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The Sex Blog Of Record
Monday, June 3rd, 2024 -- by Bacchus
Overheard couples humor. This one dude says to another:
I asked my wife to act like a naughty schoolgirl for me. So she forged a note from her mother saying she didn’t have to participate.
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Tuesday, April 2nd, 2024 -- by Bacchus
For all of the embittered male jokes about once-a-year birthday blowjobs, it remains the case that enthusiastic wives give the best blowjobs, because they love their work and they have lots of practice:
For once I’m not just superimposing a marital fantasy onto an ambiguous porn photo (not that I’m above doing that). Nope, our girl is wearing her wedding ring with pride!
From Color Climax 15.
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Thursday, March 30th, 2023 -- by Bacchus
The least joyous thing I’ve seen today is a social media video under #CouplesHumor #MarriedHumor hashtags, where some dudebro husband tried to enact that riddle-meme of asking/answering the “what do deli sandwiches and sex workers have in common?” for spousal reaction. I’ve actually seen some funny ones, where the misogynistic “I wouldn’t need either one, if my wife was doing her fucking job!” punchline landed well and got a reaction of honest amusement from the wife in question. But in this one? Her look of incomprehension, that slowly dawned into severely hurt feelings, was just heartbreaking. Dude, NOOO. You fucked up. You failed to read the room. Don’t post that shit!
No, I’m not going to link it. Nobody needs to see that cruel shit.
Friday, October 2nd, 2020 -- by Bacchus
An old Blogspot post about the artistic influence on Frank Frazetta by his wife Ellie offers up significant evidence that (a) she had an amazing ass, or (b) that he had an amazing imagination or (c) both:
Can we get Camera One to zoom in on the blonde with the big butt, please? Oh, yes, thank you!
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Thursday, December 27th, 2012 -- by Bacchus
So I just saw Barbara Walters on TV, asking the Obamas “So why where you hugging so hard in Iowa?”
As Michelle takes a breath to answer, Barak jumps in with a shaking head and a genial tone that nonetheless conveys he’s answering a stupid question: “Because I love my wife!” The “Duh…” was unstated but audible nonetheless.
See also: Does Barak Obama Spank His Wife?
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Tuesday, July 5th, 2011 -- by Bacchus
This photo comes via Erectus, with a question:
Question: How can you tell that an “I caught my wife in the shower” photo is authentic, and not staged by some porn company?
Answer: When you can see the tub grout peeling.
The more you know…
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Monday, January 12th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
The trampling fetish, in which men fetishise being walked on or stomped on by women (I haven’t heard of the gender obverse version, which is not to say it’s not out there) has a long and colorful history, from Japanese geishas forward. But I was stunned to see it so explicit in this fragment from a 1950s magazine advertisement for fitted sheets. She’s stomping all over him, there’s probably two kids and a dog bouncing offscreen to the left, he’s looking up her lacy night-slip (or whatever you call that thing) with a big grin on his face, a great time being had by all, and it’s all because of the miracle of fitted sheets!
Monday, January 5th, 2009 -- by Bacchus
In the 17th century they were a little less blunt, but that’s the basic message of this poem, another gem from “Sportive Wit” by John Phillips:
Against Demur in Marriage
Prithee friend leave off thy fooling,
And at last resolve to do
What Loves pleasures never cooling,
Love and beauty prompt thee to.
Venus cares not for good-will,
But would have thee doing still.
Do but view that maid of mettle,
How the rose smiles on her cheek;
The flower’s defended by the nettle,
And the rose deserves a prick.
Crop it then before it wither:
Youth and Love decay together.
Call thy spirits up, and make her
Great as ever she can hold:
Leave her quite, or quickly take her;
Be thou either hot or cold.
Love and Religion both agree,
Luke-warm’s as bad as he or she.
Delays in drinking spoil good Claret;
Demurs make sick the maidenhead:
Sipping either doth but mar it;
Neither pleaseth, if once dead.
Take her then; no longer dally:
Worse then death is shally, shally.
Courage, man, to it; touch and take her:
Maids by hopes are oft beguiled:
Dallying, big will hardly make her;
Kisses never got a child.
Take her then and leave thy wooing:
Meaning’s not so good as doing.
Sunday, December 21st, 2008 -- by Bacchus
This is a poem on adultery, from a 1656 book called “Sportive Wit” compiled by John Phillips and, as he put it, “collected for the publick good, by a club of sparkling wits”.
In essence it’s a sermon on the futility of marital jealousy, I would say:
The Bulls Feather
It chanced not long ago, as I was walking,
An echo did bring me to where two were talking:
‘Twas a man said to his wife, Die had I rather,
Then to be cornuted, and wear the Bulls feather.
Then presently she replied, Sweet, art thou jealous?
Thou canst not play Vulcan before I play Venus:
Thy fancies are foolish, such follies to gather:
There’s many an honest man has worn the Bulls feather.
Though it be invisible, let no man it scorn,
Though it be a new feather made of an old horn:
He that disdains it, in heart or mind either,
May be the more subject to wear the Bulls feather.
He that lives discontent, or in despair,
And feareth false measure, because his wife’s fair:
His thoughts are inconstant, much like winter weather
Though one or two want it, he shall have a feather.
Bulls feathers are common as Ergo in schools,
And only contemned by those that are fools:
Why should a Bulls feather cause any unrest,
Since neighbours fare always is counted the best?
Those women wh’are fairest, are likeliest to give it;
And husbands that have them, are apt to believe it.
Some men though their wives should seem for to tether,
They would play the kind neighbour, and give the Bulls feather.
Why should we repine that our wives are so kind,
Since we that are husbands, are of the same mind?
Shall we give them feathers, and think to go free?
Believe it, believe it, that hardly will be.
For he that disdains my Bulls feather today,
May light of a Lass that will play him foul play.
There’s ne’er a proud Gallant that treads on Cows leather,
But he may be cornuted, and wear the Bulls feather.
Though beer of that brewing I never did drink,
Yet be not displeased if I speak what I think:
Scarce ten in a hundred, believe it, believe it,
But either they’ll have it, or else they will give it.
Then let me advise all those that do pine,
For fear that false Jealousie shorten their time;
That disease will torment them worse then any fever:
Then let all be contented, and wear the Bulls feather.
Tuesday, October 21st, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Remember last month when I wrote about what I called “unusual romantic understandings”?” As I said then:
People … are willing and able to make the most astonishing compromises and bargains (physical, emotional, financial) in order to get the love, affection, validation (and, yes, sex!) that they need.
I was reminded of this by a stellar example from the pages of the New Yorker, in a review of a book about John Stuart Mill:
Mill said that he had always been a feminist, but there isn’t any doubt that the engine of his feminism was his friend, love, collaborator, and eventual wife, Harriet Taylor. They met at her home, in Finsbury, in the summer of 1830, over dinner among liberal friends. Harriet, a year younger than Mill, was married, to a slow-witted, well-meaning pharmacist named John Taylor; they had two children. She was smart and pretty–”a small head, a swan-like throat, and a complexion like a pearl,” the daughter of someone present at the momentous dinner wrote later–and already oppressed by her very unequal marriage. If you see her pictures, and make allowances for the cosmetic conventions of the portraiture of the time, she still looks pretty wonderful: big Natalie Portman eyes and that fine long neck. She and Mill fell for each other quickly….
For the rest of the decade, theirs was a complicated lobster quadrille of love. If the lovers were just a touch less fierce-looking, Mill and Taylor would make as good a Victorian love story as Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett. They were seen everywhere together. Carlyle’s wife, Jane, gossiped that “Mrs. Taylor, tho’ encumbered with a husband and children, has ogled John Mill so successfully that he was desperately in love.” After years of intrigue, the Taylors finally decided on a separation. To test Mill’s love, Harriet went to Paris, and invited him to spend six weeks with her there. The interlude was splendid–but then Harriet, with a rather sweet imperiousness, allowed her husband to come to Paris for his own audition. Harriet ultimately decided–with mingled propriety, uncertainty, and something like flirtatiousness–that they could share her, on an alternating schedule, at the Taylor house, her husband entertaining guests with her on some days, and Mill on others. Taylor paid the bills, while Mill stocked the wine cellar.
Wednesday, September 10th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
I have been amused, over the years, to watch the never-ending arms race between the penis pill spammers and the spam filtering industry. The spammers are endlessly creative at finding descriptive phrases that contain no uniquely filterable keywords. Two from today’s inbox:
“Set your wife on fire!”
Er, what? That’s a crime, or several of them.
And then:
“Girls will call you Largissimo!”
Somehow, I doubt it. How would that sound? “Hey, Largissimo, when are you coming over here to set me on fire?”
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Tuesday, August 19th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Way back in the dark ages, when computer games were something that came on floppy disks that mostly weren’t actually floppy, it was not unheard of for a man to spend too much time playing his computer games, nor for his woman to complain about the amount of his time and attention she didn’t enjoy because of it. (Sometimes the gender arrow pointed the other way, but numerically, not often.)
Then came the internet, and massively addictive massively multiplayer online games, and the situation only got worse. As early as the late 1990s, the “EverQuest widow” phenomenon was getting widely remarked upon. Once World of Warcraft exploded on the MMORPG scene and increased the U.S. MMORPG playerbase to many millions, the “problem” became a widely-understood social phenomenon. (The gendered nature of “the problem” also diminished a little more.)
In geek male circles, it was common and easy to say “Dude, you’ve got an actual live girl in your house, and she’s mad at you because you’re playing with us and not with her? What’s wrong with you? LOG THE HELL OFF!”
But in practice, that doesn’t always happen. My own gaming policy has always been to attempt to prioritize “real life people” above my games. Phone rings? Answer it. Relative wants a hand? Log off and give it. The Nymph walks into the room to show me the panties she bought? Give her my full attention; the raid (the fleet, the gang, the quest, the mobs, the squad, the enemies, the targets, the loot) they are eternal, they will always be there when I get back. The panties? They are gonna walk out of the room, and it won’t take them very long, either.
But, it’s not always that simple.
Early on, it became clear to me that the type of game mattered. Shooting games weren’t quite as bad, because (although addictive) it’s a lot easier to drop in and out of fast-paced shooting games where deaths and respawns are common and mostly painless. But the immersive multiplayer games where you accumulate stuff, and getting the best stuff requires coordination between many different players? The people in those games are also “real life people”, and some of them become your friends, and you make commitments to them just as you would your meatspace friends, and those commitments have power. And that’s very very hard to explain to someone in your life who thinks you spend too much time “typing at that silly box” and cannot comprehend that it can take thirty seconds, or twenty minutes, to resolve in-game affairs to the point where you can safely avert your eyes from the screen.
Obviously living with a gamer helps, although sometime it just means it’s you who’s getting the “not tonight, I promised Malathion_69 that I’d help camp for dragon armor” treatment.
I eventually, and fairly recently, realized that the “I prioritize the real people in my life over my computer games” rule-of-thumb (perhaps call it an aspiration, as it’s not always an easy rule to follow) was a little bit broken. My gaming buddies, after all, are people too, and it’s rude, socially broken, possibly even a teeny bit sociopathic, to tell anyone, by word or deed, “you’re always my lowest priority.”
That said, what’s the real challenge? As always, we need to meet our social obligations, and when you share a house and a life and a bed with someone, they have a legitimate claim to a high-priority interrupt on whatever it is you do to fill your idle hours. But “high-priority” is not the same as “absolute”, nor is it the same as “immediate”. An enlightened balance is the ideal, and how Buddhist does that sound?
I was reminded of my developing thinking on this subject by a sad memory AAG recounts:
Wrapped in a blanket to keep off the cold and armed with tea, I’d take to the porch with a book and a tiny reading light. It was a lovely retreat, and most days I was at least moderately content to spend a few hours out there reading while my husband worked or played computer games.
But on the chilliest Friday something was different. Was it hormones? An extra-hard dose of child-inspired loneliness? Too long since our last attempt at sex? I don’t know, but on that Friday night I needed the comfort and warmth of the man who I’d hoped would be my partner forever. I suggested it to him as he headed off to his work and computer. “Can we have some time alone this weekend? Maybe tonight? Or tomorrow?” I asked, attempting the lowest-pressure sell possible.
“I’m not going to have the time,” he answered. “I really need to finish that project for work, and I need to organize everyone’s fantasy football picks by Monday. Maybe early next week?”
And then he scooted off, leaving me with book and tea on the desk.
It was the first of many moments of clarity I experienced over the state of our relationship. I cried, book and tea forgotten…
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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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Wednesday, June 18th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Mistress Matisse addresses the ancient question of what to do about emergent diversity of sexual tastes within marriage:
I can just lay out your options as I see them…
You can accept that your wife isn’t currently into this, stop asking, and not get this desire met.
You can accept that your wife isn’t currently into this, but ask her to go see a couple’s therapist with you to talk about your sex life.
You can accept that your wife isn’t currently into this and tell her that you’re going to get the need met elsewhere. (And deal with her response to that.)
You can accept that your wife isn’t currently into this and get the need met elsewhere without telling her about it.
Note that all these options begin with you accepting that your wife isn’t currently into this. I don’t know of any magic way of getting people to like what they don’t like, sexually. If I did, I would not be keeping it a secret. I’d write a book, sell a ton of copies, and be on Oprah, because mismatched sexual desires of all kinds are a huge issue in a society that claims to prize sexual monogamy.
I get reader letters too, and although I don’t tend to engage very much with the ones seeking advice the way Matisse sometimes does, I can confirm from my own mail that this sort of question is a big deal for a lot of people out there.
Friday, May 9th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
I’ve commented before that anything can be a fetish, and that one of the things I like best about sex blogging is reading people try to explain why certain things turn them on, that we’d not usually expect would do so. Needless to say, this ring fingering thing from Chelsea at Pretty Dumb Things made my day:
Marriage is a contract that I may never make, and yet I like being fingered by men with wedding rings. It’s not that I can feel the ring. Wedding rings tend toward the slim and the flat. I’ve never had the experienced the interior wriggling of a finger with a ring rococo as Liberace’s , a skull bauble thick as Keith Richard’s, a chunk of metal clunky as Robert Lee Morris’s Superman. The rings that have been inside me have been modest, prudent, utilitarian bands signaling commitment.
