Call It “Trucker Fuckers”
Friday, December 6th, 2024 -- by Bacchus
“Tell me the plot of an entire porn shoot using only a single G-rated photograph.”
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The Sex Blog Of Record
“Scrub My Back, Mister?”
Thursday, February 22nd, 2024 -- by Bacchus
This friendly-looking shower nymph is by artist Jacques le Tord:
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“Get Out Of My Bathroom!”
Wednesday, March 2nd, 2022 -- by Bacchus
I don’t know much about this angry woman who has been surprised in her shower. Her distinctive tiara may identify her, but not to me. All I know is that this voyeuristic scene of shock and annoyance is some sort of CG art from a Japanese eroge game of the early 1990s:
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Clean Bat Boy
Tuesday, September 29th, 2020 -- by Bacchus
This is a promotional photo of 18-year-old Tim Sullivan, a bat boy for the Yankees baseball team who got profiled in the November 1937 “Pic” magazine. He keeps clean:
Update: a link!
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Dealing With Her Shower Intruder
Sunday, April 17th, 2016 -- by Bacchus
No woman should ever have to deal with an unexpected man in her shower area with his dick out:
However, there’s nothing better than a briskly decisive response. Extra style points are available for showering with a pistol ready to hand:
Art is from the Sex Gangsters browser game.
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Washing Her Well
Thursday, January 28th, 2016 -- by Bacchus
Showering together is always fun:
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Austin And Bambi’s Ablutions
Saturday, December 12th, 2015 -- by Bacchus
Austin and Bambi share a mutual interest in being very clean, there’s no other explanation for all this:
Pictures are from a 2003 “Hustler Classic” photoshoot that was just reprinted in the November 2015 Hustler magazine, available in print or online via Digital Magazine Access.
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Really Tall Showers?
Monday, October 17th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
I’m not at all certain what we’re looking at in this gem from Usenet. Is that shower heads in some really ornate and outsized ancient baths? I dunno, but I like it:
Sharing A Shower
Tuesday, August 23rd, 2011 -- by Bacchus
If you’re not…inspired…by the buns of the girl on the left, you’re not alive. Or so I maintain:
Via Usenet. (Yes, it still exists.)
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Everything Butt
Saturday, June 20th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
By now I’ve got something of a history of announcing new sites from Kink.com, so why stop now? The next in the pipeline is an ass-themed site called Everything Butt, which is already “up” with several shoots even though it won’t be formally open and live for a few more days. The site’s marketing copy makes it sound like a full buffet of fetish fun for anybody who enjoys playing with butts:
Everything Butt celebrates ass play in all its forms. Spanking, enemas, fisting, fucking, licking, and sniffing are performed by experienced porn stars and anal virgins too. These beautiful naked women all come to enjoy the smorgasbord of extreme anal antics under the skilled supervision of bondage master Lochai. It’s an exhilarating festival of analingus, Klismaphilia, and no-holds-barred buggery, scientifically designed to induce your expectant salivation. Do you “Yum!” for bum? Then dive in!
In looking over the new site the first thing that struck me was a delightful still photo from the preliminary “model interview” part of one of the shoots:
That’s the lovely and talented Bobbi Starr looking sanguine about those very large implements — and I use the word “talented” in a most considered fashion. (You’ll have to take my word for it unless you join the site or buy the shoot, but it’s true; for now, let me just say…they fit.)
Sadly the usual free sample galleries are not yet live, but I snagged a few pictures of a shower scene to share here. We begin with Aiden Starr and Flower Tucci taking an innocent shower together:
Note the scrunchy-thing! I always thought those were some sort of shower fungus that’s symbiotic with women, because they started accumulating in my bathroom (the scrunchy things, that is, not women) right after The Nymph moved in with me. But apparently, it’s for washing with. Who knew?
Moving on, the ladies decide to put on a little display of soapy bottoms:
And then we move on to the double-enema portion of our program. Apparently if you want to get really clean, showering together just isn’t enough any more:
And here’s the Everything Butt logo:
Nice, eh?
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Bathing Booty
Sunday, August 24th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
We’ve talked about towels (towel post, towel post) a lot lately. So I thought it was only fair to show you a bathing booty that needs careful and intensive toweling, with fullest attention to detail:
The image is from an old Cloud Nine magazine and since I have it in ridiculously high resolution, I thought I’d also crop it horizontally and offer you a couple of versions to use for wallpaper on your computer:
Bathing Booty 1024×768
Bathing Booty 1280×1060
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Towel Girls
Wednesday, August 13th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Recently somebody sent me a pair of vintage towel ads which I thought were just wonderful. It’s all about freshly showered American housewives, luxuriating in their shrines to the glory of consumer textiles:
I am picturing the living room conversation over these magazine ads.
Wife: “Honey, look at this! I want a bathroom just like that!”
Husband (spoken): “Yes, dear.”
Husband (unspoken): “Me too, if it means you’ll be dressed just like that.”
