Agonophilia is the paraphilia involving sexual arousal derived from the act of fighting, or participating in or observing a combat sport, such as wrestling, boxing or kickboxing, martial arts, etc., or from viewing depictions thereof; from the Greek agonos (combat, struggle, conflict) and philia (love of).
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Mat is a Russian patois language, based on the use of specific generally unprintable obscene words. Russian mat makes it possible to have a conversation using mainly obscene words in a fashion that is not insulting. That is what sets Russian mat apart from the obscenities of most languages. Russian mat is common only in groups consisting solely of males. However, the dialect now is beginning to appear in female-only groups as well. The practice of mat speaking has existed for only the last twenty or thirty years. In many parts of Russia, the use of mat in a public place constitutes a form of disorderly conduct, punishable under article 20.1.1 of the Offences Code of Russia.
The origins of mat are lost in the mists of time. Russian anthropologists think that it evolved from ancient myth and magical beliefs. However, they offer divergent interpretations of the basic formula.
It is commonly believed that the name mat derives from мать (Romanisation: mat'), the Russian word for "mother". The term might rather come from a word meaning "loud yell," which is now used in only a few expressions such as благим матом. The use of mat is widespread, especially in the army, the criminal world, and many other all-male milieus.
The basic formula of mat, in its most common variant, is: Ёб твою мать (Yob tvoyu mat'), meaning "fucked your mother", with the familiar ты (ty) form implying contempt (as opposed to the more grammatically and socially proper use of вы (vy), similar to the distinction between the French "tu" and "vous"). In this variant the subject of the sentence is omitted, but there is also an expanded variant in which it is made explicit: Пёс ёб твою мать (Pyos yob tvoyu mat'), meaning "[A] [male dog] fucked your mother".
Mikhailin points also to the social influence of the criminal milieu through the labor camps, where criminals were favored and allowed to dominate the "political" prisoners. Thus thieves' (блатной, blatnoy) customs, aesthetic standards, and jargon (of which mat is a significant part) penetrated the law-abiding population, especially the male adolescent subcultures of city courtyards.
That mat belongs to the ancient layers of the Russian language (the first written mat words date to Middle Ages). It was first introduced into literature in the 18th century by the poet Ivan Barkov, whose poetry, combining lofty lyrics with brutally obscene words, may be regarded as a forerunner of Russian literary parody.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Woman fined £200 for noisy sex romps
A woman has been fined £200 for disturbing neighbours with her noisy sex sessions.Caroline Cartwright was found guilty of breaching an abatement notice served on her after 25 complaints to police about her romps with husband Steve.
The 47-year-old denied the latest five charges but was convicted after Sunderland magistrates listened to recordings of the loud lovemaking.
She was due to be given an Antisocial Behaviour Order (Asbo) today at magistrates' court.
Environmental Health placed recording equipment in the flat next door to the couple's house in Hall Road, Concord, Washington.
The Cartwrights' neighbour, Rachel O'Connor pressed a button on the machine every time she was disturbed by noise from next door.
She said: "It is sounds of a sexual nature, really loud, a lot of moaning and groaning and screaming as if in pain.
"It comes from both parties, the man and the woman."
Ms O'Connor told the court that when she first moved into Hall Road, in November 2007, the noise started at midnight and lasted until 3am.
Now, she said, the noise started at about 6.30am and lasted until 9am.
The tape made in Ms O'Connor's flat was recorded through a soundproofed wall, but words and the sound of slapping were audible.
Environmental Health officer Pamela Spark, told the court that she had heard 23 recordings of the couple having sex.
She said: "The recordings contained an excessive screaming female voice. I felt that the noise was a clear breach of the abatement notice at that level."
Anne Dimmock, who leases the flat, told the court she had trouble keeping tenants because of the romping.
She said: "It's quite a disturbing, very loud sexual noise. I actually mistook it for domestic violence, it was that unnatural."
Ms Dimmock runs a domestic care agency, Choice Care, from the flat below with business partner Melanie Smith.
The businesswomen told the court the business suffered because of the sounds from the Cartwrights' house.
They said they had to conduct meetings and interviews in the kitchen to avoid embarrassing clients and staff.
Ms Smith lived in the flat with her newborn baby but told the court she moved out because she "couldn't take it any more".
She said: "I started hearing a disturbing noise about February/March 2006.
"I contacted next door to say I could hear something and I had a little boy and it was waking him up.
"She said she would move the bed and keep it down, but it got really bad about March time which is when I left."
Partially-deaf neighbour Margery Ball said she had not had a decent night's sleep in two years because of the Cartwrights.
Peter Lowthian, defending, said the sound problem worked both ways, and Cartwright heard Ms O'Connor having sex, Mrs Ball's television and typing and conversations from the business below.
He claimed the couple had been targeted and were the victims of vandalism and abusive behaviour.