There have been three of them in reality and one in my imagination.
…
Clearly, when the finger is diddling me, I can’t see the ring. I can’t even feel the ring. So the pleasure of the ring comes neither from the visual nor from the sensual. It’s a purely imaginative power. It’s a pleasure that rests in the seat of all pleasure–my pinky-grey and corrugated brain.
It’s difficult for me to put my finger on the exact spot of that imaginary pleasure. I would be remiss if I didn’t admit that part is powered by the shock of the illicit thrill, if indeed the finger belonging to the man fingering me is infidel. Like almost every other human, I do feel pleasure in transgression, and crossing this boundary, like all the strange others that for one reason or another give me the good down-low tingle, nudges whatever purely physical pleasure there is into electrically-charged territory. But the illicitness isn’t it in and of itself.
I know that it’s not because the man, the imagined man, the one without the ring, the one whose ring I imagined and in imagining it found great delight, was Donny, my now-X and then erstwhile fiancé. It was his imagined not-ring that prodded me to gyrate indecorously one sunny August afternoon, his naked fingers twisting and turning inside me. My mind furnished his finger with a ring. It bedighted his third finger on his left hand with a ring, and though neither the ring nor even possibly that exact finger was rubbing the walls of my pussy like a magic lamp, it was real enough to me, and I came from the concept as much as from the reality.
Which all leads me to believe it’s not the cheating that I like. It’s the abstract concept of commitment. It’s the symbolism of the ring, this piece of metal that our culture uses to denote those of us who have made a pact with another human from those of us who haven’t. It doesn’t matter whether the man has committed to me–though clearly my fetishization of the ring in general and my somatic response to Donny’s fictive ring in specific suggests that a commitment to me would be ideal–it’s that this man has committed, for good, bad, or ugly to someone.
It’s all very strange, though. Just as a gentlemen is advised to remove his socks before sexual congress with a woman, wouldn’t the usual rules of etiquette demand that he remove his wedding ring before fingering a woman not his wife? I’m not sure Emily Post ever covered that nuance.
Wednesday, April 30th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a tame dirty joke, perhaps rising to the level of an anecdote, about president Calvin Coolidge and his wife:
President Coolidge and his wife were touring a farm. While the President was elsewhere, the farmer proudly showed Mrs. Coolidge a rooster that “could copulate with hens all day long, day after day.” Mrs. Coolidge coyly suggested that the farmer tell that to Mr. Coolidge, which he did.
The President thought for a moment and then inquired, “With the same hen?”
“No, sir,” replied the farmer.
“Tell that to Mrs. Coolidge,” retorted the President.
Via Sexoteric.
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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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Wednesday, April 2nd, 2008 -- by Bacchus
There’s a French comic strip starring the never-ending sexual adventures of Titi Fricoteur. Here Titi is spying on the baker’s wife, who is in her garden collecting vegetables for a stuffing. The stuffing follows hard upon the collecting:
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Thursday, March 20th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
I’ve been stewing, on and off, about this remark by Mistress Matisse on the Elliot Spitzer scandal:
I’m amused, in a rather cynical way, how much more outraged people who aren’t sex workers have been over the Eliot Spitzer issue than those of us who are. I’m hearing a lot about the hypocrisy!
Yeah, that’s true. But that’s the way the game is played, you know? I don’t expect any different from a politician and an officer of the court.
I won’t flatter myself that Matisse had my particular outrage in mind when she wrote that. But I realized that I do expect — or more precisely, demand, since only a fool would expect it — a better standard of behavior from people whose political power, when abused, lets them destroy lives.
Upon reflection, it’s Spitzer’s habit of prosecuting people for selling the same illicit services he himself was enjoying as a buyer that strikes me as evidence of a substantial and public evil, out of all proportion to whatever hypocrisy may be present when Joe Citizen takes a day off from his wife to let Matisse smack his balls with a stick.
Although I don’t often discuss or encourage the discussion of politics on this blog, it would be wrong to conclude that I’m not interested in political power, and its abuses. And it’s important to remember that prosecutors, in particular, are invested with enormous discretion to pick and choose which crimes they will prosecute.
Spitzer’s enjoyment of prostitution I do not hold against him. But to me it proves, conclusively, that he does not consider prostitution to be a social evil of any great importance. Which proves, in turn, that when he exercised his discretion to prosecute people in the flesh trades, he was doing so purely for political convenience and advantage. He put people in jail who did not, by his own moral compass, need to go there, and he did it to advance his career.
That is hypocrisy, sure. But it’s not the hypocrisy I’m condemning, not directly. What I condemn is locking people up for your personal convenience. “Sorry, chaps, nothing personal, it’s not that I disagree with anything you did, it’s just that I’m on the fast track to the Governor’s mansion, and it will be easier for me to get there if you suffer. So, suffer, peons!”
That, I consider evil. Joe Citizen cheating on his wife? He’s just being a schmuck. There’s a big difference, and it has something to do with the fact that Joe Citizen doesn’t have cops and prison guards with guns to do his dirty work for him.
Monday, March 10th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
This just in from the New York Times:
Gov. Eliot Spitzer has been caught on a federal wiretap arranging to meet with a high-priced prostitute at a Washington hotel last month, according to a person briefed on the federal investigation.
The wiretap recording, made during an investigation of a prostitution ring called Emperors Club VIP, captured a man identified as Client 9 on a telephone call confirming plans to have a woman travel from New York to Washington, where he had reserved a room. The person briefed on the case identified Mr. Spitzer as Client 9.
…
The man described as Client 9 in court papers arranged to meet with a prostitute who was part of the ring, Emperors Club VIP, on the night of Feb. 13. Mr. Spitzer traveled to Washington that evening, according to a person told of his travel arrangements.
Classy guy, screwing around on his wife the night before Valentine’s day, eh?
Here’s a nice photo of the family man with his wife and three daughters:
(I found that photo on an adult webmaster board along with the cruel-but-funny caption: “Daddy’s been banging some prostitutes, girls, so let’s all go to church!”)
I’ll leave the detailed analysis to Susie Bright, who really enjoys tearing into the sexual hypocrisy of conservative old white male politicians (into which camp Spitzer, though a Democrat, surely falls, thanks to his reputation as an aggressive, even rabid, law-and-order prosecutor). I’ll just say there surely must be a special circle in hell for prosecutors who enjoy a particular vice while denouncing that same vice and sending people to jail for it:
Mr. Spitzer gained national attention when he served as attorney general with his relentless pursuit of Wall Street wrongdoing. As attorney general, he also had prosecuted at least two prostitution rings as head of the state’s organized crime task force.
In one such case in 2004, Mr. Spitzer spoke with revulsion and anger after announcing the arrest of 16 people for operating a high-end prostitution ring out of Staten Island.
“This was a sophisticated and lucrative operation with a multitiered management structure,” Mr. Spitzer said at the time. â€?It was, however, nothing more than a prostitution ring.â€?
Update, courtesy Jay Leno: “In the governor’s defense, he was bringing prostitution to its knees… one woman at a time.”
Second update: Susie’s take, as anticipated.
Sunday, February 17th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
From much the same era, or perhaps a bit earlier, in which Chairman Mao was trying to swap away ten million women, we have American Airlines grousing about people stealing its friendly stewardesses. The following was captioned “People keep stealing our stewardesses.”
And the explanation:
Within two years, most of our stewardesses will leave us for other men.
This isn’t surprising.
A girl who can smile for 5 and a half hours is hard to find.
Not to mention a wife who can remember what 124 people want for dinner.
(And tell you all about meteorology and jets, if that’s what you’re looking for in a woman.)
But these are not the things that brought on our problem.
It’s the kind of girl we hire. Being beautiful just isn’t enough.
(We don’t mean it isn’t important. We just mean it isn’t enough.)
So if there’s one thing we look for, it’s girls who like people. And you can’t do that and then tell them not to like people too much.
All you can do is put a new wing on your stewardess college to keep up with demand.
American Airlines
From Vintage Ads.
Wednesday, February 6th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
“Pessary” is one of those vocabulary words that I have been aware of since I was a kid. I’d see it in old books or older magazines, and somehow I gained the vague sense that it had something to do with, uh, “feminine hygiene”. Which meant, I really didn’t want to know.
Well, here’s a picture:
According to Accoucheur’s Antique Midwifery Fact Files (link via Bondage Blog, which in itself should tell you something):
Intrauterine Wishbones & Stem Plugs
It was illegal to sell or promote any form of contraceptives during early 1900s. These birth control devices were sold and advertised as pessaries. They were place in the cervix with the stem inside the uterine cavity. These pessaries were the forerunners of the modern day IUDs.
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Monday, January 14th, 2008 -- by Bacchus
Science fiction author and blogger John Scalzi, on celebrity, his relative lack of it, and why he’s cool with that:
True, this means I miss out on groupies, but I suspect after the first several hundred they lose their luster as well. I could be wrong. I might be willing to find out. Let me clear that with the wife and get back to you on it.
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.
Wednesday, December 12th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
I mentioned last week that The Nymph always fails her saving throws against pink — a weakness I sometimes use to my ruthless advantage and to our mutual enjoyment. With your lady, though, the doomed saving throw might be different. Is her weakness, perhaps, pearl-like objects, or shiny things from Swarovsky?
If so, you might just need the Pearl Collar And Leash from Wild In Secret (matching pearl handcuffs and, for the especially daring, pearl thong, optional):
No need to be sexist about all this, though — I’m sure there’s a man out there wearing these and looking cute as hell. In fact, if he’s your man, and you have pictures, I’d consider publishing them.
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Sunday, December 9th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
People collect the strangest things:
A few fetishists have not only delved deeply into this topic, but have actually assembled collections. One such gent, according to Shozo Saito, the head of the Odawara municipal library and researcher into things sexual, was a chap who went by the nom de plume of Takishima Kinkaran,
Kinkaran was born in Tokyo in 1893 and could often be found frequenting brothels in the Hakusan area, which was established in June 1912 as Tokyo’s newest licensed bordello district, not far from the University of Tokyo campus.
Kinkaran was said to be a man of great personal charm, and one of his pet projects was to persuade geisha to contribute their pubic hair, which, he would tell them, he was collecting in order to stuff a zabuton cushion. Alas, he died prematurely of a respiratory illness at the age of 37, and it is not known how far along his zabuton project ever progressed.
…
Historian Shimokawa introduces a gentleman named Takao Hanada, who is fondly remembered in the postwar period for being the first person to organize wife swapping in Japan, and later authored a book entitled “Exchange: a record of certain swapping encounters.”
After a swap session, Hanada would sort the pubic hairs collected from his female partners and tape them to the reverse sides of their husband’s business cards. Sex-reseacher Saito says he was able to view a collection of some 150 cards accumulated by Hanada over a period of 10 years.
Perusing the backs of these cards, he was able to appreciate the wonderful variety of lengths, shapes and textures of the hairs in Hanada’s collection.
Hanada had collaborated in his project with a chap named Zenkichi Nagano, who at that time the fiftyish director of a regional bank. After going around and soliciting women at local drinking establishments with little success, Nagano decided he would have to change his technique.
“He went to bars and cabarets and asked hostesses for samples,” Saito tells Shimokawa. “After plying them with a few drinks, he’d make his pitch, saying, ‘I want your pubic hair.'”
Too embarrassed to do this in places where he might be recognized, Nagano would take the train one or two hours to another town or into Tokyo. Offering a 10,000-yen tip as an incentive, the gals would excuse themselves, slip into the powder room, and return to the table and pass him the goodies.
“More than just receiving money, some women saw this as forming a personal relationship, so to speak,” says Saito. “Perhaps Nagano finally got used to being treated as eccentric, or perhaps once the women realized he was harmless, they became more cooperative, they warmed to his advances and the whole mood changed.
“Anyway, it got to the point that a few gals would even drop their panties right in front of him and allow him to harvest hairs from them on the spot.”
Nagano eventually obtained 200 specimens, which he wrapped in traditional Japanese “washi” paper and saved in photo albums, organized according to the locations from which he’d collected them.
Nagano was said to have remarked that he never managed to have sex even once with any of the “contributors.”
“Somehow, I initially felt a sense of regret over this point, but now it gives me a feeling of pride,” Nagano supposedly boasted.
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Tuesday, December 4th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
In 1898, no less?
You betcha:
It’s real: “the most offensive official Major League baseball document that we have ever seen.”
Let’s enumerate for the folks reading this via RSS:
-
You cock-sucking son of a bitch!
-
You prick-eating bastard!
-
You cunt-lapping dog!
-
Kiss my ass, you son of a bitch!
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A dog must have fucked your mother when she made you!
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I fucked your mother, your sister, your wife!
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I’ll make you suck my ass!
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You cock-sucker!
Link via Boing Boing.
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Friday, November 30th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a bit of artwork that looks like it might once have graced the cover of a BDSM strokebook. It came to me with the filename “Punished Wife”:
From Usenet.
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Tuesday, November 27th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Sex tourism in the modern world takes three forms. The first is a sort of legitimate jurisdictional arbitrage — traveling to a place where something (usually prostitution) is legal, from somewhere it isn’t. Amsterdam and rural Nevada are just two of the places that see this sort of sex tourism.
The second sort you could call “illegitimate jurisdictional arbitrage” — seeking out jurisdictions where illegal behavior is more likely to be overlooked. There’s some disgusting and terrible stuff in this category.
Third, and by far the most common, simply involves taking advantage of the fact that “money talks” in the game of sexual competition, by means of travel to jurisdictions that are relative poorer than one’s own. Many a prosperous young man traveling in Eastern Europe has had a babushka ask him if he needs a wife, or had a devushka in a club make a similar but more immediate proposition. Certain places in Central America are notorious among Norteamericano “players” — who’ve learned that, if they show up for a winter vacation flush and ready to party, it’s not hard to attract a stunning and friendly girlfriend for as many days as the party lasts. And so on. Friendly local girls coming out of the woodwork wherever a (relatively) wealthy traveler goes are, frankly, as old as travel itself.