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Women In Prison Movies, Done Better
Monday, July 14th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
As every red-blooded American guy knows, there’s an entire genre of “women in prison” movies featuring, in varying degrees, bondage, nudity, sex, and soapy lesbian shower scenes. Most of these movies ultimately deliver less of all four than they advertise in the trailer, although rare (and inevitably hard to find) counter-examples do exist. Still and all, if there’s a guy out there who hasn’t been disappointed by a “WIP” flick, I haven’t met him.
Pornographers, fortunately, are not constrained by the legalities and customs appurtenant to theatrical distribution. For anybody who has a credit card, it’s now possible to remedy the almost-forgotten adolescent dissatisfaction with the six short seconds of grainy naked boobies that were the highlight of the (only) shower scene in “South American Chain Gang Girls” on Cinemax at 2:00AM in 1988. I’m thinking the Captive Slut movie and photo shoot is what somebody at Whipped Ass thinks South American Chain Gang Girls should have looked like, back in 1988, or maybe 1974:
The getting-rapidly-cleaner model with the expressively worried-looking face is Clare Dames. As mentioned above, the move/shoot is called Captive Slut.
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Making Money At The Strip Club
Thursday, April 24th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Hobo Stripper is always good at providing a level-headed view of life “behind the scenes” in small-town strip clubs. This post has more info than usual about money, and how she makes it. But I’ll start with my dude, WTF? moment in the post:
I realised on my way here that I wasn’t going to make it in time to get a stripper license, so I slowed down. Cooked liver and onions, played with Bro. Why rush? I got into town just after dark, and established myself in a good parking spot at the local truckstop. Since I’m probably going to be here for a while, I just payed the money for a month of wi-fi at the truckstop, and then I settled into the back of my van and got a bunch of writing and web stuff done.
…
[The next day] I got a free shower at the truckstop (friends who network with truckers), and went to get my stripper license. They were really cool about it here, as opposed to the last few places I’ve gotten them, where the clerks have stared at me like, “whore!!!,â€? the whole time. The cop who fingerprinted me was even nice.”
Something about the concept of “stripper license” is making my little head hurt. Is this like, a revenue measure, a way to tax the itinerant and untaxable? But if it were about money, why the fingerprints?
I honestly had no idea that there was any place in what we used to call “the land of the free” without irony, where you had to be licensed and fingerprinted in order to dance and take your clothes off for money. My mind is expanded, and not in a good way.
And speaking of “for money”, here’s what I found to be the real interesting meat of the post:
Five minutes later I was prancing around their mostly empty club half naked when my hardcore ho friend walked in. We did the girly shreek and ran to each other. We did it totally ironically. Harcore ho (HCH from here on out) is an incredible hustler. Unlike most incredible hustlers, she wants to spread the knowledge, and I’ve learned so much from working with her all over the country in the last few years. She filled me in on the prices. Like most clubs, it was twenty a dance, but like in most clubs HCH was charging more for a “betterâ€? dance.
…
Using HCH’s method I was able to mostly get fifty dollars a dance, although there were a few twenty dollar ones. She pulled me in on one double dance, I pulled her in on another. We hustle good together cause I’m all subtle with the neurolinguistic programming and she’s all in your face with doing dances.
This is a pure booty shaking in your face sexuality-not-sensuality kind of club. There is none of the seduction, none of the sweetness, no cuddlers, none of what I usually love about dancing. But I don’t seem to mind. I am engaged in pure capitalism, and it feels good after being broke for the last couple weeks. You want more? You want this? More money. You want that? Hell no, but I bet you really want this. The cash just stacked up. Like always when I’m in a new place I was very conscious of my boundaries, how I felt and what I was okay with. If I have learned anything from stripping it’s that we have an absolute responsibility to ourselves not to do anything we don’t want to, and that there is no excuse (other than force) for doing something we don’t want.
I was suprised halfway through the night to find myself doing more contact than I’ve done probably since I was fifteen, working at crazy little bars that would hire a fifteen year old who pretended to be sixteen. I kept double checking, am I really okay with this? I really was.
…
It’s almost the end of the night when I see him. You know, that magic customer that you have great chemistry with who also has tons of money. I hear violins and see money signs over his head. He’s there with his wife. She’s bi, and he promises she’s not jealous. We bring her some drinks and head straight for the couches. After a few dances he goes to the ATM for more money, and I grab HCH and drag her over to him. “Look, isn’t she hot! Don’t you want both of us in your lap? Get double the money out and you can have us both!â€?
Of course he did, and when we ran through that money we went back to the ATM again. By the third ATM trip he was a little reluctant and I would have lost him, but HCH works her magic. “Let’s do another… that sounds good… yes, let’s do another… mmm, we’re having so much fun… yes… that sounds good…â€? she repeats, nodding, until he gets more cash. It’s like magic.
Three trips to the ATM sounds like a bad day at the casino, to me. I had one of those, once, when I was younger and more foolish, and I’ll never forget that terrible stupid/screwed feeling I had the next morning. This is no slam on the strippers, of course, nor my casino either; there’s no censure to be found in tempting grownups to spend their money. It’s just interesting to hear what the transaction “feels like” from the seller’s end.
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Orgasmic Rape In Fiction
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?
