Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
When the penis (visible on the x-ray as a shadow) points towards the same side as a unilateral medical condition (such as a broken bone), this is considered a "positive John Thomas sign", and if the shadow points to the other side, it is a negative John Thomas sign.
The sign is employed as a humorous aside. However, some analysis of its validity has been performed. Genital asymmetry correlates with handedness, and a relationship between handedness and injury has been proposed as a mechanism for the sign.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Remember, if you have a story you want to share with the smutty world through Frequently Felt just zap me a line: firstname.lastname@example.org.
Alicia Night Orchid
“Fuck this,” Marta said, “let’s get out of here.”
We were seated high in the bleachers along the visitors’ ten-yard line. We were here because it was my first semester on campus and I’d never been to a Big Ten football game.
Purdue was beating the home team, Indiana, 14-0 in the first quarter. One of our guys tackled one of theirs and the crowd erupted. Cream and crimson streamers waved all about us.
“That was exciting,” I said. “Let’s stay for one more play.”
Marta was the roommate to whom I’d been assigned. She was a junior, a couple of years older than me and from the big city of Chicago. More people had attended her high school than lived in the entire small town where I’d grown up.
She rolled her eyes. “All right, one more play.”
Far below, tiny figures went into motion. The crowd groaned. I’d been a cheerleader back home. Still, none of it made much sense.
“Okay,” I said. “Where do you want to go?”
Her pale blue eyes lit up. “The graduate library, up in the stacks. There’s something I want to show you.”
It seemed unlikely. I was an English major and loved books, especially the classics. Marta, on the other hand, was into geology and seemed the type to prefer field hockey over exploring a library. Even so, her current enthusiasm was undeniable.
“Whatever, you say, girl,” I told her.
We clambered over knees and feet. Excuse me, excuse us. Fifty thousand people at the game, five thousand more at the gate trying to get in, and we were leaving before half-time. People stared like we were crazy.
Marta reached behind for my hand and pulled me out of the bleachers. “C’mon, let’s go.”
We pushed through the darkened tunnel and past the concession stand into the bright sunlight of a warm autumn day. Not a cloud in the sky, the leaves tinged with yellow, orange, and red.
With the stadium and the parking lot behind us, the campus felt deserted. Students who’d stayed for the weekend were at the game or studying in the dorm. Marta, stocky with strong, muscular legs, danced ahead of me in her jeans and t-shirt. She wasn’t the prettiest of girls, tomboyish you might say. She didn’t have many friends, and while the other girls on our floor were cordial to her, they were far from chummy. In fact, they maintained a distance from both Marta and I, as if the two of us shared a secret they weren’t in on.
“C’mon, Sweet Stuff, let’s go, I’ve got something to show you.”
Sweet Stuff. That was her name for me. She’d started calling me that the day I’d arrived, dropped off by my mom and dad and little brother. She’d kept it up every day in the three weeks since.
“Here’s the cafeteria, Sweet Stuff.”
“Just read this, Sweet Stuff, and you’ll pass old Jasper’s class , no problem.”
“I’ll brush your hair for you, Sweet Stuff.”
I didn’t mind. It was better than being called Newbie or Greenie. Besides, most of the time I felt grateful that a “big sister” had taken me under her wing.
I had to jog to keep up. We flew past the Psychology building, crossed over to the Business School, and waited for the light to change.
“So, what is it you want to show me?”
“You’ll see, it’s a book. A really cool book.”
Most of the time, I liked having Marta watch over me. My only complaint was that she could be overly-protective and a little possessive. I wanted to meet new people, wanted to explore that great big world out there. But Marta said I needed to be careful. IU was a place where you could get lost, or fall in with the wrong crowd before you knew it.
Which was what my boyfriend back home, Ned Harris, had also warned me of. And the last thing Ned Harris would ever do was get lost or fall in with the wrong crowd.
We trotted up the stairs, pushed through the doors, and punched Floor 12 for the elevator. Even from here, I could make out the occasional roar of the crowd at the game, but the library was even emptier than the campus. Except for a few people working behind the counters, Marta and I had the place to ourselves.
In the elevator, Marta could no longer contain her excitement. Her face glowed red and she panted, out of breath from our mad dash down Fee Lane. She brushed her blondish hair away from her face and winked at me, freckles blossoming on her chubby cheeks.