Normally, however, one thinks of sexual tourists as being men. Which brings us to this Reuters report on women traveling to Kenya to enjoy the company of younger men:
MOMBASA, Kenya (Reuters) – Bethan, 56, lives in southern England on the same street as best friend Allie, 64.
They are on their first holiday to Kenya, a country they say is “just full of big young boys who like us older girls”.
Hard figures are difficult to come by, but local people on the coast estimate that as many as one in five single women visiting from rich countries are in search of sex.
Allie and Bethan — who both declined to give their full names — said they planned to spend a whole month touring Kenya’s palm-fringed beaches.
…
The white beaches of the Indian Ocean coast stretched before the friends as they both walked arm-in-arm with young African men, Allie resting her white haired-head on the shoulder of her companion, a six-foot-four 23-year-old from the Maasai tribe.
He wore new sunglasses he said were a gift from her.
“We both get something we want — where’s the negative?” Allie asked in a bar later, nursing a strong, golden cocktail.
She was still wearing her bikini top, having just pulled on a pair of jeans and a necklace of traditional African beads.
Bethan sipped the same local drink: a powerful mix of honey, fresh limes and vodka known locally as “Dawa”, or “medicine”.
She kept one eye on her date — a 20-year-old playing pool, a red bandana tying back dreadlocks and new-looking sports shoes on his feet.
He looked up and came to join her at the table, kissing her, then collecting more coins for the pool game.
…
Obvious in the bars and on the sand once the sun goes down are thousands of elderly white women hoping for romantic, and legal, encounters with much younger Kenyan men.
They go dining at fine restaurants, then dancing, and back to expensive hotel rooms overlooking the coast.
…
Many of the visitors are on the lookout for men like Joseph.
Flashing a dazzling smile and built like an Olympic basketball star, the 22-year-old said he has slept with more than 100 white women, most of them 30 years his senior.
“When I go into the clubs, those are the only women I look for now,” he told Reuters. “I get to live like the rich mzungus (white people) who come here from rich countries, staying in the best hotels and just having my fun.”
At one club, a group of about 25 dancing men — most of them Joseph look-alikes — edge closer and closer to a crowd of more than a dozen white women, all in their autumn years.
“It’s not love, obviously. I didn’t come here looking for a husband,” Bethan said over a pounding beat from the speakers.
“It’s a social arrangement. I buy him a nice shirt and we go out for dinner. For as long as he stays with me he doesn’t pay for anything, and I get what I want — a good time. How is that different from a man buying a young girl dinner?”
Friday, July 27th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Joe DiMaggio and his wife, Some dude with a stick and Marilyn Monroe:
Found at Ectoplasmosis, where it was posted under the title “The Luckiest Man In The World“. Which I am not buying for a moment — Marilyn was a piece of work for all her beauty — but it makes a great caption.
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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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Wednesday, June 20th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
A progressive and modern view of gender relationships from Jem: The Magazine For Masterful Men:
And what does the half naked wife / maid / scullery wench on her knees with the scrub brush think about all this? Could we zoom in on her priceless facial expression, please?
Tuesday, June 5th, 2007 -- by Aphrodite
Mostly passed it, anyway. J and I went with two other couples on a long camping trip, everybody being an experienced camper but me. We did some hiking, we did some biking, we did some canoeing and fishing…..and J and me did lots of outdoor sex, including once in the canoe that almost ended up with us in the lake. I think J’s two buddies weren’t getting as much, or they were bummed that he wasn’t as interested in fishing with them as he used to be.
But I finally got the stodgy Lutherans to laugh. When we were packing up to head back to civilization, J asked me to take down the tent. I did okay until I got to the part where I was supposed to stuff it back in that little bag, I just couldn’t get it in there. He saw me struggling and laughed…..and I said, louder than I meant to, “You should do this part! You’re the expert at getting big things into tight places!” His buddies laughed and laughed…..their wives weren’t amused. I guess I’m too different from the ex-wife to fit into the group…..
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Monday, June 4th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
After some eroticized gardening, Farm Wife Amber moves on to sassing her husband:
And did I mention that beer bottle shoved up my cunt? My husband has this habit of leaving empty beer bottles in his office, and I get mad every single time. One time I emptied one onto his head, even.
When I complained about it one more time last night, he said he leaves them out for me to masturbate with. “Oh yeah?” I said provocatively, dropping my pants and underwear, spreading myself in a chair, and demonstrating exactly what he had described.
I don’t think he’d ever seen a beer bottle so crudely misappropriated, and he was quite fascinated. Sassy, you think?
Friday, May 11th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
I gotta quote Bitchy Jones again. Unlike most of the folks who love to hate the splendidly cheesy literary phenomenon that is Gor, she gets why those books sold about a zillion copies and still go for megabucks on eBay, gets it well enough that’s she’s moved to give it a complete “vertical flip” in her mental fantasy editing software:
Gor is easy to take the piss out of, but the real truth is that deep down in my heart I know that if I were a male dom I would fucking love Gor to tiny bits. I would be in those chat rooms wanking and sweating and wanking some more while some middle aged housewife going through an identity crisis talked about herself in third person whilst pretending to serve me a mythical drink.
Yeah, like every other person in the world who believes in equality but gets off on inequity, I have the insane conflicted love for a bit of gender supremacy fantasy and I secretly in my dark heart wish that we had something as ridiculously camp and ritualised and sprawling as Gor over on our side of the river.
…
So, basically, it’s all hot and dusty and badly written and stuff. Women live in big castles and are tough and sexy and mean. But fair and honourable. And, yeah, they’re sexy, but it’s no big deal, no one’s looking at them because:
OMG the hot slaves!
Literally and metaphorically hot. Built like Greek gods and covered in sweat (from doing hard *hard* labour).
Yes, the men are, like the women’s slaves. Oh a few aren’t, but they’re weird. But also hot if you capture them and make them be slaves. So although these not-slave men are freaks they are kind of useful when complicity gets dull ’cause they have to be all *forced* and broken and whipped to shit and stuff.
Gosh, isn’t *forced* a nice word.
Anyway, on upside down Gor slave men are traded — bought and sold. There are markets. Men who transgress are punished. Viciously, mercilessly and publicly. (Which is nice.) Or maybe just punished for entertainment. Such awful punishments, predicament bondage and heavily ritualised whipping and stocks and cages and stuff like that. Really dehumanising hot stuff.
Some of the poor things are just kicked around like dogs, or made to whore themselves on the streets, butchly pretty ones wear humiliating skimpy clothes and get prodded to perform bondagey semi-naked suggestive dances with whipping. While drunken women molest them. And they would have to do all this over elaborate honourific address stuff, please, ma’am, may this slave please have permission to…
Golly, I really do like ma’am in the right context. It’s the apostrophe. You can see where his voice cracks even when the word is written on the page.
Anyway, they better get that formal address stuff right or else more whipping. Yeah. Pretty much any excuse for the whipping. And the, you know, submissive positions to vocal commands, and the bondage and… did I already say the bondage? Well I should probably say it a few times because there is so much of it.
Oh, and the key thing is that by doing this they would come to realise that they had never felt more masculine or desirable than when, er, being whipped, and sexually used and whipped a bit more.
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Tuesday, May 8th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Time for another vintage photo from Usenet:
Classic wallet porn, complete with folds.
The smile and the non-commercial posing make me wonder this might not be a genuine amateur “my wife with no pants” picture.
Friday, April 13th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Wife spanking? Bonnie is for it.
So much so, that she’s put together a handy list for other women who want to be spanked, but are having a little trouble convincing their menfolk to get with the program:
Fifty Reasons to Spank Your Wife or Girlfriend
Reason #50 made me laugh:
#50: If she didn’t agree, she wouldn’t have shown you this list!
Thanks to Spanking Blog for the link.
Wednesday, March 14th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Say what you will, but married sex doesn’t have to be either rare or (when routine) boring:
We go through condoms like matches. I began buying the large packs – 24 is it? One pack probably lasts us about a month. I would say that we probably make love 4 to 7 times a week. Sometimes daily.
It can happen in the evening during and after a kinky session, or late at night, half-asleep in bed, always following the same routine – he wakes me up, half asleep himself, by rubbing my body, caressing my breasts and rolling my nipples between his fingers, pulling down my panties and even delivering something like a vague, sleepy spank. I expose my breasts, whether it means pulling something up or down, or taking something over my head and throwing it on the floor. I remove the comforter from my chest, to feel the chill of the cold bedroom (always cold) on my bare skin, contrasted with the heat of his palm and fingers. I slip my hand between my legs and masturbate.
Inevitably, I turn over, kneeling on the bed, with my legs wide apart, my face either in the pillows or next to his. He continues to play with my breasts, as I often replay in my head various master/slave scenarios, imagining the power exchange between us. I close my eyes. He would often put his fingers into the dewy, slippery territory between my wide-spread thighs – caressing, running his fingers up and down, plunging them inside, penetrating me roughly, firmly, confidently. Sometimes I would come right there, around his fingers – I wonder if he can feel the muscles contracting. Sometimes I would come from a slightest touch of my intimate areas, sometimes from the breast stimulation. Last night was especially “dramatic,” as he put it this morning. It was loud.
The night sessions are always followed by an intercourse, almost always with me on top – I reach for the dresser drawer in the darkness, feel the condom wrapper with my hand – scratchy edges, smooth surface. Pull it out and present it to him. Put my lips around his penis and suck on it as if my life depended on it. He would lift my head off himself, place the condom on. I’d throw away the remaining clothes, if any left, climb on top of him and ride him into bliss [his bliss]. He might kiss me along the way, or slap my bottom sharply with his palm, or hold me by my neck, which I find especially hot, or my hair, or hold on to my hips and guide my body, or wrap his arms around me. I never come from an intercourse, but I love it – I like it slow and sensual, I like it rough, I like it either way – by then I am well lubricated. Sometimes I try to clench my muscles around him. He comes inside, always inside.
From A Farmwife With A Twist.
Monday, March 5th, 2007 -- by Bacchus
I have a confessed weakness for antique smut, so I was delighted when Chelsea Girl at Pretty Dumb Things linked to (as part of her own fine salute to the humble dildo) a raunchy dildo poem that’s a mere 335 years old. Like any poem a third of a millennium old, it cannot avoid seeming quaint, and the political satires that once gave the poem life are now every bit as dead as the targets thereof. To the modern reader the poem may labor mightily under these burdens, but it’s still a refreshing reminder that smut is not a modern invention:
Signior Dildo
(1673)
by Lord John Wilmot
You ladies of merry England
Who have been to kiss the Duchess’s hand,
Pray, did you not lately observe in the show
A noble Italian called Signior Dildo?
This signior was one of the Duchess’s train
And helped to conduct her over the main;
But now she cries out, ‘To the Duke I will go,
I have no more need for Signior Dildo.’
At the Sign of the Cross in St James’s Street,
When next you go thither to make yourselves sweet
By buying of powder, gloves, essence, or so,
You may chance to get a sight of Signior Dildo.
You would take him at first for no person of note,
Because he appears in a plain leather coat,
But when you his virtuous abilities know,
You’ll fall down and worship Signior Dildo.
My Lady Southesk, heaven prosper her for’t,
First clothed him in satin, then brought him to court;
But his head in the circle he scarcely durst show,
So modest a youth was Signior Dildo.
The good Lady Suffolk, thinking no harm,
Had got this poor stranger hid under her arm.
Lady Betty by chance came the secret to know
And from her own mother stole Signior Dildo.
The Countess of Falmouth, of whom people tell
Her footmen wear shirts of a guinea an ell,
Might save that expense, if she did but know
How lusty a swinger is Signior Dildo.
By the help of this gallant the Countess of Rafe
Against the fierce Harris preserved herself safe;
She stifled him almost beneath her pillow,
So closely she embraced Signior Dildo.
The pattern of virtue, Her Grace of Cleveland,
Has swallowed more pricks than the ocean has sand;
But by rubbing and scrubbing so wide does it grow,
It is fit for just nothing but Signior Dildo.
Our dainty fine duchesses have got a trick
To dote on a fool for the sake of his prick,
The fops were undone did their graces but know
The discretion and vigour of Signior Dildo.
The Duchess of Modena, though she looks so high,
With such a gallant is content to lie,
And for fear that the English her secrets should know,
For her gentleman usher took Signior Dildo.
The Countess o’th’Cockpit (who knows not her name?
She’s famous in story for a killing dame),
When all her old lovers forsake her, I trow,
She’ll then be contented with Signior Dildo.
Red Howard, red Sheldon, and Temple so tall
Complain of his absence so long from Whitehall.
Signior Barnard has promised a journey to go
And bring back his countryman, Signior Dildo.
Doll Howard no longer with His Highness must range,
And therefore is proferred this civil exchange:
Her teeth being rotten, she smells best below,
And needs must be fitted for Signior Dildo.
St Albans with wrinkles and smiles in his face,
Whose kindness to strangers becomes his high place,
In his coach and six horses is gone to Bergo
To take the fresh air with Signior Dildo.
Were this signior but known to the citizen fops,
He’d keep their fine wives from the foremen o’their shops;
But the rascals deserve their horns should still grow
For burning the Pope and his nephew, Dildo.
Tom Killigrew’s wife, that Holland fine flower,
At the sight of this signior did fart and belch sour,
And her Dutch breeding the further to show,
Says, ‘Welcome to England, Mynheer Van Dildo.’
He civilly came to the Cockpit one night,
And proferred his service to fair Madam Knight.
Quoth she, ‘I intrigue with Captain Cazzo;
Your nose in mine arse, good Signior Dildo.’
This signior is sound, safe, ready, and dumb
As ever was candle, carrot, or thumb;
Then away with these nasty devices, and show
How you rate the just merit of Signior Dildo.
Count Cazzo, who carries his nose very high,
In passion he swore his rival should die;
Then shut himself up to let the world know
Flesh and blood could not bear it from Signior Dildo.
A rabble of pricks who were welcome before,
Now finding the porter denied them the door,
Maliciously waited his coming below
And inhumanly fell on Signior Dildo.
Nigh wearied out, the poor stranger did fly,
And along the Pall Mall they followed full cry;
The women concerned from every window
Cried, ‘For heaven’s sake, save Signior Dildo.’