Brian Eno On Pornography
Sunday, October 21st, 2007 -- by Bacchus
From a 1974 profile of Brian Eno, found via Bondage Blog:
His voice trails off as he spies a copy of Search magazine. He leafs through it with obvious pleasure, but the gleam in his eyes softens, and sadly he shakes his head, “It’s a burning shame that most people want to keep pornography under cover when it’s such a highly developed art form — which is one of the reasons that I started collecting pornographic playing cards I’ve got about 50 packs which feature on all my record covers for the astute observer.
“There’s something about pornography which has a similarity to rock music. A pornographic photographer aims his camera absolutely directly, at the centre of sexual attention. He’s not interested in the environment of the room.
“I hate the sort of photography in Penthouse and Playboy which is such a compromise between something to give you a hard-on and something which pretends to be artistic. The straight pornographers aim right there where it’s at.
“Which is analogous to so many other situations where somebody thinks one thing is important, so they focus completely on that and don’t realize they’re unconsciously organizing everything else around it as well. I have such beautiful pornography – I’ll show you my collection sometime.
The last guy invited me up to see his etchings.
“One theory is that black-and-white photography is always more sexy than colour photography. The reason for this is provided by Marshall McLuhan, who points out that if a thing is ‘high definition,’ which colour photography is, it provides more information and doesn’t require participation as much as if it is ‘low definition’.” I.e. a horror play on the radio is always very, very frightening because the imagery is always your own. If youUre choosing your own imagery, you’ll always choose the most frightening, or in the case of pornography, the most sexual.
“The idea of things being low definition has always interested me a lot – of being unspecific – another thing which is a key-point of my lyrics. They must be ‘low definition’ so that they don’t say anything at all direct. I think the masters of that were Lou Reed and Bob Dylan (on “Blonde on Blonde”). The lyrics are so inviting.
“DO YOU KNOW WHAT ‘burning shame’ is by the way? It’s a pornographic term for a deviation involving candles.
“Ouch!”
“Very popular in Japanese pornography. They’re always using lit candles because Japanese pornography is very sadistic, partly because of the Japanese view of women, which is a mixture of resentment and pure animal lust.
“In the traditional view, a woman is still expected to be at the beck and call of her husband, so that manifests itself in that kind of pornography. Of which I have a few examples, of course.
“Mexican pornography is an interesting island of thought because they seem to be heavily into excretory functions. The traditional American view is that anything issued from the body is dirty. It’s incredibly puritanical and it resents bodily fluids, so if one is trying to debase a woman, you cover them with that and hence you get the fabulous term ‘Golden Showers’ — the term for pissing on someone, which some well-known rock musicians are said to be very involved in…
“Here come the warm jets?”
“That’s certainly a reference.”
Soap Is Not Lube
Friday, July 20th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
As any man who’s ever washed himself very very thoroughly in the shower can tell you, standard bar soap (I’m talking soap, regular soap, men soap for getting clean, like good old plain anti-bacterial yellow Dial, not the foo-foo stuff that women use that’s full of oat flakes and lavender oil and glycerin and lanolin and gentle moisturizers) can burn a bit if it gets up inside on the tender membranes. So this was a predictable result:
Next, we headed for the shower, which was our original plan. I had to brush my hair before getting in there, and as I studied my reflexion in the mirror, he prodded my ass with his entirely unlubricated, dry finger, which, you imagine, didn’t make it very far. He soaped it up and renewed the activity, and then soaped up his cock and plunged it inside as I bent over the sink. I could see both my pained and his ecstatic expression in the mirror, as he fucked me rough and raw with his soapy member.
It was uncomfortable – much like the way it used to be when we just started doing it – and even though I am quite comfortable with it after a generous application of lube, soap seemed to have gotten absorbed by the tissues or dried out, making it increasingly more uncomfortable with every thrust. I did try to breathe deeply and allow him to have me till the end, which he did.
We got into the shower, and after a few minutes I realized that my insiders WERE ON FIRE – at first I thought it was because of the roughness of the sex, but then I figured it was because of the soap, which is not designed for prolonged application to mucusy membranes. IT BURNED. It burned so much that I began to cry, got out of the shower, and placed myself over the toilet as I poured and poured water on myself in the attempts to alleviate the torture, all while crying the entire time. He got out of the shower too and squatted by my side, looking concerned. “It’s like having soap in your eyes,” I explained (only not quite SO bad). And it wasn’t a good kind, titillating, endorphine-friendly burn, like that produced by ginger. It was just a mean soapy burn, reminding me of Fight Club for some reason.
Thanks to Figging.com for the link.
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Twenty One Hours Of Sex
Wednesday, July 11th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Hey, don’t give me that skeptical look, I’m just passing along fun accounts I found on the internets.
Found Always Aroused Girl, to be precise:
In twenty-one hours, my friend came eight times. Yes, eight times. And he’s a decade-plus older than your humble narrator.
I came some very large multiple of eight times, although I could not tell you whether it was closer to 48 times or 968 times. I’m very very hoarse, extremely sore, and decidedly shaky. And for once, I do not feel even the slightest desire for more sex.
This account came complete with a logistical plan:
Want to organize such a day for yourselves? Follow the below rules and perhaps you’ll have great results too.