“I think you’re going to like this,” she said.
“You are too much.”
The elevator doors parted. A musty scent filled out nostrils. Row upon row of shelves stacked with books marched before us. I’d never been up this way. From the look of things, not many others had either.
Marta pulled me along. “Here, Sweet Stuff. Enough books for you?”
I glimpsed some names I recognized, Virginia Wolfe, Radclyffe Hall, and Gertrude Stein.
She stood on her tiptoes and pulled a book from the shelf. Fingersmith, by Sarah Waters.
She shoved the book into my face. “Ever hear of it?’
The paper cover showed a pair of elegant white gloves resting on a leather-bound book.
“Nope, is it…”
“Kind of Dickenensian, actually.”
We sat down at a nearby table. There was dust a quarter inch thick on the surface.
“As in Charles Dickens?”
She laughed and bit her lower lip. “Sort of. Do you know what a fingersmith is?”
“Never heard of it.”
“A pickpocket. Someone good with her fingers.”
“In the novel, two orphan girls are made to compile literary erotica for a dirty old man.”
Marta was perspiring. Her forehead and under her eyes glistened. She exuded an earthy, womanly scent.
“That’s right, Sweet Stuff, dirty stories.”
“Sounds more interesting than stealing for Fagin.”
She flipped through the book and found a dog-eared page. Marta’s heat was contagious. I felt warm, too. The heavy air closed in about us.
“Close your eyes,” she told me. “I want to read you something. It’s a famous passage from the book, the cottage love scene.”
“You brought me up here for this?”
“It’s amazing. Just listen.”
I’d come this far, so there seemed little harm in indulging her further. “All right, all right.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
Marta’s shoulder pressed against mine. She began to read, her voice higher-pitched and more girlish than usual.
Sue and Maud are caught in a terrible rainstorm. They make a mad dash to safety, through an old cemetery, and into a deserted English cottage. In the bedroom, Maud helps Sue out of her clothes. A sexual tension has been rising between them and now in this moment their strange and forbidden attraction is too much to resist. Lips meet, tongues explore. Skilled fingers tremble at buttons, bodices, and bloomers. Breasts brush, nipples graze. Maud pushes a hand up Sue’s skirt, plunges into her heat. Sue pulls Maud on top of her. Through the remains of their clothing, the two young women rock together. They sigh, moan…
I gasped and my eyes opened wide. Marta, flushed and breathy, cupped one of her breasts in her hand, tweaking a nipple while she read. “My God,” I hissed. “What are you doing?”
I pushed away from the table and rose to my feet.
Marta closed the book and looked up at me, want and lust sketched across her face. I’d seen that look before, from Ned Harris. Ned’s problem was that his passion was spent in about three seconds flat.
“C’mon, Sweet Stuff,” Marta said, “you’re not that naïve. You know I’ve had it bad for you from the day you walked into my life. And you’ve been flirting with me, teasing me all along. You know you have.”
I felt loose and uncertain inside. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not that kind of girl.”
Marta stood and took a step toward me. “You’re not? Really? I think that’s just the kind of girl you are. Prancing around in your underwear, shaving your legs while I watched, letting me rub your feet.”
I stumbled backwards, trapped between two shelves. My heart beat so fast I feared it might explode. “I didn’t mean anything. I have a boyfriend. I’m not a… ”
Marta closed in. Her face was a hairsbreadth from mine. Her breasts crushed against me. “What, Sweet Stuff, you’re not a bull dyke like me?”
Then she kissed me hard enough to bruise my lips. I tried to turn away, but she pinned me against the wall. Then she pushed a knee between my legs and ground her pelvis into my thigh.
Her hands pushed under my blouse.
“You’ve been asking for this,” she said. “I know you want it.”
Nimble fingers unhooked my bra. Soft, informed lips settled around my nipples. I closed my eyes and felt a longing I’d never felt with Ned Harris. A long, low moan escaped my lips. “But I’m not like that. I’m not a…”
“Sure,” Marta said, her breath hot in my ear,” you’re not a butch chick like me. No, Sweet Stuff, you’re a girly girl. But you like other girls, don’t you? Tell me you don’t.”