The good Lady Sandys burst into a laughter
To see how the ballocks came wobbling after,
And had not their weight retarded the foe,
Indeed’t had gone hard with Signior Dildo.
Saturday, March 3rd, 2007 -- by Bacchus
Overheard a few weeks ago in an online gaming chat window:
NonstickRon > Ok…the wife just sprung some valentines presents on me that pretty much require I leave right now.
Thursday, March 1st, 2007 -- by Bacchus
From a letter to Esquire Magazine, this sound advice:
Never let your wife shave your balls when she has the hiccups.
I’m on board with that.
Tuesday, November 21st, 2006 -- by Bacchus
There’s hope for the mainstream media yet. Old and stodgy they may be, but when Time publishes a story about a combat soldier who carries his wife’s panties in harm’s way as a good luck talisman, it’s refreshing. Better yet, they report it deadpan, with nary a hint of puritanical eyebrow raising nor distancing jocularity:
Corporal Michael Compton carries a plastic bag containing a pair of his wife’s underwear. She gave it to him before his first deployment to Iraq, when they were still dating. “She said that she would stick by me,” he says.
But on a patrol outside Fallujah, the bag fell out of his pocket and blew away. “I thought it was long gone,” he says. A week later, while “out in the middle of nowhere,” he noticed a plastic bag and picked it up. The underwear was inside.
“I couldn’t believe it. I guess it was a sign because, sure enough, when I got back, me and my wife got married. I deployed again to Iraq, and I figured I should bring it with me. After all, if it found its way back to me, maybe it could guide me back to her.”
What makes this all the more fun is the photo, which is, sadly, buried in a horrid Flash-y slide show that makes the specific photo unlinkable harder to link. (I said there was hope for old media, not that they actually and currently have two clues to rub together when it comes to putting stuff on the web.) The photo shows the soldier, his plastic baggy, and what looks like a very insubstantial bit of fine feminine frippery inside. Her granny panties, these were not!
Thanks to Pursed Lips for the link. Updated: And thanks to Olav for rooting out the direct link to the photo.
Thursday, October 12th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Here (from Damp Silk) is a loving tale of a wife who discovered the fantasy her husband was oh-so-secretly exploring on the internet and (rather than freaking out) set out to fulfill it:
My husband has a secret fantasy life. I’m absolutely serious. Oh, I know what you’re thinking. Doesn’t every man? Don’t all men want us to be maids in the home, chefs in the kitchen, accountants with the checkbook and whores in the bedroom? Don’t all men fantasize daily about various sorts of interesting sexual things? Yes. Of course they do. But for me, this fantasy was a bit different. Because this one involved . . . the ass.
My husband has had my ass in every way imaginable. He has touched, stroked and caressed, pinched, spanked and paddled, teased, toyed and tongued, poked, prodded and probed and quite frankly royally fucked that object of his obsession. He has taken me, and my ass, to new heights of delight. If my ample cheeks were the focus of his interest, it was certainly fine with me. But, as I soon discovered, it wasn’t my ass he was interested in. It was his own!
I discovered this accidentally one evening. I was reading emails, deleting junk, and catching up with private messages. Unexpectedly I accessed a secret account; apparently he’d forgotten to log out after he checked his own mailbox. I found several messages from ladies he’d recently chatted with. They discussed their talks in intimate detail, very sexually explicit. We both enjoy sexy chat, so that didn’t concern me, but the topic was a bit startling, and it both shocked and aroused me. My man, tall and large, mustached and muscular, wanted to be fucked in his ass.
…
Should I pretend I never saw the account? No. Not a chance. Should I confront angrily or tearfully, which could potentially cause a big fight resulting in him hiding more secrets from me? Also not an option for me. Hmmm. This could become a serious problem in our marriage if not handled properly.
As I am a self-starter, and somewhat of a devious gal, I embark upon the only choice available to me. I go shopping. But not to the mall, oh no. I head to the naughty bookstore, with its wide assortment of marital aids. It’s time to fulfill a fantasy. Yummy. I’m on a mission!
Sunday, October 8th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Although most of the sex commentators I like and respect appear to have climbed on the “Fortuny Is Evil” fleshpile in connection with The Great Craigslist Sex Personals Massacre Of 2006 (I include without limitation Violet Blue (who started out thoughtful but is now namecalling), Mistress Matisse, and Dan Savage), I’ve been disappointed that their united condemnation of Fortuny has been intensely personal, without really coming to grips with the interesting question of what, in a rigorous ethical sense, his great crimes seem to have been. OK, so he’s a “prick” and what he did was wrong” (Matisse), but what moral obligation did he violate? He “sucks” (Savage) and he’s a “creepy guy” and a “jerk” (Violet) — all of which may be true, I don’t know the guy, but what does it have to do with what he actually did?
The more I think about this, the more I come around to thinking that what he did to get the howling mob after him (and by howling mob, I refer more broadly to others who have weighed in on the controversy; the folks I’ve quoted here are the calm and thoughtful ones) was he violated outdated and unreasonable social expectations.
Savage talks about “privacy violations”, Violet about “basic privacy and communication rules of conduct”, but neither of them come to grips with my point, which is that it’s not inherently reasonable to expect random strangers to preserve your privacy. You don’t have any expectation of privacy in an email you send to a stranger; or, if you do, there’s something wrong in your thinking. At best, you’re relying on their social graces — I’ll go so far as to agree that it’s polite to protect the confidences of strangers — but how many random strangers exhibit the manners you’d prefer? Not enough, never enough, especially not when something important — like your privacy — is on the line.
I am heartened to see some understanding of my other point, which is that a lot of responders to sex ads are misbehaving in various ways, and thus are exposing themselves (heh) to more risk than they are comfortable accepting. These miscreants (and I refer specifically to the virtual flashers who slammed the comments on my last post with “the slut was asking for it” self-justifications) seem to be the most outraged, because (like virtually everyone else except me, it seems) they feel their misbehaviour ought to be cloaked by the privacy-protecting practices of their intended victims, and they aren’t happy to learn that their expectations of privacy aren’t as reasonable as they’d hoped.
To which I say, “Waah.”
Violet seems to get this part, writing:
Think of it like this: when you upload a porn photo to Flickr, you are in violation of their Terms of Use rules and they take it down. When you use your work email address to answer an explicit sex ad, you are essentially in violation of your employer’s TOU. If you cheat on your wife, you’re in violation of your marriage’s TOU. In his “experiment”, Jason Fortuny violated several ethical and social TOUs that many of us accept as basic privacy and communication rules of conduct.
But not everyone outed in The Craigslist Experiment was violating one of life’s TOUs — I’ll even argue that the majority of the people who had their personal info revealed didn’t care, or notice.
I don’t, obviously, agree that Fortuny violated any TOUs — if anything, he merely ignored one of those meaningless and overreaching shrinkwrap EULAs on boxed software, one that others are attempting but failing to impose on him, one that he never agreed with and which consequently has no moral or ethical juice. (There’s a huge difference between breaking a promise and failing to behave as expected. The ad in question did not say “All replies kept confidential.” If it had, this argument wouldn’t be happening. Then Fortuny’d be the obvious jerk everyone says he is.)
But I do agree with Violet that folks who were using Craigslist in an ethically appropriate way — which is to say, folks who were ethically free to be looking for rough kinky sex, and who weren’t simply using their response as a vessel for their virtual self-exposure kink “because the slut was obviously asking for it”, folks who weren’t violating any of life’s TOUs, folks with nothing to be ashamed of — these people couldn’t be hurt in the Massacre, and weren’t.
Leaving my sympathy for the remainder muted at best.
Why, exactly, is everyone in favor of a social privacy rule that primarily benefits adulturers, virtual flashers, and other people who engage in online sexual behavior that they can’t defend, proudly and publicly, in their own lives and communities? Why is it so hard to understand that all online behavior is public?
Sunday, August 27th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Google tells me this image is so 2005, but hey, it’s new to me. That’s Hulk Hogan (for the three of you who grew up in a yurt) and his wife Lizzie Grubman, and yes, her pussy parts on open display for the cameras:
Update: Whoops, she’s not his wife. I got suckered by the Google search I did after someone emailed me the photo. Sorry!
Friday, August 11th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
From the notorious gaming blog Kill Ten Rats comes some dating advice in terms that gamers will understand:
If you are reading this, there is a good chance that you are a single, introverted, heterosexual male. As a public service, we are pleased to present some advice for gamers on Getting the Girl. You can get lots of dating advice out there, much of it conflicting, but you come to Kill Ten Rats because you know you can trust us. Also, we are tired of hearing you whine in guildchat about how you cannot get a date.
…
Let’s talk equipment. You will not be wearing anything on your shoulders, nor a cape, nor a tabard. Leave the sword at home, too, no matter how cool it looks. While some people can successfully combine mix-and-match armor, you will just end up hideous and ineffective. If your closet is full of t-shirts from anime and They Might Be Giants, we have a problem. Luckily, there are many shopkeepers who can help you get equipment with the right bonuses.
If you need to read this, let us assume that you have little idea about fashion. Conveniently, shopkeepers are quite happy to sell you entire outfits at once. They even arrange them on headless mannequins around the store. Pick your level of formality and buy three. You are just starting out here, so do not trust your intuition on what goes with what; follow the template exactly until you get more experience. This is like when you tell the new guy at the raid to shut up and do what he is told; unless you can solo this raid, take the advice of the corporate shills, since they have spent thousands of hours working on this stuff.
If you are in doubt, ask a female who works at the store for a recommendation. Your future girlfriend/wife will be telling you how to dress for the rest of your life anyway, so start getting used to it now. Do not be embarrassed about asking for help; that is her job, she may be on commission, and who knows she may think it is cute that you are admitting vulnerability and asking for help. No, don’t hit on her. If necessary, write down which garments go together, especially if you want to try these slacks with that shirt.
This may cost a fair number of gold pieces. Luckily, you will not be out-leveling your IRL clothing anytime soon unless you are eating too much. This brings us to our next point: buffing.
Wednesday, August 2nd, 2006 -- by Aphrodite
What can I say? J and I talked a lot, he gets the orgasm thing (thanks for your help there) but the sexblogger thing has squicked him. It’s been alot of back and forth, he’s definitely interested in some kinds of exploring but he’s a smalltown boy and this is a small town we live in…..and there are issues from his ex-wife that he’s trying to deal with. Including some sex stuff. So I think it’s all just too much for him. He says he “sees somebody different now” when he looks at me, and doesn’t know who that is.
Before anybody gets all down on him like happened here and here, J’s attitude is just fine in alot of ways, he says he couldn’t tell that I came at all that day, he’s a real sweet guy that’s just got too much to handle right now. We may end up together some time down the road…..but I’m not counting on that. I’m thinking I need to get out of Lutheranville. So I guess it’s back to Sssh.com for awhile.
So, next question is, when should the sexblogger subject come up in a relationship? It’s a trust thing for me, I don’t talk about this dirty little habit with most people because it just isn’t their business. And telling a guy too early will probably give him a whole barrelfull of wrong ideas.
Monday, July 31st, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Here are two micro-fragments of dating advice from Smitten that strike me as particularly worthy:
Beware of any man who calls an ex-girlfriend or wife “that bitch.” … A man like this is guaranteed to be calling you by the same name, or something more innovative, later on to his next girlfriend who will stroke his arm and say, “I’m so sowwy she was so mean to you.”
…
Beware of men who think that every woman they work with is either stupid, a slut or la piece de resistance, a stupid slut, as there is not a chance deep down inside that they don’t think the same of you.
Monday, July 10th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
I got distracted today by technical issues, so I’m going to just blatantly steal a spanking comic from Spanking Blog to put some color at the top of the page:
“Don’t you dare stop” is what I think she’s really saying.
Monday, June 19th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Though ErosBlog has a firm policy against picking on anybody’s kink, we reserve the right to marvel at some of them. And one of the kinks I marvel at sometimes is the insertion of really big stuff where you wouldn’t think it should oughta fit. Case in point: The Sumo Rustler five-and-a-half-pound vinyl dildo:
Note the two-liter soda bottle included for scale.
Me, I think the thing would make a most excellent paperweight. If I worked in a cubie farm, I’d keep it on top of the papers in my inbox. You want to leave me more work in my in basket? First, grasp the cock firmly between thumb and four fingers….
Saturday, June 10th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
One thing I like about sex blogs is the window it offers into the sexual lives of real people. In particular, we sometimes hear anecdotes of the sexaul bargains and accomodations that people make. Sexual negotiation, chore negotiation, and marital conflict resolution never works like this in the movies, but in the real world anything is possible:
Yesterday I had a party to go to and I needed to bring some things. I worked the night before and realized I still needed to go to the store right when I woke up, but was still WAY too tired to get up and go. I asked Vincent to go for me, but he said no. So, being the smart woman I am, I made him a deal – I’d give him 5 on-demand blow jobs if he went to the store for me. Being a typical man, he accepted the deal (even made me shake on it, his own wife!)
So, naturally, before I left for the party, I only had 4 left to give.
Tuesday, May 30th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
…and writing, erotica that is, moreso. So sez Chelsea Girl:
I’m accustomed to reading books and finding my girlparts moist. The act of reading, after all, has a kind of inherent eroticism. A generally solitary activity, reading is just you and your quiet hands and the fantasy that the words play out in your mind. It’s just one swift hand below your waistline away from masturbation.
The eighteenth-century birth of the European novel was heralded with all kinds of fear that reading would unreasonably inflame the senses of the young with what one critic has termed ‘one-handed reading.’ And justifiably so — by the middle of the century, John Cleland wrote the first piece of English pornography to help him get out of debtor’s prison.
To get out, and one might suspect, to get off, because let me tell you that writing porn makes a person seriously body-needy.
I’ve been writing a couple of commissioned porny pieces: the first for an American soldier stationed in Iraq narrates a soldier’s wife’s experience of her husband’s return and her waking up from a long sexual nap. The second, for an international poker player, gives the story of a secretary being anally punished for habitual lateness.
Who knew that in a pinch binder clips work as impromptu nipple clamps? Me, that’s who.