1. Choose a low-end hotel. Fancy is nice, but all you really need is a largish bed (or two) and a working bathroom. Anything else would be a distraction.
2. Don’t bother packing much. The clothes you wear upon arrival can also be worn for departure, as you won’t be wearing them while you are there. Furthermore, books, laptops, magazines, makeup and other assorted sundries will not be useful. Sex toys and condoms, however, will be needed in large quantities. Pack accordingly.
3. Ask for extra towels immediately upon check-in. Do your best to keep your eyes from going all shifty-like when you tell the clerk that you are “very sweatyâ€? and will be taking “extra showersâ€? overnight.
4. Discard clothing immediately upon entering the room. Waste no time on clothed polite chit-chat. Naked polite chit-chat is far nicer.
The rules continue through #20.
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In The Ladies’ Shower Room
Thursday, May 31st, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Sneaking into the girls’ locker room for a peek or a picture — I doubt there’s a guy alive who hasn’t mused a bit over the possibilities. Obviously this is not a new idea:
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Desert Islands Have Sand. Lube Wisely.
Monday, May 21st, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Susie Bright has created an Amazon list of must-have sex stuff, and in explaining the list, she’s dashed off several valuable mini essays on vibrators (wall current rules, battery-operated sucks, The Rabbit isn’t all that), lube, and the history of the sex toy industry. The lube portion I particularly like, because she simplifies down to the essentials:
Sex educators are famous for a particular cliche: “communication and lubrication” are what make people happy in bed. But truer words were never spoken.
So, given that essential fact, what lube do you get? My Amazon list is a little truncated because of what I could list on their site.
Vegetable oil is fantastic. Pre-AIDS, it was my lube of choice. If you’re aren’t using condoms, get your favorite oil– almond is really nice, maybe add a little coconut to make it creamy– and go at it. Or just grab the olive oil off the kitchen counter if time is of the essence. It feels great, it won’t hurt you, it’s sexy…. who could ask for more?
For water-soluble lubes, I always liked Probe because it has no taste! The biggest hassle with commercial lubes is that they usually taste AWFUL and make oral sex completely undesirable.
Are there other taste and scent-free lubes? Yes, Probe is my old tried-and-true. Works great with condoms, doesn’t make you ill, doesn’t cause cancer… what a treasure!
However, sometimes you need a lube that goes BEYOND. Sometimes the drugs you’re on, or menopause, can turn you into a prune. How do you get that high-flying crazy slippery feeling that goes on and on and on?
Silicone lube.
That’s why I recommended Liquid Silk for my desert island. It also is the first lube that makes hot tub and shower sex possible and even fun. It’s not water soluble– you’ll have that slippery feeling in your vagina or ass for several hours. But the slickness is so intoxicating. Just don’t use it with other silicone products or they gum each other up! Get that spatula out of your hot tub!
I do, however, find an important omission in Susie’s discussion of power sources for vibrators. She writes:
1) Electricity is essential. I don’t care what sex toy retailers say about battery-operated vibes– the main reason they push them is because they are dirt cheap, (wholesale), and they are lightweight to ship and transport (without the batts, of course!). A Hitachi magic wand is only marked up double its cost to the retailer… so if it’s $40, maybe they paid $20.
But a battery vibe might be a dollar to them and they’ll sell it for $10 or $20.
This reasoning has nothing to do with how it feels, or if women can get off on it. And the “sound” of batteries vibrating against plastic doesn’t mean it’s powerful. They can make an awful racket and not deliver any appreciable sensation.
Can women get off on battery-vibes? YES, some can, some are their mother’s darlings– I’m not on a crusade to get rid of them. But the reason they are hyped the way they are is because of money, not because of universal sexual satisfaction.
The vibrators that are produced by the mainstream appliance manufacturers like Hitachi and Wahl, were originally introduced as “massagers.” They’re quality appliances that will last years and years. I still have the first ones I ever bought in 1981. They have warranties. They have a following that’s been going for decades, based on technology that’s over a century old now.
I always hated selling a woman a battery-operated model for her first vibrator because there was a 50% chance she’d find the whole thing a hoax. However, if I sold her a motor-driven or coil-operated electric model, she’d come out of the ‘try-out’ room with this amazed look on her face, and say, ‘OH! I GET IT NOW!”
I agree wholeheartedly about the puny vibrations you can get from a couple of “C” or even “AA” batteries. When I’ve got a vibrator in one hand and a lady’s labia and clitoral hood in the other, I want some serious jiggle and buzz. “Can you feel it now?” is not the game I am here to play. I have pink bits to vibrate and I want them V*i*B*R*a*T*e*D, not tickled. (For tickling, I have feathers.)
On the other hand, as any roofer can tell you, there isn’t an electrical outlet handy under every current bush, and dragging a power cord behind you is a pain in the ass. The same technology that lets a guy with a tool belt and a hairy ass crack drive sheet metal screws for forty minutes at the top of a sixteen foot ladder (rechargeable ni-cad or lithium-ion batteries, ta-dah!) makes a perfectly acceptable power source for a vibrator. I’ve raved before about the Phantasy Sinnflut, which is a tool-grade rechargeable vibrator that any man could be proud to dock on its charging base in the garage next to his DeWalt drill and his Makita reciprocal saw. It’s nobody’s budget option, but it’s handier than anything with a cord, safer in the shower, and functionally far beyond anything with a disposable dry cell in it.