The room spun. There was a truth to what she said that I couldn’t deny. I’d been sneaking peeks at the other girls in the locker room for years. I’d had a few dreams, dreams that left me humping the bed, my undies damp, while I imagined another girl squirming beneath me.
Marta’s hands were on my buttocks, pulling me closer. She found the button on my chinos. She tugged the zipper down and kissed me again, her tongue searching.
“Please, Marta, please.”
“Please stop, or please don’t stop?” she asked in a mocking tone.
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” I managed.
She slid a hand into my panties and held my pussy in her palm.
“Oh, girl, I know,” she said. “You’re wet as a dishrag.”
I couldn’t resist the slip and slide of her finger fuck. She searched my folds, roiled my clit. No one had ever touched me like this. Fingersmith.
“Oh my, God. Oh my, God.”
Her voice in my ear threatened to deafen. “I’ll make you come so hard you’ll think you’ve died”
Then she withdrew her fingers and brought them to her mouth, grinning. I watched as she licked them clean of my juices.
“I knew it,” she said. “Sweet stuff, real sweet stuff.”
I knew something, too. My life would never be the same.
Monday, March 23, 2009
The Windmill Theatre, later The Windmill International, was a variety and revue theatre in Great Windmill Street, London. The theatre was famous for its nude tableaux vivants. Many prominent British comedians and comedy acts of the '50s and '60s started their careers working at this theatre.
Great Windmill Street took its name from a windmill that stood there from the reign of King Charles II until the late 18th century. In 1909 a cinema, the Palais de Luxe, opened on the site. It stood on the corner of a block of buildings that included the Apollo and Lyric theatres, where Archer Street joined Great Windmill Street, just off Shaftesbury Avenue. The Palais de Luxe was one of the first places where early silent films were shown. As larger cinemas were opened in the West End, business slowed and the Palais de Luxe was forced to close.
In 1931, Laura Henderson bought the Palais de Luxe building and hired Howard Jones, an architect, to remodel the interior to a tiny, one-tier theatre. It was then renamed The Windmill. It opened on June 22, 1931, as a playhouse with a new play by Michael Barringer called Inquest. Its run as a theatre was short and unprofitable, and it soon returned to screening films, such as The Blue Angel starring Marlene Dietrich.
Henderson hired a new theatre manager, Vivian van Damm, who developed the idea of the Revudeville — a programme of continuous, non-stop variety that ran from 2.30pm until 11pm. They began to put on shows with singers, dancers, showgirls and speciality numbers. The first Revuedeville act opened on February 3, 1932, featuring 18 unknown acts. These continued to be unprofitable; in all, the theatre lost £20,000 in the first few years of its opening.
A breakthrough came when Van Damm began to incorporate glamorous nude females on stage, inspired by the Folies Bergères and Moulin Rouge in Paris. This coup was made possible by convincing the Lord Cromer, then Lord Chamberlain, in his authority as the censor for all theatrical performances in London, that the display of nudity in theatres was not obscene: since the authorities could not credibly hold nude statues to be morally objectionable, the theatre presented its nudes — the legendary "Windmill girls" — in motionless poses as living statues or tableaux vivants. The ruling:' If you move, it's rude.' The Windmill's shows became a huge commercial success and the Windmill girls took their show on tour to other London and provincial theatres and music halls. The Piccadilly and Pavilion theatres copied the format and ran non-stop shows, diminishing the Windmill's attendance.
Van Damm produced a series of nude tableaux vivants based around themes such as Annie Oakley, Mermaids, Red Indians and Britannia. Later, movement was introduced in the form of the fan dance, where a naked dancing girl's body was concealed by fans held by herself and two female attendants. At the end of the act the girl would stand stock still, her attendants would remove the concealing fans and reveal her nudity. The girl would then hold the pose for about ten seconds before the close of the performance. Another way the spirit of the law was evaded, enabling the girl to move, and thus satisfying the demands of the audience, was by moving the props rather than the girls. Ruses such as a technically motionless nude girl holding on to a spinning rope were used. Since the rope was moving rather than the girl, authorities allowed it, even though the girl's body was displayed in motion (Weightman 1992: 88-90).