I’ve found it incredibly hott-making to get inside these character’s heads and bodies. To inhabit the life of a woman who has by necessity put her sexuality on hold and then to find it smacking it upside her fanny was incendiary. It was hard, literally, a hard little wet knot in my g-string as I sat on my desk chair typing, typing, typing this story of this woman’s learning about what she wanted and how she wanted it.
When I finished, the story a crescendo of simultaneous orgasm and multiple penetration, I felt as if I knew her.
And now, immersed in this office fantasy, the rolling chairs, the drawers of pointy staples and rolls of tape, the shredded gossamer of good-girl pantyhose and the imminent threat of discovery, I find my delicate sensibilities inflamed. (Today, while writing, I had to take a break, discover the painful joy of my nipple clamps and come hard and long with my bullet vibe, groaning louder than I’d expected.)
Ah, the joys of literacy!
Saturday, May 6th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
I differ from the usual run of sex bloggers in that I’m not as urban as seems to be the norm. My roots are rural, and I don’t freak out when the only coffee in the county is called “coffee” and costs less than a buck.
So I can tell you with some authority that there remain, in this vast country of ours, a fair few young men whose entire ambition is to get some land, plant it, find a good farm wife, and settle down to a life of endless unremunerative hard labor. The good farm wife, as you can imagine, is a very important factor in this bucolic vision of paradise.
Thus I can well imagine the reaction of some young rural swain as he spies this Venus arising from the stock-watering tank:
And the reaction is this: “Yup, she’ll do.”
Hey, at least he knows she knows how to ride a pitchfork.
Picture is from Usenet.
Tuesday, March 28th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
When I was just a kid, I remember seeing some brightly colored surreal erotic landscapes in a Penthouse magazine, featuring breast mountains, penis volcanoes, semen rivers, and the like. The latest erotic drawing by Patty at Creative Spanked Wife put me fondly in mind of that long-forgotten pictorial, but I like this better:
What you see here is a severely cropped-and-reduced thumbnail of Patty’s drawing, so be sure to go see the whole thing at full size.
Thursday, March 2nd, 2006 -- by Aphrodite
Yes!! I’ll tell you a little about it all but you’ll need to follow me…..
I decided that I wasn’t going to stay home and mope on Valentines Day, instead I went to a bar that has decent food. I haven’t been there in awhile and it was fun. One of my neighbors that I used to help before I moved was there. His wife hated it when he went out with the guys so I was surprized to see him there, especially on Valentines Day. They split up. I knew they had problems but I didn’t expect that.
Funny how I noticed how cute he is right after he said that. (Not really, I noticed before, but now it was okay to tell myself how cute he is.) We take turns buying drinks and pretty soon it’s just the two of us sitting at the bar and talking. After a couple rounds he tells me he always thought I was cute in my trashy work clothes but when he saw me at the bar in a dress he didn’t know it was me because I was so pretty. I blushed and put my hand on his knee. Instant. Electricity.
We couldn’t get together for a date until last Saturday. It was nice, real comfy since we already are friends, but we both felt that electricity sparking between us. So we ended up at my apartment…..and I forget who gave into that electricity first, but we ended up in my bed having totally hot sex. Nothing really naughty…..just the quenching of deep thirst.
And wouldn’t you know it, I get no breaks. When he pulls out of me his cock is red. Bright red. It isn’t the usual color a girl expects from down there. He didn’t hurt me at all and there’s no obvious damage on him, so he’s looking at me with a what-the-fuck look and I’m looking at him with a what-the-fuck look.
It was me. I was still bleeding on Monday, so I went to a doctor. She said that it’s nothing to worry about and that things get out of practice, especially as a woman gets older and doesn’t have regular sex (the first time I’ve been called ‘older,’ how much better can this get?).
He’s been totally sweet about it. He’s called every day to check on me, and today he sent me a pink rose with a card saying ‘No more red – please?’ The bleeding has stopped….we both have Sunday off…. I just sent him a white rose with ‘Lather rinse repeat’ on the card.
And I really wouldn’t care if I did repeat it all, he’s been that cool about it.
Wednesday, January 4th, 2006 -- by Bacchus
Author John Ross, who wrote a quite readable novel about guns and politics called Unintended Consequences, when asked about his proudest moment as an author, reported that it was:
…when I listened to my voicemail messages one day and heard the following message:
[Agitated woman] “John Ross? Is this thing recording? I just thought you’d like to know that you and your goddamn book have ruined my honeymoon. Probably my marriage, too. I can’t believe my-” [muffled sound, a second voice, faint, as if a hand is over the receiver, then the hand being pried off] “Give me that… you bastard, you haven’t even-” [more muffled noises, then a man’s voice on the phone:
[Man] “Mr. Ross?”
[The woman, from several feet away] “It’s his answering machine.”
[Man] “Oh.” [relieved] “Uh…Mr. Ross, this is, uh, well, never mind my name, but-”
[Woman in background, yelling] “His name’s _! [name deleted for privacy]
[Man] “Yeah, uh it’s_, that’s right. Uh, Mr. Ross, I’m kind of on my honeymoon, and-”
[Woman, screaming now] “KIND OF on your honeymoon?” [muffled sound of hand covering receiver, alternating screaming and soothing tones, but I can’t make out the words]
[Man] “Listen, I started reading your book on the plane ’cause it was a four hour flight, you know, and now I just can’t put it down. And it’s pretty long, you know, so I’m still not finished, and my wife, well, I haven’t been paying enough attention to her, and-”
[Woman, screaming loud enough for me to hear even though the man quickly covers the mouthpiece again] “IT’S THE SECOND DAY OF OUR HONEYMOON AND YOU HAVEN’T EVEN FUCKED ME YET!”
[Man] Um, I guess you heard that, Mr. Ross. Look, everything’s going to be okay, I’m almost finished with it and I can’t tell you how much I’m enj- GIVE ME THAT BACK RIGHT NOW!” [Sound of scuffle and phone being hung up].
I got a follow-up call a day later, where the husband assured me that everything was all right and his wife wasn’t going to file for an annulment.
Monday, November 14th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
It seems that Annie’s husband has discovered the silver lining, er, behind having an allergic wife:
I was likely snoring alluringly – we all know how sexy a good snort and snotty sniff is – which naturally drove my man wild with desire and, no longer able to restrain his need, I felt him get on the bed behind me and spoon, the rowdy beast poking at his lair’s door insistently. Herein lies another effect of “severe allergy” pills. Being antihistimines, they dry everything up – everything except my nose that is – requiring the horny, and now grumbling, man to get up and rummage the nightstand drawer for the lube.
At that point he was truly a man on a mission, he was gonna Get Some and Get It Now. He lifted me up onto my knees and elbows and was quickly home with a virile plunge. The thing about hay fever is that as long as ya stay really still with your eyes closed, the symptoms can be held at bay. The minute ya move and open your eyes, It’s All Over. With Robert fucking happily away, I sneezed and Robert says, “Whoa! Sneeze again!”
“Huh? What happened to gezundheit?” I query in disbelief.
“Gezundheit. Now sneeze again. Man, that feels amazing!” he sez, thrusting the beast in to the hilt and holding, waiting for the next sneeze. “Come on, look at the light or something… sneeze for me, baby.”
Sneeze for me, baby? I’ve heard of cumming on command, but sneezing on command? Now, this is kinky.
“Um…” I responded brilliantly.
“Come on, baby, SNEEZE!” he commanded, slapping my ass hard. Then again.
Damned if that didn’t work. The stimulation did indeed set off a new round of sneeze – or maybe it was just convenient timing – but Robert got his desire. The way he moaned it must have been pretty darned good.
“It would be even better in your ass,” I heard through the nose pill haze. Soon, the beast had poked his head into my tight, unprepped bottom.
“OWWW-choo! Shit, Robert!” Aaahhh-choo! My hay fever attack was officially exerting itself again in full force. So I’m sneezing and bugfuck stupid with a cock up my ass and my man is moaning “oooh baby, it’s sooo good”.
It just doesn’t get any kinkier than this.
I suppose you could try this at home (even without allergies) using a bit of black pepper. Or, for the truly retro Victorian shopgirl experience, snuff.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Monday, October 3rd, 2005 -- by Bacchus
It’s a little-remarked fact that phone sex hasn’t been the same since pagers and cell phones started being equipped to vibrate instead of ringing. (A friend of mine used to tease his wife, by inquiring, in public, whether she’d set her phone to “thrill mode”.) I have long suspected that the incorporation of cameras into telephone devices has only accelerated the evolution of phone sex.
Now, from Pillow Book, we have a sophisticated exposition of what modern phone sex can look like:
I … messaged back that indeed i did have condoms. I also asked why he wanted to know.
put your phone inside the condom
put the phone inside you set to vibrate
i ring you
He was obviously excited by this whole idea. His punctuation was suffering.
I opened one of the Chekmate packets and took out the condom. Like all its brethren it had that familiar rubbery smell. I hoped that the smell wouldn’t linger on my mobile. I placed the reservoir tip on the top of my phone and carefully rolled it down the full ten centimetre length of my Telstra prepaid sex toy. Then I unrolled the condom the rest of the way, squeezed as much air out of it as I could, and knotted it off.
I held the condomed phone up by its knot and considered my handiwork. I was about to begin the task of inserting it when it started to vibrate and ring.
Too quick. En’t that just like a man?
So I pressed the ignore button, to let him know that it would take a while longer to get it inside me.
It occured to me what a great addition to the male anatomy an ignore button would be.
Wednesday, September 21st, 2005 -- by Bacchus
I’ve always wondered what the deal was with those clear plastic penis pumps — they are advertised as a penis enlargement tool, but what good is a huge penis that’s inside a hard plastic vacuum chamber? Here’s someone who set out to find out:
So last week Juicy Wife and I ordered some sex toys (one of which was a penis pump). Saturday evening, while Wife was out on the town, I got a chance to play around with said pump. The sole reason I got it was pure novelty — what would it be like to have a massive circus schlong for all of 8 seconds?
At first, it was quite enjoyable. I slipped the chamber over my (non-erect) self and began pumping away. With this model of penis pump, your cock rests inside this little sleeve at the base and as your dick expands, it gets slowly pulled upward through the sleeve — which was actually kind of pleasureable. (If you lube up first. Must use lube with this thing.) My favorite part was when the head finally popped through the sleeve and up into the chamber; it had grown fucking ENORMOUS. I kept pumping away, drawing my cock further north and swelling it to even larger proportions. I got this weird thrill, like I was a mad scientist bringing Frankenstein to life. IT’S ALIIIIVE!!
After that, things went downhill. The little sleeve is very, very tight and doesn’t actually expand along with your growing penis. So you’re left with one half of your cock looking gigantic and swollen, and the other half compressed within the tiny restrictive sleeve. This also makes it nearly impossible to remove … you literally have to fight your own penis to get it off. After wrestling with it for 3 minutes, I had nearly lost all my sex drive.
So I wouldn’t recommend the cock pump. Unless you have a very narrow penis that can rest comfortably in that sleeve.
He went there so you don’t have to.
Thursday, June 23rd, 2005 -- by Bacchus
Patty’s account of her fishing trip with her husband reads like a fisherman’s fantasy, but she assures me it’s all true:
You keep driving another fifteen minutes, and then turn the wheels to face the surf. “This will do I think?”
“Good!” I smile. It’s only when I climb out and pull open the extended cab to get the chairs and towels that I really realize how alone we are. There are no tire tracks in the sand, suggesting that there are no fishermen or picnickers further up the beach, and I know we are more than two miles from the spot where we saw the last intrepid souls parked. “Nobody’s out this far.”
“That’s the plan.” You tell me with a very evil smile.
Your evil grin immediately wakes the deepest parts of me to the plans you’ve kept to yourself.
“Put the chairs in the surf, get the rods and bait…and strip.”
Ya gotta be careful with all that hedonism, though; it can lead to taking naked pictures amongst the dunes, spanking, and even *gasp* sex.
Sunday, June 19th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
Although I think Robert here may be lacking in sympathy for men who didn’t choose quite so wisely as he did in the marital sweepstakes, the man does have something of point:
I had lunch and a couple of drinks with some guys from work yesterday. We usually just talk about work. But one guy starts talking about his wife saying he never gets any now that they have kids. By the time his wife gets home from work and takes care of the kids she’s too tired. The other guy says yeah me too and he only has one teenage kid. Then the one guy starts talking about his latest video game and staying up all night playing it. The other guy talks about the computer gambling he’s into and the car he’s rebuilding. I’m thinking these guys don’t deserve to get any. They’re too stupid.
You’ve got to read the whole thing — especially the part where he says “Women are easy.“
Thursday, June 9th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
A feller by the name of DangerSpouse wrote this hugely long comic essay on his wife’s bout with whooping cough (and other family tribulations). This man could retell the Book of Job and make it funny. Of particular interest to sex blog readers is this bit:
Back on the homefront, NewWifey(tm) was feeling better by her second day on meds. I know she was feeling better because even though she was still coughing with almost every single breath, when I walked in the door her first words to me were “Let’s fuck!”
Now, I had been spending my nights since her arrival on a futon in the room farthest from her bedroom, in an attempt to insulate myself from her WMD breath.
But…
“OK!”
Needless to say, with NewWifey(tm) coughing explosively every 4 or 5 seconds, one of her three orifices was effectively off limits unless I wanted to be blown up like a balloon through a very short valve. So that left two gaping Survivor finalists.
Decisions, decisions….
It finally came down to Face Time. As in, I didn’t want any.
So, “Bite the Pillow” it was.
AND IT WAS GREAT!
Here, let me show you:
Jam your thumb up your butt, and then cough. Hard. Repeatedly.
IS THAT AWESOME, OR WHAT?
Of course, I wasn’t using my thumb. Or own butt. Which made it EVEN BETTER.
(You were. So that makes you gay.)
Lemme tell you, the next three or four days were some of the happiest of my life.
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Tuesday, June 7th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
Functional Ambivalent has posted a long (and perhaps even rambling) article on MILF sexuality. Two excerpts:
The final class of older women did not have, in my youth, a designation. They were there, but we didn’t acknowledge them. They were attractive, secure, and carried with them irrefutable evidence of sexual activity: They had children.