Caught In The Shower
Sunday, July 23rd, 2006 -- by Bacchus
These old wallet-porn black-and-whites are too posed to be candid, but a nice shower scene is timeless:
Stripper Rant
Friday, April 21st, 2006 -- by Bacchus
I found this posted without an author credit on an adult webmaster board. It was presented as if it were supposed to be funny, and acclaimed as such by a chunk of the online-pornographer audience. Me, I didn’t find it so — it encapsulates a lot of the reasons I never could find much value in the strip club experience. Of course I know of folks in the blog community who’ve stripped (or who are still stripping) and who present a much more nuanced view of the profession. But still. Strong and unpleasant stuff, it seems to me:
1) Hey you over there, holding that one dollar bill in your hand with a death grip and waving it around at me like it’s the fucking deed to Trump Towers… what the fuck do you want me to do, grow another pussy?!? It’s a fuckin’ dollar, put it down on the tiprail and blow my world away already.
2) You losers that come into the club for a lapdance with NO underwear or boxers and thin-ass, nylon shorts, so we slip and slide on your hard-on (which always feel like a sharpie pen ~ fine point)…fuck you.
3) You with the thick-ass jeans, this was an impromptu visit, eh?
4) Don’t pull my thong up during a dance and ask me if it felt good. IT DOES NOT FEEL GOOD.
5) Hey you, Loser, the one counting out the 20 bucks in one dollar increments, rubbing your fingers between each one to make sure you are giving me just that one dollar. Yes, you.
6) No I will not just let you “slip it in real quick” for $50 more bucks.
7) Yeah, my tits are real. As real as my affection for you.
8)If you cum in your pants, you have to tip me an extra $100 for being a lame-ass who can cum in their pants from a lapdance.
9) Stop asking me out. You’re a smelly, fat loser and the only reason I’m smiling and cooing at you is because I want your money. Outside of the club I wouldn’t even fart your way.
11) Stop bitching at me about the goddamn two drink minimum. First of all, your breath ranks (what’d you have for dinner, garlic and shit?), you’re about 172 lbs. overweight, and you look like Jay Leno. More importantly: I don’t give a shit.
12) Don’t bitch at me about the $10 non-alchoholic beer either. Hide a bottle of Jack in your coat pocket next time like everyone else does.
13) My horniness is in direct proportion to your income.
14) No, you CAN’T SMOKE. Dumb. Ass.
15 )Boys, don’t sit in the front row with your “homies” and act all engrossed in some deep conversation during a girls performance because you want to look like you’re too “cool” to notice the hot, naked girl in front of you. It’s a clear sign that you ain’t getting any.
16) DON’T SIT IN THE FRONT ROW IF YOU ARE NOT GOING TO TIP. Fer chrissakes!!!!!!!!!!!
17) “So what do you guys do when you’re on your period?” Answer: I lap dance with guys in dark pants.
18) STOP trying to grab my tits!!!!!!! That’s extra.
19) SHOWER FIRST, you nasty fuck!
20) I had a feeling you weren’t going to tip me, so I took extra care to rub my lip gloss on your collar and wear extra glitter lotion and obnoxious perfume before our dance.
21) Hey cheapasses: please don’t come to my work. Just stay home and jack off to “Desperate Housewives” instead. It will save us a both a lot of unpleasantry.
22) Stop asking me why I do this job and try to get all psychologically analytical on me. For the money, you moron, that’s why.
23) No seriously, my real name is Sparkle.
24) NO, I will not take a dime sac for payment. I can tell it’s oregano anyway you stupid mutherfucker!
25) Sorry, I don’t do that. Ask the ugly girl at the bar with the black roots and overbite.
26) I can see it’s your first time at a strip club. Let me explain the dynamics to you. If you want a fuck or a blow-job, go to the ugly chicks. Hot girls don’t have to do “extra services.” I can give you some recommendations for a small fee.
27) It is not okay for you to bounce me on your cock like a baby on a knee. Not okay.
28) Stop complaining about how short the song was. It felt like the fucking maxi-single to me.
29)Yes I will fuck you, but only for 10 grand. More if you’re ugly. So basically, more.
30) DO NOT come into the club looking for a girlfriend/date. It’s like me going to PETA looking for a steak.
31) Girls–what’s with the pole smell? Can we do a little hygiene check? Nothing than worse than twirling around the pole and getting a whiff of stale pussy.
32) Girls–stop lip-syncing to the song you’re dancing to on stage. Especially if you don’t know all the words.
33) Girls–if your toes curl and hang over your platform shoes a la’ Fred Flinstone, you need to go up a size.
34) Girls–drowning yourself in Angel perfume is just as bad if not worse than the BO you’re trying to cover. Take a goddamn shower, you smell like lapdance funk.
35) Hey DJ! You suck!
36)Girls–may I suggest complete sobriety before getting tatted up? Tattoos should be meaningful, or at least semi-meaningful, or at least semi semi-meaningful. That fucking dancing llama on your ass is so lame.