The theatre's famous motto "We Never Closed" (often humorously modified to "We Never Clothed") was a reference to the fact that the theatre was never closed, apart from the compulsory closure that affected all theatres for 12 days (September 4–16) in 1939. The Windmill remained open throughout the Second World War, entertaining Londoners right through The Blitz. The showgirls, cast members and crew moved into the safety of the theatre's two underground floors during some of the worst air attacks of the Blitz, from September 7, 1940 to May 11, 1941.
Many of the Windmill's patrons were families and troops as well as celebrities who came as Henderson's guests. These high society guests included Princesses Helena Victoria and Marie Louise (the daughter and granddaughter of Queen Victoria). For a time , on the opening night of every new Windmill show, the Royal Box was always reserved for the Hon.George Lansbury, a member of His Majestys Government The theatre ran into the occasional problem with male patrons, but theatre security guards were always on the lookout for improper behaviour. One of the more comical off-stage acts was the spectacle of the "Windmill Steeplechase" where, at the end of a show, patrons from the back rows would make a dash over the top of the seats to grab the front rows.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
The orgasmatron is a fictional electromechanical device that appears in the 1973 movie Sleeper, which also shows the effects of a related device, an orgasmic orb. Similar devices have appeared in other fictional works. The term has also been applied to an non-fictional device capable of triggering an orgasm-like sensation using electrodes implanted at the lower spine.
The orgasmatron is a fictional device in the fictional future society of 2173 in the Woody Allen movie Sleeper. It is a large cylinder big enough to contain one or two people. The orgasmatron was made by decorating an elevator in the home where the movie was filmed. Once entered, it contains some (otherwise undescribed) future technology that rapidly induces orgasms. This is required, as almost all people in the Sleeper universe are impotent or frigid, although males of Italian descent are considered the least impotent of all groups.
The main character Miles Monroe, played by Allen, is being hunted by the police as being subversive to security of the state, and attempts to hide in it, thinking it is a closet. He is discovered there, and easily captured in a daze, with a dopey smile on his face.
Another, related device, an orb also appears in this movie. It is a silver-colored sphere about the size of a grapefruit that contains some (otherwise undescribed) future technology. When the orb is touched by a human, it induces pleasurable sensations. In a scene where Miles impersonates a robotic servant, he is ordered by the hostess to pass the orb among the guests. Unlike the robot he is imitating, he is not immune to the effects of the orb. Much physical humor results from his reaction to firmly holding this device, which party participants only lightly caress.
Later on, they encounter a gay male couple, one of whom offers Miles a "hit off the orb". Miles reports that he's "cool" and does not need to indulge. It appears the effect of the orb is more like social marijuana, pleasurable rather than orgasmic.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
DETROIT -- Aretha Franklin is behind, literally, a growing movement to grant statehood to her two enormous breasts.
"The two masses have a an area in square miles the equivalent of Vermont and New Hampshire, and I see no compelling reason that they should not be granted statehood," says the movement's spokesperson, Harry Smiderson.
Republicans in Washington are terrified that the movement may gain momentum in the current anti-Bush atmosphere. "Two large, African-American breasts are likely to generate senators and representatives that vote along with the democrats, and this is a scenario we cannot allow," says National Republican Party spokesperson, Roger Snick.
Ms. Franklin has refused to comment to media about the issue.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
Remember, if you have a story you want to share with the smutty world through Frequently Felt just zap me a line: email@example.com.
“What’re you doing?” I giggled, trying to get past him, but he held the door closed with his well-muscled right arm. “What if someone saw us come in here? You’re gonna get me in so much trouble.”
“Shh,” he said. “You talk too much.”
I backed up against the wall, trapped. Chris nuzzled my neck; pressing his body hard against me I could feel his erection on my thigh.
“No,” I whimpered. My knees buckled and my body betrayed me, every inch of my virgin skin longed for his touch. “I can’t. I’m the preacher’s daughter, for God’s sake.”
He spun me around to face the mirror. Looming behind me, his manhood was plainly visible and throbbing for release.
“You’re also a woman. Jesus Christ, would you look at yourself. Look how beautiful you are.”