And:
Sometimes, every couple of months when I’m bored with golf and feeling romantic, I tell my wife that she is becoming the older woman I’ve always fantasized about. I intend this as a compliment, but have scar tissue to prove that it is not always received that way. I get my voice all gooey and low and say honey, you’re becoming the older woman I’ve always dreamed of…and then I slink out to do yard work and sleep in the garden shed.
Similar Sex Blogging:
Friday, April 15th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
Tigereyes, who credits his wife with bringing some kink to their marriage, describes an unexpected side benefit (above and beyond the usual spankings and hotter sex):
I have to say one thing about the DD D/s lifestyle: it’s finally convinced my dear wife that she’s too young and hot to be wearing granny panties and granny gowns. [He’s right, she is. –Ed.] Ladies, I don’t care how old you are, please do not subject your husband to the libido-killing granny duo. For those of you unsure what I’m talking about, granny panties are the underwear that come up about 3 inches above the waist and granny gowns – the official sleepwear of the Puritan woman – have high necks, long sleeves, and cover the feet.
Now, my Carrie wears sporty, spunky, and cute sleepshorts and t-shirts. And when she comes downstairs wearing these and has her hair in pigtails, I know it’s time to get it on.
Now, to spread the word!
Thursday, March 31st, 2005 -- by Bacchus
There’s a long article about porn in Time Magazine that I haven’t read. And why didn’t I? Because the first paragraph pissed me off:
“In hotel rooms where pornography is available, two-thirds of all movie purchases are for pornos; and the average time they are watched is 12 minutes. The image instantly summoned is of the traveling businessman who wants a smidge of sexual exercise before retiring, but who is too tired, timid or cheap to summon a call girl.”
The image instantly summoned in my mind is one of pity for the hypothetical wife or girlfriend of Time columnist Richard Corliss, who wrote that last squalid sentence.
Horny travelling men who don’t “summon a call girl” must be “too tired, timid or cheap”, eh?
It must surely suck to be married to that man.
Thursday, March 3rd, 2005 -- by Aphrodite
It’s nice to see others improving their sex lives, it gives me hope that I’ll have one again someday. Starting in February, the Burbman over at Suburban Sex Blog resumed more regular posting, with the good news that he and his wife seem to have turned their sexless marriage back into something fun for both of them. He’s also offering to help others in similar situations. Good on ya, Burbman!
A few people have written me regarding my preference for hairy men. At this point my only preference is for a live, decent man, but it is true that I don’t like a guy who’s artificially smooth. I was trying to figure out how to say exactly what I don’t like about overly bare guys, but the Dirty Talking Girl beat me to it:
I love male body hair.
I can’t imagine him shaving or, god forbid, waxing, and I don’t understand women who require smoothness in a man.
I think they’re afraid of the animal.
Maybe…..or maybe all the glitzy porn images have led both men and women to expect silky smoothness everywhere. Sure, hair can get in the way or be inconvenient sometimes, but I’ll never forget the guy who got me soaking wet by just playing with my pubes…..pulling gently on a few hairs beginning near my ass and working his way up, sometimes twirling or tickling, but never touching my skin until I was begging him to bury his cock in me. Mmmmmmmm……
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….
Similar Sex Blogging:
Sunday, February 27th, 2005 -- by Bacchus
On the one hand, my ErosBlog editorial policy is to refrain from trashing anybody’s sexual choices. On the other hand, I don’t think I’ve ever been heard to say anything nice about adulterous affairs. Not because I feel judgmental or condemnatory about them, but for a much simpler reason: all the real-world examples I’m aware of have caused or resulted in a degree of pain that calls the net hedonic benefit into question.
I don’t think this little excerpt from Have to Share is any exception:
I drove the 3 hours down, spent maybe an hour with him, purely sex. Then I made the 3 hour drive back. He hasn’t really spoken to me since. I don’t know what to believe from him anymore. He says he cares for me, but the majority of the e-mails he sends are describing sexual escapades he would like to have in the future. I write him a little of both. I love him. I love the person he is. However, he reminds me of the way my step-brother that molested me in how he treats me. I am wonderful for his amusement over the webcam. I am fascinating when describing sexual adventures for the future. I am amazing when I’m on top of him. Yet, when none of this is going on, he is too busy too speak to me. He’s too busy working. Or, he’s at home, too busy with his wife.
Ouchies.
Sunday, January 23rd, 2005 -- by Bacchus
I spent seven years feeling this way, once, so I can vouch for this:
Men approach even highly familiar women with the same dread really old people have of computers: Touch one wrong button and life will never be the same.
From The Neurotic Gentleman’s Guide to Bringing Up Spanking with Your Wife or Significant Other; or C’mon, Honey, You Know I Was Only Kidding! at Functional Ambivalent.
One of the many reasons I love The Nymph is that she doesn’t make me feel this way. If I were, metaphorically speaking, to show up at her bedroom door with four leather belts and a gallon of blueberry syrup, the worst reaction I can imagine would be some laughing version of “In your dreams, Buster!” Far more likely: “What? No whipped cream?”
Monday, November 29th, 2004 -- by Aphrodite
Home again, tired but happy. Definitely worth putting up with the “when are you going to settle down and get married?” and other nosy questions the relatives toss out, to have an unexpectedly sex-filled weekend with a highschool flame. :D
I’m still digging through email, but found an interesting one from a friend (who doesn’t know I contribute to this blog, making his question even more amusing). He’s wondering about shaving himself. He’s noticed that alot of the porn pix have bare or nearly-bare girls, and that some of the guys shave their balls. So, he’s thinking of doing it to himself (or maybe asking his wife to help), and wondering if he does, how far should he go? Just the testicles, or off with all the pubes? What about maintenance? Does it make oral sex more interesting or fun, as Vikki at Her Desires says it does for the girls? Would it be better for both partners?
I just don’t know about all this shaving stuff. I’m seriously squicked at the idea of bringing something so sharp so close to such sensitive places. When I had the money to spend on such things, I was a wax girl. But the woman who did it never would take off as much as I’d request on my labia, I guess because she thought it would hurt. And I liked the way it looked, and felt, just fine anyway. So I’m asking y’all to pipe up with your experiences if you want to, and I’ll point my friend this way. It’ll be a nice surprise for him in lots of ways. :laugh:
And, just because it’s nice to feature a change of pace from the nearly-bare girlies, here’s a totally hot photo of Hiromi from Brett and Hiromi’s blog at Indecent Blogging:
[photographed removed at request of the subject]
Monday, October 25th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Yahoo News reports that Arnold slept on the couch (figuratively speaking) after his performance at one of those political conventions:
California Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger said on Monday that his speech backing President Bush at the Republican Convention in August resulted in a dramatic cold shoulder from his wife Maria Shriver, a member of the very Democratic Kennedy family.
“Well, there was no sex for 14 days,” Schwarzenegger told former White House Chief of Staff Leon Panetta in an on-stage conversation in front of 1,000 people. “Everything comes with side effects.”
By now y’all know the drill — this is a blog about sex, not politics. A post that touches on both subjects is not an invitation to flog your favored candidate or party in the comments. Although if you actually have pictures of someone flogging your favored candidate, by all means send ’em along!
Wednesday, October 13th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
“J” from The Orgy indentifies a speculative link between buying a house and decreased blowjob frequency:
My friend J2 mentioned that, since he and his girlfriend have bought a house, he’s noticed a marked decrease in blowjobs received.
I half-expected him to pull out a flip-chart with a graph on it.
Given the increasing infrequency with which I receive oral sex, I can’t imagine what might happen if the wife and I buy a house of our own.
How about it, all you real estate magnates out there? Has this happened to you? And have you got a chart to prove it?
Wednesday, September 8th, 2004 -- by Aphrodite
Everybody does it from time to time … solo sex, that is. So what’s the big deal? Masturbating’s a good way of dealing with unmet sexual needs, whether a person is single or not, I’ve always thought.
Turns out some folks, like The Good Wife, may have good reason for seeing red. Almost a month later, she’s still thinking about being denied the pleasure of her husband’s company. She’s bothered enough to ask for reader feedback on whether a sweetie’s solo sex bothers them. I guess I’m lucky that I’ve never had a guy go on a sex-as-power trip with me yet. But it’s sad, sad, sad that so many people — men and women — get such rides.
Oh, yes, before I forget, there is one positive element to The Good Wife’s recent “questionnaire” — it’s a yummy image atop the post. Madeja look! :laugh:
Friday, August 20th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
I don’t exactly know what to make of this, but it’s certainly apropos to the threads about diamonds. In fact, I’m just pulling it out of the comments to the Buying Sex With Diamonds thread so people can see it.
I blew more than $30k on my wife’s new 3.2 ct. ring for our 15th anniversary in June. I had long since given up on ever getting any booty action, but she is the perfect wife otherwise, so I wanted to really show her my love and regard.
Well, she was just stunned, I mean speechless. That very night she rolled over for me and invited me into the cavern of my dreams. YES!
The best part is, it turns out she actually found that she liked it. She is becoming a little anal freak and I love it. At first she would just move so things “slipped” a little during lovemaking, but now she is absolutely shameless… rolling over, spreading her cheeks, and demanding sodomic satisfaction in the filthiest terms.
I would gladly have paid three times more to achieve these results. I am a happy, happy, happy, but much poorer man.
Sunday, July 4th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a porn site that seems to do a better than usual job of showing sex that looks like real sex, with smiles and attractive-but-not-plastic bodies and backgrounds that aren’t obviously porn sets. I quite enjoyed this bit of backyard nookie, courtesy of Real Fucking Couples:
This is a scenario any humble citizen can place himself into. Just hangin’ with the wife in the backyard on a sunny day, when she smiles over real nice. One thing leads to another…
And so forth. A bit more honest than the over-produced stuff, and a lot hotter!
Note: Real Fucking Couples is defunct and no longer exists, but it was an early effort to go mainstream by the company that became Kink.com.
Tuesday, June 8th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Rupert unwittingly allowed himself to be rooked into a family shopping outing that included a stop for his wife to pick up some underwear. At, it turned out, Victoria’s Secret. He learned some things, including:
Men: Never take your daughter to Victoria’s Secret.
She might ask what is the difference between briefs, bikinis, low-rider bikinis and “boy-cut” panties (which, apparently, Victoria’s Secret calls “hot pants”). To illustrate her quandry, she might hold up one of each garment so labeled. There is no difference immediately apparent to a Mere Mortal, which is to say, to a man. And because my mind works the way it does, I automatically use every ounce of topological imagination I have to picture my daughter wearing them in sufficient detail to be able to describe how they hug her body differently.
My gorgeous sixteen-year-old daughter. In Victoria’s Secret underwear. Yikes!
I am unable to avoid this mental picture once the question is asked, even if it wasn’t asked of me (which it was not). Even if my daughter were not, well, a Babe (which she is).
At which point there is really no choice. I must either leave the store or gouge my eyes out. Possibly both. Oh, look, a B Dalton’s.
Sunday, May 30th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Functional Ambivalent writes humorously and at length about panties. This is only a tiny fraction of his panty wisdom:
I’m going to admit something here that I’ve never admitted before: There are certain underpants that my wife wears that render me powerless. They are kryptonite to me. When we’re getting dressed to go out and she puts on a pair of those certain panties underneath a dress, I know that I will do whatever she asks me to do that night.
Her: “Let’s go see modern dance.”
Me: “I’d love to. Can I sit next to you and maybe touch your leg in the dark?”
Her: “Tickets are $10,000.”
Me: “No problem. Can I sit next to you and maybe touch your leg in the dark?”
My wife doesn’t really know how much power these certain underpants have over me. (Note to self: Don’t blog secrets, moron.)
Saturday, May 22nd, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Running errands this morning, The Nymph and I were walking though the parking lot of the local department store. There was a pickup truck with camper shell there with a rather dirty back window. Over on the right somebody had used his finger to scribble the boring classic: “Wash me.”
But I liked rather better what was inscribed on the left:
“I wish my wife was this dirty.”
Friday, May 14th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
From the entertaining “My Secret Fantasies“, this old joke dressed up as an anecdote:
Another friend of ours, K.C., went out with us, and we met a woman that calls herself a white witch. He may not understand, but he asked her if she can remove a curse that has been with him for 8 years now. The witch said to him, “Maybe, but you will have to tell me the exact words that were used to put the curse on you.” K.C. said, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
Sorry, my friend, but a white witch isn’t gonna do the trick. K.C., you need lawyer rituals and there will be sacrifices involved.
Thursday, April 29th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a “marriage enhancement program” that’s not quite the first thing you would expect to hear from your local church pastor. Spanking Blog has an anecdote involving an unnamed church in Georgia that counsels husbands to spank their wives. Spankings should be “firm but fair, merciful but memorable” and are to be accepted with “grace and dignity”:
About ten years ago we began going to a church here in Georgia that I guess qualifies as “conservative.” New members are encouraged to go through a marriage enhancement program.
Our church only discusses this in private counseling. But basically what they teach is that a husband has not just authority but also responsibility to his wife, and that a wife is to submit to that authority. The most loving think someone with authority can do is discipline the person s/he has authority over. So the most loving thing my husband can do is discipline me when I need it!
Our church offers the following guidelines: a spanking should be firm but fair, merciful but memorable. What that means is:
firm – to do what is promised. If I’m SUPPOSED to get spanked for something, I get it. If I’m supposed to get 10, I get 10.
fair – a level of discipline that matches the offence.
merciful – not mean spirited. not in anger.
memorable – a spanking that will come to mind the next time I think about doing whatever it was again.
The church also offers the advice that a woman should be able to accept discipline with “grace and dignity.” When my husband tells me I’m getting one, I am supposed to behave well about it. When the spanking actually comes, I am supposed to do what is expected of me and obey the instructions he gives me.
But don’t get this wrong, it isn’t supposed to be just another ancient remnant of joyless patriarchal privilege. They intend for it to lead to hot monkey lovin’, as everybody knows a good spousal spanking is inclined to do:
Is any of this sexual? Or erotic? Definitely! And our church acknowledges that. We don’t feel like there’s a contradiction in that. And sex almost always follows.
Who woulda thunk it?