37)Girls–some songs just should not be stripped to. Please. No Disney soundtracks (you know who you are, you fucking weirdo), Sade, Boys II Men, or Bjork. For the love of God, Please.
By the way, if this was ripped from a blog or website and you know the original source, please drop me an email so I can credit it properly. No links in the comments, please.
Naked Convention
Sunday, March 26th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
In which the heroine of Pillowbook utterly demolishes the serenity of a stuffy “naturist” camp with straight talk, direct action, and showering without a towel. An example of the straight talk:
The second thing I realised was that I had that familiar wet feeling between my thighs.
Well, all right, no point being bashful: not between my thighs, exactly, but between my cunt lips, and slick down my perineum to my arse.
Girl Washing
Sunday, March 12th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
When I first saw this picture from Water Bondage, a thought leaped, unbidden, into my brain: “Forget that shower gel from the commercials, THIS is how dirty girls get clean.”
However dirty she may once have been, bondage model Harmony is looking squeaky clean in this picture.
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The Handjob Sisters
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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Shedding The Burden Of Virginity
Monday, February 6th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Dan Savage recently published a collection of letters in his Savage Love column, reporting on some real bad “how I lost my virginity” stories. This one poor girl says she got electrocuted, thrown naked into the street, sunk (naked) in a lake, had to walk home naked again, and more:
We first tried at his house. We thought the shower would be a “sexy” place to do it and that the rushing water would also be a nice cover for any strange noises. In this particular tropical country, showerheads are often electric and some fool had made theirs out of metal. I touched the showerhead briefly and was shocked so severely that I fell and spun out across the floor. At that point his host mother barged in, dragged me out of the house by my feet (buck naked, mind you), called me a ”whore,” and kicked me to the curb.
We came up with another brilliant idea: We would borrow something similar to a rowboat from a friend, paddle out onto the local lake, and get the deed done. This boat was something like 20 feet long, about 1 foot deep, and about 4 feet wide, and made of wood. We brought the necessary items: a bottle of liquor, a joint, and a condom. We paddled out and were almost instantly naked. I stuffed our clothes under the seat in the front of the boat. After one slug of the booze and one puff off the joint, we commenced to clumsily roll around in the bottom of the boat. We were about to do the deed when I told him my ass was getting wet.
“That’s supposed to happen,” he said.
A little lesson in boats: They sink slowly until they’re about half full of water, then they go down like lead weights….
My favorite part: “That’s supposed to happen,” quoth young Lothario. Blub blub.
The Holy Handkerchief Of Cum-Saving
Saturday, April 23rd, 2005 -- by Bacchus
OK, you knew the sex life of the Moonies had to be a bit eccentric, what with the mass arranged marriages in the stadiums and all. But I had no idea just how eccentric until I read this article from Nerve (link via Spanking Blog, because — I am not making this up — there’s a wedding spanking ritual). There’s an actual handbook for consummating the marriage (years after the wedding) and it’s got some very odd elements:
Two years after our wedding, I gathered our checklist of items for the Three Day Ceremony, the consummation of our marriage:
1) Two Holy Handkerchiefs. These were to wash our bodies prior to intimacy, then to collect the fluids produced by our final union in the ceremony; they were to be kept “eternally.” [Ewww! -ed.]
…
I pulled the pamphlet of instructions out of my bag. We showered separately, never having seen each other naked. After he emerged, I took my turn in the steamy bathroom, then put on my new underwear. Our undergarments had to be new for each day of the ceremony; black satin felt luxurious after the baggy cotton underpants I’d been slouching around in for years. I dressed in my ivory wedding gown, and over that my white holy robe. The sash of my robe was decorated with pink beads, Gabriel’s trim was green.
…
In the first part of the ceremony, the woman had to be on top, symbolizing the restoration of Eve’s act of love with Lucifer. After two minutes of foreplay, I guided him inside me. Instantly, I felt the emotional disconnect. It was the first time I had felt a man inside me for four years, and it felt good, but there was no holy passion, no divine ecstasy. I moved on top of him, concentrated on bringing him to an orgasm, then removed myself and lay next to him. Our ritualistic act of love was over in ten minutes. We wiped the fluids onto our Holy Handkerchiefs.
The official handbook said, “Go to sleep in peace. Sleep in pajamas and nightgown. Do not have a physical relationship outside of the content of the ceremony.” We lay on our backs next to each other, not touching, nor speaking.
Of course when reading accounts like this, it’s good to remember that there’s a long journalistic tradition of writing very loosely about the sexual practices of unpopular or unusual religions. (The technical term for this style of journalism is “making shit up”.) I’m not saying this account isn’t 100% accurate; I’m just saying that, like anything else you read on the internet, some healthy skepticism couldn’t hurt.
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Penises on the Mind, and in the Tree?