He reached around to unbutton my blouse, freeing my aching breasts from their imprisonment. I watched in the mirror as he licked his fingers and teased my large nipples with their moistness, pinching and tugging on them until they stood erect and quivering under his touch.
Christian's right hand found its way up under my skirt and across my thigh, stroking my pussy through my panties. Then deciding they were in the way, he ripped them off with one swift motion.
“Bend over and stick your ass up for me,” he said, and I did it without hesitation. My breasts pressed into the cold, wet countertop, but I didn’t care. This man was doing things to me I’d never experienced before, and I didn’t want him to stop. “Spread your legs a little more.”
Chris squatted down and blew softly on my pussy, breathing deeply of my pungent aroma. Leaning in closer, he licked my lips so gently with the tip of his tongue that I could barely feel it, but I could feel it enough to set the butterflies in my stomach aflutter. I arched my back in anticipation.
“Have you ever had a man inside you before?”
I shook my head no, unable to speak.
I watched in the mirror as Christian stood to unzip his pants. “Then this is probably going to hurt a little.” He pressed himself against me, his flesh hot and inviting. “Do you want me to stop?”
"Are you sure?"
“What do you want, angel?” He explored my bare flesh, his fingers greedily probing the hidden secrets between my legs, my bottom, my cleavage. “Tell me.”
"I … I …” My mind reeled, for I didn’t know what I wanted.
“I want to hear you say it. Tell me what you want, baby.”
“I want you inside me," I whispered.
Chris watched my face in the mirror as he slowly, steadily eased every inch of his engorged cock into my vestal vagina with a guttural, animalistic moan. It was as though I was being stabbed in the deepest core of my being. The pain was excruciating, exquisite, and I cried out in agony. His movements stopped. He stood there for a moment; eyes closed, head back, savoring the sensation of my luscious cunt impaled on his rod. I sobbed, his fingers dug deeper into my fleshy hips at the sound, and his thrusting began anew, quickened, became more forceful.
Tears streamed down my face, but the initial pain was gone and I became aware of the thickness of him. I felt I might split under the pressure. I’d never felt so full before, and though it hurt, I was breathless with desire for him. I wanted more.
I bent forward, tilting my ass upward, allowing him to plunge deeper and deeper inside me. My blood traced a path down the inside of my thighs and pooled on the floor between our feet.
Christian's breathing was shallow and labored now, his jaw clenched as his hot shaft explored the depths of my newly discovered womanhood over and over again.
“Ugh!” I grunted, reaching down between my legs to feel him as he entered me, our bodies now one.
The knob jiggled, then a quick knock on the door. Someone wanted in. "Sarah? Are you in there?"
"Fuck, it's your dad!" Chris whispered, his erection dwindling fast.
"I'm here, Daddy. I'll be out in a sec."
"Well hurry up, would you? They're just getting ready to start Communion."
Christian withdrew from me, his penis but a shriveled shadow of its former self.
"Nothing like a parent walking in on you to kill the mood, eh?" he joked.
The blood wiped off easily, and we straightened our clothes as best we could.
"God, I hope they're serving real wine this time," Chris said. "I don't know about you, but I could really use a drink."
Sunday, March 15, 2009
During the holidays, like most folks out there, I did a fair amount of shopping. As usual, the malls were full of fantasy-fodder: LOTS of very attractive girls and their mothers. Of course, in November and December - at least where I am - you don’t see a lot of bare feet and sandals, but nice heels and well-made boots aren’t to be sneered at either.
A lot of the moms and forty-something women really got my tickle-fiend’s imagination going. There’s just something about the image of a very sophisticated, experienced woman being tickled; her you’ve got this immaculately made-up lady in designer clothes, maybe a successful businesswoman, who just happens to have insanely ticklish - let’s say feet.
As I waited in line with my box of variously-sized Pyrex bowls (couldn’t pass up that price) I found myself imagining such a woman. For the sake of convenience, let’s call her Victoria: not too tall, maybe with frosted blonde hair she’d just gotten cut short. She’s dressed to the nines, but she’s a little self-conscious about the hair; she’s very aware that it makes her look younger. Also, she’s worn her hair long up to this point; the nape of her neck now feels extremely vulnerable. I imagine Victoria to be in a loveless marriage, or maybe single, but when she was younger she had lovers, and she had kind of a thing about having the back of her neck kissed or caressed.