Cartwright told the court: "I am not making the noise on purpose. I have no desire to hurt anybody or damage any property."
Cartwright was fined £200 with £300 costs and a £15 victim surcharge.
The terms of her Asbo were to be decided by Sunderland magistrates today.
Sunday, April 26, 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.
Ralph Greco, Jr.
Oh, these kids today. ‘Sexting’ naked pictures of themselves from and over their cell phones?!
I think back to when I was twelve or thirteen and the last thing I had any interest in was sex. I knew of course that a girls’ parts were different that mine and in some deep dormant synapses I imagined that they could be used for some nefarious possibly pleasurable purpose, but I couldn’t truly conceive of all that possibility at so tender an age. The only thing I had any interest in at 13 was trying to train my fingers to stay in Mr. Spock’s “live long and prosper” position.
I guess it was a different time.
The ever-earlier sexualizing of our young seems to be epidemic, no doubt about it. There are dangers to all this I can’t even begin nor do I want to imagine. But with this recent ‘sexting’ thing, I was reminded how far we have traveled, in a mere few decades really, in what kids know and at what age they seem to know it…or at least want to know it.
The ‘wanting to know’ really seems to be at the crux of the thing. It can be argued that these over-sexualized ‘kids today’ really have no more of a clue about the things they see and do then I did, even though they might be seeing more body parts on the Internet or across cell phone screen-savers and doing God-knows what all at basement parties then I ever dared dream about seeing or doing when I was their age. But it’s not as much the exposure to stuff-we snuck Playboys at that age, we ‘played doctor’ behind rickety shed doors-but the rampant desire the kids today seem to have in abundance that I just couldn’t muster at so early an age. And whether it’s access that all this technology allows or the modern-day horniness of young kids that has made them even consider these activities, like the quintessential chicken-before-the-egg quandary, I don’t know.
What I do know is that desire is a devilishly hard thing to smite or legislate.
Two of my most favorite recollections of early sexual interest were when my buddies and I found a rain-soaked Playboy in field where we used to play. Thinking it better to peruse the magazine dry, we left our prize open to dry on a rock…only to find it gone by the time we returned. The other time that sticks in my memory was when we found an adult magazine (the name long since lost to my memory) cut in half. As this was mainly a picture mag-thinking back on it now I think the magazine was built around stills from 8-millimeter films of the day-my friends and I attempted in our naiveté to piece together the requisite bottoms to the requisite tops.
But at the time of the two examples above we were at least three or four years older then the average age of the kids sexting today.
In the end, one thirteen year old showing themselves to another thirteen year old really might not be all that bad…if that’s all they were doing and you could assure me that some crusty forty seven year old wasn’t seeing the pics. Gay, straight, bi, most of us are going to be interested in the ‘no-nos’ ‘pee-pees and po-pos’ of our others. And I dare say, our kids (just like us adults) are going to continue to click, cam, strip, show and find ways to do so no matter what.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Miranda Grosvenor was the fictitious name of an elusive Louisiana woman who enchanted dozens of famous men with sweet telephone talk in the 1970s and 1980s. In 1999, Vanity Fair exposed the mystery woman as Whitney Walton, a Baton Rouge social worker and bored fan who made a full-time hobby of calling stars.
As "Miranda", Walton engaged in late-night telephone conversations with such stars as Billy Joel, Warren Beatty, Bob Dylan, Buck Henry, Michael Apted, Mike Nichols, Vitas Gerulaitis, Ted Kennedy, Art Garfunkel, Robert De Niro and Richard Gere, telling them that she was a blonde Tulane University student, wealthy socialite, and international model. Her voice and conversation style were reportedly so alluring that wealthy and powerful men (including actors, musicians, and movie moguls) fell in love without ever meeting her, and rearranged their whole evenings around speaking to the mysterious stranger. According to Vanity Fair, at least two of her telephone paramours, Quincy Jones and Richard Perry, proposed marriage. Billy Joel wrote songs which he sang on Miranda's answering machine, considered her at times his "only friend", and considered writing a musical about her. Many others bought her jewelry and sent her plane tickets. Novelist Kinky Friedman created a Miranda character in his detective novels.
According to John McCall, the multimillionaire shampoo magnate and novelist, "Whitney Walton was friends with almost everybody. From maitre d's at fancy restaurants to movie stars, writers, pop singers, football players, team owners, she seemed to know everything. If you had a question on where to go or what to eat if you were in a strange city, she knew where to go, and she seemed to know all the people involved and they all knew her. She was a smart, sophisticated lady who knew a lot about everything."