Wednesday, December 8th, 2004 -- by Aphrodite
Having some steamy sex over Thanksgiving was great for me, but now I think I miss having a man around even more than ever. Not just for the sex, but mostly for the simple pleasures that I’d forgotten about. Cat over at Pussy Tales knows what I mean. She pegged one of my favorite things in her post he smells like yum:
and I know I’m not making ANY sense here but…that smell can be any smell of him…like shampoo or deodorant or after-shave or just that natural body smell…hmmm…that’s my favourite…that natural smell of a man…when he’s been working a bit too hard…or when he’s taken a long hot shower and his skin is fresh and tastes just like honey…he’s warm and tender and tastes SO yummy…
Girl, you are making loads of sense to me! Hooboy, do I ever miss the smell of a man! Sometimes I think they can be as bad as women about trying to cover their smells, although they do have less to obsess about, I guess.
While reading some news this morning, I came across another testament to people’s fascination with penises going way back. It’s a penis tree, although that’s really hard to see in this scaled-down picture:
The caption under the image (a Reuters image I found at Yahoo News) reads as follows:
An undated handout photograph shows the Massa Marittima mural in the Italian town Massa Marittima. At first glance the mural looks fairly similar to dozens of other medieval frescoes dotted across Tuscany, but a closer look at the spidery tree which dominates the centre of the painting shows its branches are covered in penises. Until now, it was assumed the phallus tree was a fertility symbol but according to a British-based expert, it is a actually a unique piece of political propaganda, commissioned by one Tuscan faction to sully the reputation of another.
The link will take you to a slightly larger version of the image…not large enough to see anything in sufficient detail, alas.
Hope all this makes up for my absence lately….trying to get ahead on some work, for reasons which I might be able to announce to y’all later today. :)
A Conversation With The Nymph
Friday, November 5th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Her: “I need to take my shower.
Me: “Why?
Her: “I feel stinky.”
Me (after extensive hands-on investigation): “No you don’t.”
Six Dirty Girls
Thursday, May 27th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
I’m not sure what’s going on here, but it sure is cute:
We’ve got some sort of outdoor shower situation going on. One woman is getting clean while six wait in line. They are clearly aware of the photographer (since they are doing their best to protect the remnants of their modesty) but their smiles and laughter suggest they don’t care all that much.
The Nymph In My Net: Oh What Fun
Monday, January 12th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Also, these turned out to be every bit as much fun as I predicted.
More later. Promise. Right now, I have much better things to do. She’s just stepping out of the shower….
The Nymph In My Net: The Net Tightens A Lot
Friday, December 26th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
And how! Yesterday while we are on the phone, suddenly she says “Ow! Hey! It’s stuck! Ow! I hurt my hand trying to pull it off!”
“What’s stuck? What’s wrong?”
“The chain! The chain from your present! I was playing with it, and somehow it got around my right wrist, and now the lock’s closed and it’s stuck!”
(This is technically known as the “Doctor, I don’t know how that got in there, I was holding it in my hand and then I slipped in the shower and fell on it” explanation.)
Of course I’m laughing so hard my teeth hurt. Also, I’m thinking fast. “Do you remember the combination?”
“No!” (This turns out, sadly, not to be true.)
I quickly tell her a combination. One digit removed from the actual. Visions of saying “Oh, gosh, you must have reset the combination while you were playing, now you’ll have to try all ten thousand with your left hand while I tease encourage you” begin to dance in my head. I envision hours of high quality family fun.
Alas, she was not listening to my misinformation.
“Oh, there it is! I got it off. Gosh, I was getting worried there for a minute. Good thing I remembered the… HEY! You gave me the wrong combination!!!”
God, that was fun.
But the real fun of the day was her confirming her tickets. January 10. Best Christmas present ever. Cannot wait.
Vanilla Phone Sex
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!
That’s Why They Call It A Wedding Party
Sunday, November 16th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Here’s an amusing picture that looks a lot like a wedding reception (or more likely, a bridal shower or bachelorette party) gone wild:
The picture is courtesy of Bondage Blog.
Maria Tied And Showered
Tuesday, October 28th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Time for some visual relief. Here’s a page showing a whole sequence of photos of incredible beauty Maria tied to a post in the jungle and given a refreshing cold shower:
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Modern Fertility Rituals
Saturday, October 25th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
This looks like a bridal shower scene, probably the result of a bunch of ladies having a little naughty fun:
But it’s also an example of how ancient pagan habits die really hard. Don’t tell me that oh-so-virile jutting phallus is not also the centerpiece in a fertility ritual, however unconscious.
99 And 44/100ths Percent Soap Free
Friday, October 17th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
You think showering is just an efficient way to get clean? You’re missing out on a lot. Here’s how civilized people take a shower:
He crouches and I spread my legs allowing him access to wash me from my hips to my feet, giggling as he tickles my soles and my toes.
When he’s done with my feet, I again turn around so I am facing him. He removes the gloves & puts more soap on his hands. I put one foot up on the safety rail. He takes a step forward and slips one hand to my pussy while the other hand slides around my hips to my backside. He twiddles his soapy fingers in, on and around my bijou, being sure to clean every nook and cranny, until I am shuddering with orgasm after orgasm. His other hand has not been idle. He slides one slippery finger into my asshole and in conjunction with his first hand sends me climbing to ever-higher heights of orgasmic bliss until I slump into his arms & he must steady me to keep me from falling.