Because it tickles. It causes her to gasp and jerk her shoulders up and try to wrest herself away from the caresser. It turns her on, but it also embarrasses her slightly; it makes her feel out of control. Victoria’s feet are another prime tickle-spot; they’re fairly small, with high arches and little, evenly-sized toes. They’re incredibly CUTE feet; when she wears sandals other women always comment on how “pretty” they are, but sometimes they phrase it as “You have such cute little tootsies.” Victoria gets that same wriggle-and-gasp response from being told she has cute tootsies that she does when someone kisses her vulnerable neck-nape. And she absolutely can’t stand having those tootsies touched. Pedicures are agony for her because she ALWAYS laughs and she always suspects the hot younger girls in the beauty salon she goes to are deliberately letting their fingers stray over her arches for a moment or two too long, just long enough to make poor Victoria’s face crumble up and break into that sweet, tortured smile. But what can she do? She can complain, but that would be like letting the girls win. So Victoria endures it.
Sometimes during one of those ticklish moments, Victoria thinks about how sexy/awful/delicious/terrifying it would be to be put into bondage and have her shoes slowly removed. She never dwells on this fantasy; it comes over her in a quick rush, the mere IDEA of sitting with her feet on a stool, her wrists tied, nervously flexing her toes in their sheath of sheer nylon. Anyone could tickle them, and if she were in a public place probably someone would eventually - maybe a cute girl like the ones at the salon, maybe a hot young guy. Maybe a business associate or an old rival whose lover she stole once upon a time.
She’d laugh. And laugh and squeal and look incredibly young and sexy and hot and helpless. She’d be regressed by her ticklishness into a younger woman, a girl who just can’t stand being tickled. What would she do? Cry? Would she be reduced to begging? Maybe she’d be so freaked out/turned on that she’d allow herself to offer her tormentor head in return for mercy. All the while those cute feet would be flexing and wriggling, unable to get away.
Yeah, I liked Victoria a lot. She sure made waiting in line easier. Maybe one of these days I’ll turn on the old fantasy-machine and see her again…
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Still More Extreme Stories of Still More Extreme Sex
A book of straight, lesbian and gay S/M stories to be published by Logical-Lust (www.logical-lust.com ).
For this edition of the series writers are encouraged to experiment with the basic idea of what S/M erotica play is -- and could be -- as well as how our modern world has changed the possibilities and potentials of S/M. Examples could be stories that challenge established ideas of dominance and submission, that play with it’s practice with new technology, that challenge gender roles, or that push limits of play space versus the real world. While this is not a science fiction anthology stories that project the impact of current technology and social changes would be acceptable.
Stories should be focused on the dominance and submission side of S/M play, though stories that also include sadism and masochism will be considered if they fit the anthology criteria. While I respect the wide variety of S/M experiences, keep in mind that nonconsensual sex (i.e. rape) stories are not what this project is about.
If you have questions about whether or not your story may work for this anthology, please contact me with your questions or concerns.
Both previously published as well as original works will be considered.
Deadline for Submissions: July 31, 2009
Rights: First North American Anthology Rights
Payment: $25, paid on publication
Submissions should be emailed as an attachment to firstname.lastname@example.org (rtf format only, contact info must be on all attachments)
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
And if you haven't bought her lovely novel, Amorous Woman, yet then you must!
Once a land of inscrutable mystery, Japan is no longer especially exotic to Westerners with sushi bars, manga, and Nintendo now familiar fixtures in our culture.
But there is one Japanese institution the West has yet to import--one that still retains an aura of glittering allure and forbidden pleasure. I’m talking, of course, about the love hotel, where a couple can rent a scrupulously clean and fancifully decorated room designed primarily for a few hours of steaming hot sex.
In a country where housing is expensive, the walls paper thin, and many adult children live with their parents until they marry, it’s hard to find a time and a place for no-holds-barred, thrash-and-scream erotic encounters. Enter the love hotel, which truly fills an aching need in Japanese culture. Researchers estimate that one half of all sexual encounters in Japan take place in a love hotel.