Sunday, April 18th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Finally got around to putting up a link to Suburban Sex Blog, which I’ve been meaning to do for awhile. Fair warning: it’s kind of a downer blog, written by one of these guys whose married sex life is unhappy and whose wife’s idea of talking about it is telling him to “get over it“.
Saturday, March 20th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
From time to time I can’t help revisiting Why Your Wife Won’t Have Sex With You (although I do it in the same spirit as a man goes to the racetrack to watch a demolition derby). The prevailing view over at Why Your Wife on this too-frequent lament of the modern American husband tends toward the “try acting more like a woman and she might … just might, so don’t get your hopes up … decide to have sex with you again someday” variety.
Like the flying squirrel said, “Aw, Bullwinkle, that trick never works.”
On the other hand, there’s a comment over in a “Sex And Marriage” post by Quiver. Quiver gives some potentially useful advice to a man in those unhappy sexless straits, only to have a commenter share a rather more robust strategy:
“If all else fails (or if you prefer, before trying anything else) put her over your knee and with one arm firmly around her waist to hold her in place, yank her knickers down and spank her bare bottom very hard until she howls. Then spank her vigorously again until she begs at the top of her voice to be allowed to spread her legs and offers her pussy (which will probably be glistening wet by now). Then allow her to service your cock in whichever way you please. A woman who has just been spanked often sucks exquisitely well, and on her knees doing it she can look deliciously beautiful, so that may be a good starting place.”
Kids, don’t try this at home. Enormous downside potential if it doesn’t work — complete with sirens and handcuffs and a well-deserved orange jumpsuit.
Monday, March 15th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
The latest Ross in Range column (Advice to Women About Men, or JR Uses Your Wristwatch to Tell You the Time) contains this utterly hopeless conversation. Men, you might want to start banging your heads on your keyboards now:
Here is a true exchange that occurred between people I know. See if you can learn something from it. It’s bedtime and the couple is undressing for bed:
Wife, a former beauty pageant winner who had gained 80 pounds in the three years since marriage: “I’m sooo fat.”
Husband, who had been hoping to get laid and is dismayed by this development: “You are terribly sexy. You’ve got great curves.”
Wife, not letting it go: “Tell me: Am I the fattest woman you’ve ever fucked?” [Question for readers: What is the proper response to this? I can’t imagine.]
Husband, wishing she would think about something else: “No, not even close.”
Wife, who knows his two previous girlfriends had good figures: “WHO has been a lot fatter than me? Tell me the truth! Who?”
Husband, thinking the truth will be the best policy: “Well, there was this girl named Mary. I forget her last name. It was maybe ten years ago. She worked in the same office as my girlfriend at that time. My girlfriend said Mary hadn’t had sex in several years because she was so fat no man wanted to. She asked if I’d have sex with Mary, you know, as a favor. Something nice you’d do for someone who needs cheering up.”
Wife: “So, you had a date with her and then had sex?”
Husband: “No, she came over with my girlfriend, and the three of us had some wine and listened to music. Then my girlfriend said ‘Why don’t you two go into the bedroom?’ So we did.”
Wife: “And you had sex with her?”
Husband: “Yes.”
Wife: “Did you like it?”
Husband: “I liked the fact that I was making her feel good.”
Wife: “But you were repulsed by her weight?”
Husband, thinking back to that night and how it had made three people feel good about themselves: “Well, I tried not to think about what she looked like. The lights were low. My girlfriend looked kind of like Renee Russo, and I imagined I was with her, but with some big pillows squooshed around her.”
Wife: “So you WERE disgusted by her weight!”
Husband: “Not the weight itself, exactly, but what it did to her. I mean, she had trouble walking, and that was painful to watch. And no way could she support herself on her hands and knees.”
Wife: “Trouble WALKING? How fat WAS she?”
Husband: “According to my girlfriend, she stopped weighing herself when she got over five hundred pounds.”
Wife, appalled: “So what other fat women have you had sex with?”
Husband, now utterly fed up and seeing no point in being tactful: “She got the gold. You get the silver.”
In my opinion this man made a mistake by answering his wife’s questions, but I’m not sure how I would have handled it differently. Refuse to speak? Pretend to have diarrhea and run to the bathroom? Feign an epileptic seizure?
Thursday, 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.
Tuesday, January 27th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Here in the United States we are accustomed to a certain emotional transactionalism, a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately style of equitable dealing that, at least in the sexual arena, may not always be a real comfortable fit when it’s wrapped tightly around the different values and responses men and women bring to sex. Men and women steeped in the values of classic American feminism may not approve of the following, but it’s hard to deny that Dora sounds pretty pleased with herself when she writes (at Taken in Hand, link via Spank Directory) about The Importance of Making Myself Available:
It is wonderful when we have sex and I am on fire with passion or I pick up that passion during the act, and it is an important part of our marriage and sex life, but I think the other times are just as important and, in another way, wonderful. Those are the times when it didn’t matter if I was in the mood or not, because he either needed so badly to have that pressure relieved or he just found me so adorable that he had to express it by taking me on the spot.
Those times I do not get any orgasm but I have the pleasure of having a husband who is happy and cheerful and humming. And sometimes he is even able to help decorating the table for a dinner party just because he has got it. To see him like that is a much more quiet and subtle satisfaction than an orgasm, but to me it is just as good.
Maybe I am more practical about it because I am the farm girl I am, but to me it is and always was a very natural thing that the male has different sexual needs than the female. To meet those needs and even enjoy it as much as I can in some way or another has always been a natural thing for me, because I believe that a wife has a duty to be supportive and loyal, to let her husband feel loved and appreciated, to please him and make him happy, and to comfort him and cheer him up and help him to regain his confidence and self-esteem when he needs it.
Compare and contrast: Why Your Wife Won’t Have Sex With You.
Tuesday, January 27th, 2004 -- by Bacchus
Doxy the Phone Slut is back. She writes in her usual entertaining style about the challenge of receiving phone sex calls from couples:
Couple calls are always fascinating to me because, well, it’s not just a guy jacking off into his old Slayer t-shirt in his parents’ basement. At the very minimum the guy has to be able to bag or rent a person willing to engage in sex acts with him.
…
[S]ometimes it is people who have pretty much worn out their own ideas and are looking for new ones which can be a tricky dance of the first water. Because if they haven’t tried it before that means they didn’t think of it. And is that because they would be adverse to it, or because they just haven’t been exposed to it? I once really freaked out a woman by suggesting she rim her husband’s asshole. Another guy got angry because I asked him if he’d ever spanked his wife. Knowing what is out of bounds for people is hard. And if it’s “out of bounds” is it REALLY out of bounds, or do they just want to pretend it’s out of bounds so that you can “force” them to do things they’re trying to pretend they don’t want to do?
…
So much of this job is tightrope walking. Dominate me, but don’t fuck me in the ass. Have my sister catch me jerking off, but NOT my mom. I wanna fuck the high school cheerleader down the block, and the girl scout up the road, but the brownie is OUT of the question. There is serious Forrest Gump “phone sex is like a box of chocolates” karma in the mix. And that challenge is what keeps the job fun and exciting.
Which of course reminds me of the old joke:
Q: “How does a Cub Scout get to become a Boy Scout?”
A: “He just has to eat a Brownie.”
Friday, January 23rd, 2004 -- by Bacchus
From Pravda, which as any former student of Sovietology knows means “Truth” (the scare quotes being an essential part of the translation), comes this ill-translated “legend” about the sexual practices of Ghengis Khan:
The Great Khan respected the wisdom of Chinese. After hearing that they possess the secret of immortality, in 1222 Genkhis Khan invited famous monk and wizard Chan Chun from the banks of the Irtysh river. Genkhis Khan respectfully asked him for the medicine for eternal life.
“You poured out sperm into too many women to expect immortality”, Chan Chun replied.
He told shocked Genkhis Khan about Dao of Love — the doctrine of sex as the way to extend life. It was elaborated by the legendary Yellow Emperor who lived one thousand years before.
The monk said that during orgasm a man and a woman discharge the juices of the body, and his/her partner benefit from this by gaining energy. The man striving for immortality can have intercourse with many women only after he learn the skills of throwing them into ecstasies and not pouring out his sperm. In this way he gains women’s energy (Yin), preserving his man’s energy (Yang) for special cases — when he goes not to a concubine, but to a wife and wants her to give a birth to a son.
“Did you follow these principles in your life, Emperor?”, Chan Chun asked.
Genkhis Khan realized that he could expect neither immortality nor one more son.
Thanks to J. Orlin Grabbe for the link.
Thursday, January 1st, 2004 -- by Bacchus
An anecdote from the comments at Making Light:
Noah Webster, the famous lexicographer, was once found by his wife while he was kissing [or, alternatively, undressing] the cook [or maid] in the pantry. The wife said, “Noah, I am surprised at your action!” To which he replied, “No, YOU are amazed and offended, dear. WE are surprised…”
Tuesday, December 23rd, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Sarah at Submissive Reflections has some pertinent observations on relationships, wrapped up in an ironic anecdote. There’s more than this long quote, so read it all.
Christine’s husband, Dan, arrived and he kissed her and she fended him off, complaining about her makeup, he told her she looked beautiful and she told him not to be so silly. She complained about him being late and that everyone had had to wait for him, even though we were all still waiting on Mac. Dan mumbled an apology and stood off to his wife’s side like a chastised child.
Mac walked in a good ten minutes later, greeting everyone noisily and asking what they were waiting for. He put his hands on my waist, kissed my lips and told me I looked delicious. I grinned up at Him and said thankyou. I was wearing the dress He had suggested, a short black dress. I had added stockings, high heels and hadn’t bothered with panties. Mac knew without me having to tell Him. He boomed out an apology for being late and grabbed my hand and led everyone to the table. He made sure I was sitting beside Him.
I watched as Dan trailed along behind his wife and as she told him where to sit. Menus arrived and while everyone was reading Christine announced loudly to Dan that he had better not order anything to fattening, he had to watch his weight. She continued through the meal to make fun of Dan’s receding hair line, tell everyone he had not gotten the recent promotion that he had applied for which is why they couldn’t afford a new car and generally put him down every chance she got. I felt so sad for him but he didn’t react to it at all.
Mac was His usual boisterous self. He had the whole table in tears laughing at stories about Christmas at His parent’s house, keeping everyone entertained. His hand kept sneaking under the table and up my skirt to feel how wet I was, which of course only made me wetter. My hand kept sneaking under the table to feel how hard He was, which of course only made Him stay hard. He kept leaning into my ear to whisper wicked things about where He wanted His cock and I kept whispering back about what I would do to His cock when it was there. W/we were keeping each other close to the edge of orgasm.
After dinner I excused myself to go to the bathroom and Christine came with me. She was touching up her makeup when I went to wash my hands and she told me how lucky I was to have Mac, as He was so male. It was all I could do to bite my lip so I didn’t tell her that maybe Dan would be more male if she stopped treating him like a child. I just smiled and went back to the table and kissed Mac’s cheek.
…
I wish I could say that Christine and Dan are the only couple I know like this, but they are not. I see it often enough for it to bother me. You don’t have to be submissive to show your partner respect. You don’t need to lower your eyes or be a sexual slave to accept the gift of their compliments graciously and show them that you care about them.
You could swap the genders (and discount Sarah’s submissive perspective, if it bothered you) and this would still be wisdom.
Tuesday, December 9th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Rask the Porn Publisher isn’t living quite the wild life we expect from people in the sex industry. Instead, he works. Plus he has a very dry sense of humor (I hope it’s humor). On Pearl Harbor day:
My ex-wife called today to see if I was coming to my daughters’ birthday party. I didn’t go. I worked. I selected pictures for nine more websites and wrote the copy for them. I did take time off long enough to fuck the slave. As usual, she walked around afterwards, saying “I got fucked today.” Wondering whether such a response is really warranted, I did a search on this blog to see when she got laid last. I guess she may have just cause to think of it as something special.
Sunday, November 16th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
So recently The Nymph was telling me some anecdote about a male friend of hers whose wife only agrees to have sex with him on his birthday. You know the marriage is dead when you’re down to birthday sex.
Which makes this story pretty sad:
My birthday is in about 3 weeks and she asked what I wanted and aside from a Drum set and a kitten I told her I wanted a blow job. She laughed at me and said that a) the neighbors would just LOVE a drum set 2) I can’t have a kitten because she’s allergic to cats and c) “Yeah, whatever”. So then I said I’d like to have sex with my wife on my birthday and she said “Come on! I’m serious!”
Whatever she’s serious about, it ain’t the marriage….
Saturday, October 25th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a funny site called Bible Sex Stories. The dirty bits of the Bible are repackaged as badly written erotic stories:
Hagar reached down under Abraham’s tunic and felt the hardness. “What is that, a stone idol under there?” She asked, as she slid down and fellated Abraham’s obelisk. He enjoyed her expert tongue, but soon he couldn’t bear it. He lifted her up and placed her on top of him.
As he entered Hagar’s supple moistness, Abraham flashed back to how his wife Sarah’s dry gullet reminded him of the hot desert sand, and he shuddered. Hagar grabbed onto his collar and rode him like a camel, bouncing up and down, drilling him deeper into her with each movement.
From Abraham Visits The Maid.
Saturday, October 18th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
The folks at Eros Boutique have a blog now. Mostly they are flogging their goodies (hmm, sounds like fun) but they do have some funny stories from the sex toy selling biz. Like this one:
This guy calls up, asking if we sell extra keys for the CB3000. (*for those of you unfamiliar with the CB3000, its the cream of the crop in male chastity devices. Pyrex. Padlock. If you’re a guy who wants to lock your cock up, this is the way to go.)
But I digress…
…
So “mike” calls.
Do we sell extra keys.
So Lucy tells him we don’t have any extra keys in stock, but he might want to call the CB3000 people and see what the deal is. “But,” she asks, “doesn’t the CB3000 come with 2 extra keys? What happened to them?”
So Mike says:
“You see, the woman who put this device on me isn’t my wife, and now she’s out of town for a few days, and I just don’t find it funny anymore.”
“Oh.” Lucy says. “Well, sir, that’s what you get for letting a strange woman put something on your penis.”
There’s more – Lucy’s not as heartless as she sounds. But that’s a classic line.