…
I rub the suds into his hair, cupping his balls in one hand and gripping his swelling shaft with the other. I slide my hand to the head of his cock and then back again, holding the foreskin back so that his glans is exposed and I can rub my soapy fingers and palm around its crown. As his cock grows, it becomes easier and easier to wash – less wrinkles! – and he moans with pleasure and leans against the shower wall, sometimes twitching as I touch a more sensitive spot. Back and forth I rub my hands over and around and under his cock and balls, being sure that every bit of it is clean. Finally he rinses – but has he gotten all the soap off? Only one way to tell! I take his cock into my mouth for a “soap check”; I must be 100% certain that everything is soap-free before we can get out of the shower.
Water Bondage: “Splish, Splash I Was Taking a Bath….”
Saturday, August 16th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Much as I hate to link to pure porn sites, every now and then I find one that strikes my jaded eyes as being new and different. Here’s a bondage site with a twist: At Water Bondage, the moistly restrained models are ducked, dunked, squirted, splashed, hosed down, and generally subjected to large volumes of water in addition to their strict bondage. Lots of steel cages, shackles, and what look disturbingly like electrical play toys can be seen in the promo thumbnails:
This sure looks like your one-stop for all you firehose interrogation fetishists, dunking fans, and aficionados of really damp dungeons. And the marvel of it is, outside of a few bathtub bondage pics, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it!
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Erotic Truth
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.
Nubile Soapy Goodness
Wednesday, May 28th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Courtesy of Porn-Stash we have [had] a gallery purporting to be the Brazilian Women’s Soccer Team. Dunno if that’s true or not, but there is one hell of a lot of deliciously callipygian beauty on display. And the shower scenes (one of which is pictured here) have enough nubile soapy goodness to power a small country, not to mention make a grown-but-dateless man weep.
Exit weeping….
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Wesson Oil Sex
Wednesday, April 30th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
From the self-described Dirty Whore, this entertaining story of the fun you can have with cooking oil:
We stumbled back to his apartment but stopped at the 7-11 to pick up a bottle of Wesson oil. I ripped down his shower curtain and spread it on the living room floor. I pulled off my clothes and he poured the oil all over my body then joined me on the plastic sheet. Hands slid over each other — the oil felt marvelous — and before I even put my fingers on him, he was hard as a rock. I got onto my hands and knees as he fingerfucked my pussy and slipped an oily finger into my ass. Then two. I moaned, not feeling much pain thanks to the alcohol and Wesson. He entered me quickly, his rigid cock slipping up my virgin hole as our oily bodies slid against each other. The feeling as he moved, my ass tight as a fist around him, was incredible. He exploded inside me, shooting his cum deep into my bowels. I loved it!
It’s a remarkable blog with some interesting stories.
The Female Mind
Sunday, April 20th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Saith the Punning Pundit’s girlfriend:
“Look, just because I am horny and showering you with kisses does not mean that I am trying to seduce you.”
All righty then.
Menthol Clit Gel Doesn’t Sound Fun!
Saturday, January 18th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Village Voice columnist Tristan Taormino reviews three female sex creams with results ranging from disappointing to, shall we say, painfully mixed:
O Clitoral Stimulating Gel also contains menthol, and the box reads, “You should feel an intense warmth for about 20 seconds.” I put a tiny dab of the clear gel on my clit, and the immediate feeling was more like a burn. Imagine holding your clit over an open flame, and you’re there with me, regretting my experimental nature for those 20 seconds. My instinct was to jump in the shower, but in the brochure it specifically said not to wash it off in the 20-second period, and that doing so may in fact increase the discomfort, which didn’t seem possible. So I sat tight, and when the burn faded, a wave of warmth and arousal came over me. Blood started rushing to my cunt, and I got really turned on. Maybe there was something to this Ben Gay on the puss after all. I started jerking off, but decided to wait till a certain someone came over to, um, assist. I ended up bringing myself to the edge of orgasm, then backing off, then getting there again. By the time I was in the thick of two-person sex, I was so overstimulated that I couldn’t come! I don’t hold O responsible: It definitely worked some major mojo on me and deserves a second chance.
Bring on the Geritol
Thursday, December 12th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
First of all, apologies are in order. This blog has been nearly imageless, and/or monochrome, for far too long. In the nature of restitution, please accept this nice girl working on her personal hygiene.
Image “borrowed” from deep in the archives of the Sensual Liberation Army, which is herewith added to the sex blog roll. Thanks!
And now for the pathetic part. Folks, Bacchus is officially getting old. For, while gazing at this raven-haired and oh-so-damp callipygian beauty, what to his wandering mind should appear but the following unworthy thought:
“Nice shower tiles. I want a shower like that.”
Sigh.
P.S.: This photograph provides additional evidence that Anil was right.
Because Then She Won’t USE It
Friday, October 4th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
Anil Dash has been thinking in the shower again, and thinking like a man at that:
“Why don’t they just drop the facade and make a dildo-shaped attachment for those hand-held shower nozzles? I mean, we’re all kind of in a wink-wink understanding that those things exist solely for women’s masturbatory needs, right? Well, I say any job worth doing is worth doing right. And that means getting the right tools for the job.”
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