Curious? But your schedule won’t allow a quick trip to Japan for an amorous encounter in a room decorated with large Hello Kitty dolls in S&M gear? Then come join me for the next best thing: Love Hotel Madness, a timeless game of afternoon delights where everyone’s a winner!
First, of course, you have to pick your game pieces. Will you be the married couple, desperate to get away from grandma and the kids on a Sunday afternoon? Two college students who lodge in dorms where their mates see and hear everything? Or maybe an office lady who’s finally lured her handsome boss into an after-happy-hour tryst?
Next you need to find your love hotel. The best hunting ground is near the train tracks, along the highway, or in the entertainment districts of cities. In Tokyo, Shibuya’s “Love Hotel Hill” has perhaps the most concentrated selection of love hotels in the country. Will it be “Hotel Rich Inn”? Or “Hotel Monaco”? How about “New Seeds”? Or “Blue Roses”? Pick a card and proceed.
Once you choose, step through the discreet hanging curtain into the lobby. There is no check-in clerk, merely a wall of computer screens, each advertising a particular room, with price and amenities. The lit-up screens indicate unoccupied rooms, and you can shop for the theme of your choice. For the purposes of Love Hotel Madness, roll the dice and find the room with that number. Tap the button on the screen for “rest” (one to three hours) or “stay” (the all-night option) and follow the blinking lights to the door of your room, which has been unlocked automatically.
Although we’ve all heard about the laugh-out-loud humorous theme rooms involving paper mache igloos or beds fitted out as boxing rings, more common these days is a well-appointed love den that resembles a baroque Western hotel, although creative touches may be included like a cave bath or a black-light ocean mural. One reason for the decline of all-out kitsch is that women now have more say in the particulars of rendezvous locales. In fact, the word “love hotel” is seldom used by the Japanese anymore. They prefer softer, euphemistic names like couples’ hotel, fashion hotel or boutique hotel.
Another blow to the fun was the 1985 change to the Law Regulating Businesses Affecting Public Morals. That sorry moment in legislative history banished mirrors on the ceilings and rotating beds and restricted exuberant architectural expression. Thus the Cinderella castles and Moorish palaces I remember so well from my first stay in Japan became unremarkable, anonymous facades, and many owners reregistered their establishments as “business hotels” to avoid fines.
However, bright spots do remain in the love hotel landscape. If you’re lucky enough to have rolled for the Hotel Adonis in Osaka, you might find yourself in the Hello Kitty S& M room, the bed equipped with manacles and a cute Hello Kitty quilt. Osaka’s Hotel Loire is a classic—here you can rent a train car to act out subway sex fantasies, the Olympic room with Ionic columns and faux marble floors, or the Pirate room, with a bed right on deck and a view of an approaching ship flying the skull-and-crossbones.
One final preparation: a bit of fiddling with the fancy console on the headboard of your bed. Here you can adjust the room temperature or set the mood with music, the soothing sound of waves or a train conductor’s announcements, perfect for sex-in-the-train fantasies.
Now it’s time to move on to the climax of Love Hotel Madness. You are about to embark on the ultimate Japanese experience—a quick trip to the yume no kuni, the Land of Dreams. In a country where context rules everything, from the pronoun you use to describe yourself to the angle of your bow, the love hotel is the one place where sensual indulgence is allowed and, if you’re in a dungeon room, strictly required by your Master’s orders. So I’ll leave you for an hour or two to add your own slippery twist to the game….
Ahem, sorry to intrude, but your time is up and if you don’t want to pay a surcharge, it’s best to check out now. Paying for your pleasure might involve tucking your cash in a container that goes speeding to the clerk through a pneumatic tube. Other hotels ask you pay with a credit card via computer. Some will actually lock you in until payment is received!
In any case you will eventually find yourself back in the real world, blinking at the grim, fully clothed people bustling about on the street around you. Yes, perhaps it was all just a dream. But what’s this in your hand? A coupon informing you that if you “rest” four times at Hotel New Seeds, your fifth romp between the sheets is free. Plus you’ve already earned one stamp. See, I told you, in Love Hotel Madness, everyone’s a winner.
Donna George Storey has taught English in Japan and Japanese in the US. Her first novel, Amorous Woman, a semi-autobiographical tale of an American woman’s love affair with Japan has many sex scenes set in hotels throughout Japan. Read more of her work at her very amorous Web site (www.DonnaGeorgeStorey.com).
