust the evidence of our eyes, it seems the answer is to go up to dirty old men in ancient diesel sedans and wheedle money out of them:
In truth, this is model Byrana Holly as photographed by Tristan Kallas, linked via both of their Instagrams.
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Thursday, December 6th, 2018 -- by Bacchus
The alley is a little bit seedy and the weather is terrible, but the car is fine and what we can see of the lady seems to match the car:
Via Kinky Delight. Artwork is from the cover of a Primo magazine.
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Wednesday, July 18th, 2018 -- by Bacchus
The caption says “Gold Mine” in French, and it’s the mine that can never fail if you know how to work it properly:
Artist unknown, though the style certainly reminds me of Eugene Reunier.
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Wednesday, February 7th, 2018 -- by Bacchus
“Hey, Mister, how about it?” Sometimes, the simplest strategies are the most effective:
Art is from the cover of Maniak #6.
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Friday, December 24th, 2010 -- by Bacchus
Ever since 2007, I can’t get through this time of year without thinking of my A Christmas Rebellion post, which is mostly a lengthy quote from an article by Mistress Matisse called The Whore On Christmas. In particular, I was struck by her account of a fellow whose wife had made his house an uninhabitable sexual wasteland, so cluttered with Christmas tchotchkes that he couldn’t get a blowjob from a hooker without inadvertently setting off a musical pillow. His effort to strike back by inviting a sex worker into this toxic space — on Christmas Eve — struck me as being both heroic and tragically cowardly at the same time (and please don’t ask me to justify the contradiction, because I can’t.)
If you chose to read that post again, now here’s an interesting contrast — a post on Bondage Blog called Christmas Bondage Blowjob. It links to exactly that — a porny photo of a nude girl in some desultory bondage ropes, giving a man a blowjob under a Christmas tree.
What’s fascinating about the Christmas bondage blowjob photo is that it’s as sterile as the Rebellion household was suffocating. The room is painted white over bad sheetrock, the tree was decorated in twenty minutes by a photography assistant, the packages are empty boxes wrapped by somebody who only had one roll of wrapping paper, and there’s a drop cloth on the couch — which may be intended to protect it from the Christmas porn-fucking, but makes the scene look like it was hastily set up in an on-the-market property using a key borrowed from the realtor.
Which, to me, makes the blowjob photo “just porn”, and not particularly interesting. Interesting would be a photo of a man on a couch in a house obsessively decorated for Christmas, getting a loving blowjob from a woman who was clearly as into him as she was in filling their space with ruffled chintz, nutcrackers, and potpourri. But that’s the kind of scene that’s more likely to exist in the real world than to be available in living digital color for our voyeuristic pleasure.
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