Monday, June 9th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
From deep in the archives of the Onion, this headline, with story to match:
Local Lutheran Minister Loves To Fuck His Wife
Thursday, June 5th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a story from a quarter-millennium ago called “The Female Husband” about a notorious lesbian of the era said to have married a woman while posing as a man. Some of the delicate phrasings are quite humorous:
As Molly Hamilton was extremely warm in her inclinations, and as those inclinations were so violently attached to Mrs. Johnson, it would not have been difficult for a less artful woman, in the most private hours, to turn the ardour of enthusiastic devotion into a different kind of flame.
Their conversation, therefore, soon became in the highest manner criminal, and transactions not fit to be mention’d past between them.
Or, how about:
Molly assured her mother of the falsehood of this report; and as it is usual for persons who are too eager in any cause, to prove too much, she asserted some things which staggered her mother’s belief, and made her cry out, O child, there is no such thing in human nature.
…
The whole truth having been disclosed before the justice, and something of too vile, wicked and scandalous a nature, which was found in the Doctor’s trunk, having been produced in evidence against her, she was committed to Bridewell.
…
At the trial the said Mary Price the wife, was produced as a witness, and being asked by the council, whether she had ever any suspicion of the Doctor’s sex during the whole time of the courtship, she answered positively in the negative. She was then asked how long they had been married, to which she answered three months; and whether they had cohabited the whole time together? to which her reply was in the affirmative. Then the council asked her, whether during the time of this cohabitation, she imagined the Doctor had behaved to her as a husband ought to his wife? Her modesty confounded her a little at this question; but she at last answered she did imagine so. Lastly, she was asked when it was that she first harboured any suspicion of her being imposed upon? To which she answered, she had not the least suspicion till her husband was carried before a magistrate, and there discovered, as hath been said above.
It sounds like pretty good use was made of “something of too vile, wicked and scandalous a nature, which was found in the Doctor’s trunk”.
Monday, June 2nd, 2003 -- by Bacchus
I just stumbled over a fascinating series of blog essays entitled “Why Your Wife Won’t Have Sex With You.” If this is a topic of interest to you, as it was to me during a six-and-a-half-year doomed relationship, you’ll want to set aside a couple of hours and read through the whole series.
G’wan, do that now, before I poison it for you with my opinion.
Back already? Gosh you read fast.
Anyway, it’s a very thoughtful series, clearly written by a woman with a level head, an introspective disposition, and a lot of good will. Her observations are useful and interesting and I wish I’d had a chance to read them before my girlfriend, who I loved quite a lot but who had serious sexual issues, got rid of me and picked another man not to have sex with.
That was supposed to be funny.
Moving rapidly along. So I’m reading this excellent series of essays, nodding and agreeing and going “Hmm, that explains a lot” and generally getting myself edified, when suddenly it struck me. There’s a unifying theme to the whole essay series, and it’s this: “Your wife won’t have sex with you because you’re doing something wrong or failing to do something right.”
Yup, it’s all about you, buster.
And I suppose, in a weird definitional way, that has to be true. If getting it right as a man is defined as doing whatever it takes to get laid by your chosen woman, then by definition if she’s not willing to be intimate you need to get your act together.
Still, I’m concerned by the way this approach utterly disposes of the concept of an intimate partnership between two responsible adult humans. If it’s never about the woman, if there’s never any concept that by cleaving unto a partnership relationship she undertook some responsibility for maintaining the intimate part of the relationship, then there’s no partnership. There’s just another pea hen watching from the sidelines, waiting to see whether any of those strutting peacocks ever manage to wave their tail feathers just the right way to make her tingle.
Maybe that’s the way the world is. But I was raised to afford women a bit more humanity than that. I’m concerned that this essay series dehumanizes women by, effectively, absolving them from any responsibility for intimacy.
Go read the essays. If nothing else, you’ll learn to be a better peacock.
2012 Link Update: The original Salon.com link went 404 in 2009. I’ve replaced it with an archives.org version. The author also moved much of her Salon material to an archive blog, possibly with some curatorial changes: Why Your Wife Won’t Have Sex With You.
Wednesday, May 14th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
It seems that Bacchus no more gets invited to the good picnics than he does to the good costume parties. Here’s a tranquil scene, as the sun sets over the (mostly) abandoned picnic grounds covered in folding chairs, empty beer bottles and (oh yes!) someone’s drunk, passed out, topless wife or girlfriend.
Thursday, May 8th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Here’s an excerpt from Tiny Nibbles, a nifty blog written by a woman who (among other interesting things) writes for the very cool people at Good Vibrations. This bit illustrates the perils of sending rude emails to someone with access to all the sex toys plus the complete perv resources of the Greater Bay Area:
But what I really want to tell her is that she needs to be oiled up with a delicious aphrodisiac oil by six nubile and adoring male and female nymphs who blindfold her and drizzle warm maple syrup all over her sensitive parts and lick it all off while drinking some ancient bottle of sweet liqueur that makes them all hallucinate and writhe like a bunch of orgiastic snakes, all culminating with her much-needed introduction to a Hitachi Magic Wand Super Silicone G-Spotter Kit, the Tiny Buzzers nipple clamps, a Little Flirt butt plug and the iSurge, all at once. Then a sound spanking from the super-hot and very scrumptious Mistress Morgana. And a complete training on wifeliness by the dedicated wives of Whap! Magazine.
Bacchus can think of a couple of ladies (not to mention a guy or two) who would benefit from that treatment.
Thursday, April 24th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Here’s a site that’s a little sad: “Answers to Recent Anonymous Questions” from a site devoted to “Sex and Intimacy for Married Christians.”
It’s not sad because because so many of the questions display an appalling level of sexual ignorance, although they do. There’s plenty of sexual ignorance in the world, and I don’t think Christians have any corner on it.
It’s sad because so many of the questions reveal people wracked, for periods of years, by terrible feelings of guilt and dirtiness, over things as harmless as a little bit of heavy petting. A worldview that generates this sort of mental pathos from harmless sexual play has much to answer for:
I and my wife are Christians. We have been married for 7 years. We have two children. We come from very conservative background therefore likewise towards sexual matters. However just before we were married, out of some loosness, we had a sexual experience but short of intercourse. However both of us reached organsm (She reached organsm with my caressing and mine through mine). Although it has been so many years and we have asked God for forgivness, I still feel that I cannot get over with it and most importantly feel not in a proper sexual relationship with her ie that experience mar i think my intimacy with her. I guess “What you sow is what you reap.” What do you think? And do you think that this sin has made our body unclean?
The answers given are actually quite sex-positive, to the extent that a sex-positive attitude can shoe-horned (use a lot of lube, you’ll need it) into the constraints of sex within marriage that does not involve any sort of fantasizing.
As you read the site, try not to snicker at the dozen different creative spellings of “orgasm”. It ain’t the least bit funny, when you stop to think of the reason why it’s happening.
Sunday, March 9th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
…and wound up getting some wood himself.
Sunday, January 26th, 2003 -- by Bacchus
There’s a long and fascinating article in The Atlantic called “The Wifely Duty” about the decline of sex in modern marriage. (Alina is owed thanks for the link.) This phenomenon is of interest to Bacchus, who (though never married) once spent more than half a decade sharing a household with a woman he loved who nonetheless somehow usually managed to reject all his sexual advances, or else efficiently deter the making thereof, for up to three or four months at a time. (The article calls this “launching a sex strike of an intensity and a duration that would have impressed Aristophanes.”)
Although interesting, the article is fairly unsatisfactory inasmuch as it whiffs of nostalgia for better days gone by, on the thinnest of evidence that they were in fact better:
In the old days, of course, there was the wifely duty. A housewife understood that in addition to ironing her husband’s shirts and cooking the Sunday roast, she was with some regularity going to have relations with the man of the house. Perhaps, as some feminists would have us believe, these were grimly efficient interludes during which the poor humped-upon wife stared at the ceiling and silently composed the grocery list. Or perhaps not. Maybe, as Davis and her “new” findings suggest, once you get the canoe out in the water, everybody starts happily paddling.
Or maybe not. Thank you for playing.
This much, at least, rings true:
Under these conditions, pity the poor married man hoping to get a bit of comfort from the wife at day’s end. He must somehow seduce a woman who is economically independent of him, bone tired, philosophically disinclined to have sex unless she is jolly well in the mood, numbingly familiar with his every sexual maneuver, and still doing a slow burn over his failure to wipe down the countertops and fold the dish towel after cooking the kids’ dinner. He can hardly be blamed for opting instead to check his e-mail, catch a few minutes of SportsCenter, and call it a night.
Alina’s take on this (scroll waaaay down) is perhaps more encouraging than the author of the Atlantic article:
Marriage without hot sex is like prison, add the mortage payments. A couples’ sex life also matters for the development of their children’s emotional and sexual maturity. I want my kids to see me kiss my husband in ways that indicate there is more between us than a shared mutual affection. Kids who grow up around affectionate, passionate parents tend to be more comfortable and less repressed with in their own adult sexual lives.
Marriage, in this young ladies’ opinion, is about tying your fate and your dreams to those of another, binding yourselves together knowing that sometimes the temptation to cut loose will be agonizing, but that your union is more important than your individual recklessness. Don’t blame marriage for a bad sex life– if you must blame anything at all, blame the notorious Wittle Wabbit. Boys, you’ve got competition. All the more reason to lobby your government for that classic French right to a 2-hour lunch break…
Quick, boys, somebody marry her before she gets away!
Tuesday, January 21st, 2003 -- by Bacchus
Anil Dash is ranting about the diamond industry, and it’s an epic rant:
“Want your materialistic, easily-misled wife to stop being such a frigid bitch? Buy her a diamond! Did your husband decide to increase your consumer debt in order to buy you a pair of earrings that were mined at gunpoint by children in Africa? Reward him with grudging sex and a temporary cessation of your relentless nagging!”
It’s entertaining, and the man has a good point.
Sunday, December 29th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
Another circulating email thing, guy unknown, let’s just call him Biggus Dickus. (“He has a wife you know….”)
Ladies, I know we generally focus a little too much here at ErosBlog on things of amusement to the gentlemen of default wiring. Please consider this a modest token in the nature of restitution.
Monday, November 25th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
In an oddly banal report, The Spectator describes an English farm wife who went “on the game” (as the Brits apparently say) to support the posh lifestyle to which her family had become accustomed before the hoof-and-mouth police came around and slaughtered the family herds. Hubby was surprisingly supportive:
“Mike and I talked about it for days. Neither of us had ever done anything like this before. At the beginning we worked as a team. We would do sex displays and threesomes, and it was perhaps a way of making it easier for him to accept what was happening. Then, after a while, I just started doing it on my own.”
To the delight of British accountants, this woman’s tale is not that uncommon:
“That’s how I met my accountant. He has three working girls on his books, and I don’t know about the arrangements he has with the others, but I pay him in kind and he seems quite happy.”
Tuesday, November 12th, 2002 -- by Bacchus
From deep in the archives of I, Asshole, a sweet sweet story:
When I was a newlywed, my brand new husband and I used to play all sorts of little fun games together. One night we were laying in bed starkers and reading books, and I was also eating a box of jawbreakers. For his amusement (I always get into the most trouble when I do things for other people’s amusement), I started putting the jawbreakers one by one into my vagina. He laughed a little bit to humor me, and by the time I got up to about 18 or so he started ignoring me and went back to his book. Eventually, I fell asleep and he turned out the light. Suddenly, at about 2 am I woke up. I was uncovered and chilly; a moment later I realized I was also laying in a big wet puddle that seemed to have an epicenter under my ass.
“Oh God, I wet the bed.”
I considered my options. I could get a towel and cover it up; I could wake him up and inform him that his new wife of 4 months was a bedwetter; or I could smother him with a pillow so that no one would ever find out what happened. Being young and idealistic, I woke him and told him the truth, crying, and I have to say he took it very well. I couldn’t believe it was true; I’d NEVER been a bedwetter, and we hadn’t even been drinking or anything. Just before I ripped off the sheets, I caught a whiff of something… sweet. I bent down to smell the huge went spot and it smelled faintly sugary. Then I remembered the jawbreakers. I did a quick check to see if they were still when I deposited them before bed, and sure enough, they had completely dissolved.
The whole thing gave me a new appreciation for my vagina. If it could melt that much candy in four hours, what else could it do? Corrode steel? Turn lead into gold?
What in the name of Thor’s Tremendous Hammer was this “New Husband” feller thinking? “My lovely naked wife is putting candy up her whatsis for my amusement. What should I do? Should I ask her for a piece? Offer to get it myself? Hmm…what to do, what to do…I know! I’ll go back to reading my book!”
Somebody spent a little too much time on the short yellow bus as a child.
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Friday, November 1st, 2002 -- by Bacchus
Those damned lawyers mess up everything:
MBABANE, Swaziland – For centuries in this tiny African nation, the king of Swaziland, the supreme political leader and spiritual guide of the Swazi people, has taken his pick of young women each year to be his new wife.
…
The royal marriage practices are as old as the steep green mountains that ring this secluded country of sugar cane fields and cow pastures. Each year, the king has been allowed to choose one or more wives from thousands of young women who, naked from the waist up, parade before him during an annual springtime reed dance.
But now there is trouble in paradise. The king has chosen, the maid in question allegedly says “I’m going to make him the happiest man on Earth” — but she’s a year too young and her mom is pissed.
The king will be violating his own ban on sexual relations with female subjects younger than 19 if he marries Mahlangu. But it may not matter. When Mswati married another 18-year-old this year, he fined himself one cow for the violation – a small price for a monarch with hundreds of cattle to his name.
Monday, October 21st, 2002 -- by Bacchus
This is almost too good to be true. “Saudi Arabia’s First English Daily” takes on your tough Muslim sex questions, and wrestles them to the mattress. Is Allah down with hot Islamic anal sex? Well, it turns out that Mohammed himself has weighed in on this weighty question. Doggy style is fine, but keep it procreative please:
A man came to the Prophet and asked him whether it was permissible to have sex with his wife from behind. The Prophet answered in the affirmative. As the man was on his way out, the Prophet called him back and said: “Consider what I have said: from behind, but in the front.”
Thanks to The Fly Bottle for the link!
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