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Come dance with us! This is the first of a series by some writers who are relatively new to the erotica "genre." Marina St. Clare, Helia Brookes, myself, and whoever else wants to join in. Helia came up with the name "Beginner's Ball." It will travel from blog to blog. Please feel free to jump in and comment - we're hoping those more experienced writers will find this just as interesting as us newbies do.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
$#$%##! LA County tries for cuss-free week
LOS ANGELES – Pay no attention to that eerie silence in the nation's most populous county this week; it will simply be the sound of 10 million people not cussing.
At least that's the result McKay Hatch is hoping for once his campaign to clear the air is recognized by the Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors.
On Tuesday, the board is scheduled to issue a proclamation by Supervisor Michael Antonovich making the first week in March No Cussing Week.
That would mean no blue language from the Mojave desert, where it gets hot as $&# in the summer, to the Pacific Ocean, where on a winter's day it can get colder and nastier than %$#!
Not that 15-year-old Hatch expects complete compliance. When his No Cussing Club meets at South Pasadena High School on Wednesdays it's not unusual for a nonmember to throw open the door and fire off a torrent of four-letter words. He's also been the target of organized harassment by pro-cussers.
And Antonovich's county motion carries no penalties.
"But it's a good reminder for all of us, not just young people but everybody, to be respectful to one another and watch the words we use," said the supervisor's spokesman, Tony Bell.
The county isn't the first entity to try to put the lid on swearing. Hatch's hometown of South Pasadena declared itself a cuss-free zone for a week last March, and two years ago a high school in Canada threatened to suspend repeat cussers.
Hatch has lofty goals.
"Next year I want to try to get California to have a cuss-free week. And then, who knows, maybe worldwide," said the 10th grader, who believes if people treat each other with more civility they can better work together to solve bigger problems.
He said his campaign began to form about the time he hit seventh grade when he noticed his friends beginning to swear, something his family didn't allow.
He formed the No Cussing Club and invited others to join. Soon the group had a Web site, bright orange T-shirts, a hip hop theme song and inquiries from all over from people interested in joining. He estimates 20,000 people have formed similar clubs.
"It's not about forcing anyone to stop, just to bring awareness," he says of the movement. "If you can do a week without cussing, maybe you can do two weeks. And then maybe a month."
Monday, March 2, 2009
From Save Vs Death (compliments of the always-great Mick Dementiuk)
The listing claims Helga here is imported from Germany was originally purchased for $1500. I'm thinking this sexy frau was most recently employed in the window an adult novelty shop that has since shuttered. Just a thought, but how terrible is the economy when a sex shop closes? That must be an uncomfortable dinner table family budget discussion in which Mr. and Mrs. Cashstrapped Sixpack must tearfully declare that flavored love jellies and various items of erotica must be nixed.
The black socks and ill-fitting granny panties are far from alluring, but there's something about her serious Teutonic face that causes one's mind to race to thoughts of verbotten lieben.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
NewScientist (via AmericaBlog):
A new nationwide study (pdf) of anonymised credit-card receipts from a major online adult entertainment provider finds little variation in consumption between states.
"When it comes to adult entertainment, it seems people are more the same than different," says Benjamin Edelman at Harvard Business School.
However, there are some trends to be seen in the data. Those states that do consume the most porn tend to be more conservative and religious than states with lower levels of consumption, the study finds.
"Some of the people who are most outraged turn out to be consumers of the very things they claimed to be outraged by," Edelman says....
The biggest consumer, Utah, averaged 5.47 adult content subscriptions per 1000 home broadband users...
Eight of the top 10 pornography consuming states gave their electoral votes to John McCain in last year's presidential election – Florida and Hawaii were the exceptions. While six out of the lowest 10 favoured Barack Obama....
Residents of 27 states that passed laws banning gay marriages boasted 11% more porn subscribers than states that don't explicitly restrict gay marriage....
States where a majority of residents agreed with the statement "I have old-fashioned values about family and marriage," bought 3.6 more subscriptions per thousand people than states where a majority disagreed. A similar difference emerged for the statement "AIDS might be God's punishment for immoral sexual behaviour."