Miranda's telephone calls dissipated at some point in the mid-1980s. Though no one knows why "Miranda" retired, it was rumored that she "disappeared" in the wake of threats from lawyers of the late tennis player Vitas Gerulaitis.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
I strip for the fun of it. Don't let anyone tell you different. It's not the money. I could make nearly as much working at the mill and keep my clothes on, but then I'd have to suck up to the bosses. Here at the Peacock, I'm the one in charge, and I like it that way.
Sometimes I think it's a sort of revenge, for all the times I heard those nasty calls trailing after me: Honey Jugs, Monster Boobs, Bouncer. Not to mention those sweaty, awkward clinches in back seats, trying to please. Trying to be popular. Now they can't take their eyes off my breasts, swinging back and forth in time to the music. Their tongues are hanging out. I can see the tents in their laps. They all want me; I know how to make them want me. I'm an expert. But I'm off limits. They can look, they can drool, they can beg me. But my job's to turn them on and bring them to the bursting point, then send them home unsatisfied.
That's my view, anyway. Some of the other girls think different. All in all, though, the Peacock Lounge is a pretty classy joint, not like some of sleaze pits down near the railroad.
I love the moment when the lights come down, and the DJ introduces me. There's this strange pause, as if I was floating. I can feel them out there, the audience, holding their breath. Then, I hear the first notes of my routine. Energy surges through me. I'm one hundred percent alive. My nipples get hard and my sex tingles when I step out onto the stage and meet their eyes.
That's my secret weapon: eye contact. Up close and personal. I can bump and grind, shake my tits in their faces, bend over so they get a good look at the G-string settled in my ass-crack. It doesn't do any good without my stare. I try to see their darkest fantasies. This one pictures me sitting on him, his mouth burrowing in my bush. That one wants me to hold his dick while he pees. That guy in the back, oh, he's bad news. He aches to tie me up and beat me with his belt. Tough luck, feller. Dream on.
I don't know whether what I see is real or just my imagination, but it has a real effect. They feel my eyes; they think I know them. They get all flustered and embarrassed, wave to me, stick their tens and twenties into my G-string. Watching me, anxious-like, all the time.
Meanwhile, it turns me on. I dance a lot better when I'm horny. Sometimes I play with myself a bit before my set, to get myself into the mood. Then I hold my fingers under their noses, and watch their reactions.
I feed off their desire. The more they want me, the hotter I get, the better I dance. The more outrageous I become. So, it's particularly annoying tonight that this one guy in the front row doesn't react at all.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
I bought a pair of breasts the other day. I’d been putting it off for months – general hemming, hawing, that kind of thing – but then I walked by a body shop, you know, that pseudoskin place down on Maholley Terrace, by the baby fat bakery, and there they were in the window: two of the most gorgeous set of tits you ever did see. Now I know what they say, that bigger isn’t always better, but I’ll tell ya, it’s only the folks who’ve got stuck with little bitty titties are the ones sprouting that kind of stuff. Size, I’ll tell you, is where it’s at.
So I go into the place right, just to get a feel for them – you know what I mean? – and like a pot-bellied nursing fly this sales drone latches right onto me …ssssuuuuccckkk! I had to whip out my pocket knife and ease the blade between his lips and my skull to break the suction. Soon as he’s free – leaving a mean-ass hickey, too – he starts right into it: a hardcore, non-stop, subliminally packed pitch: “Icansee(buy) thatyou’rethe(buy) kindaguy(buy) whoknowsquality(buy) merchandise.”
Lucky for me, my little neighborhood has recently become a spawning group for telemarketers, the ground thick with their gelatinous offal, egg-cases crackling underfoot, so I’d dowsed myself with cheap-ass perfume to ward off their greedy suckers. Once the smell of the stuff got to his ridiculously under-sized brain he’s quivering eyes lost their luster and his lips sagged down to his waist. “Yeah,” he gurgled through his flaccid sucking organ, “what you want?”
I nodded to the hooters in the window. “How much for the tits?”
He signed, his soft body rippling with the action. It was so disgusting I almost wished I hadn’t cheapened myself before becoming – excited he would have sucked by brain out of my skull trying to remove my wallet from my pants but at least he didn’t fart, burble and quiver like three-day-old birthday pudding. “That’s (sigh) the special. Three hundred goobahs.”
I slapped him hard across what passed for his face, sending his sagging organ whipping around his body at least twice – ending with a disgusting smack when his drooling mouth slapped against the side of his head. His cloudy eyes cleared just a bit so I snapped my hand down to his right hip and slugged his secondary sexual organ. Now completely clear, his eyes jerked and buzzed angrily with the stab of pain. You have to teach these parasites whose boss, you know?
“Don’t give me that feculum,” I growled, kicking him in his distended digestive tract. There was obviously a Paramecium World restaurant nearby, because he expelled a good three and a half bowls of wriggling cilia in red sauce: a venerable geyser of clear, watery flesh and crimson fluids that roared up, hit the ceiling, and rained back down -- pelting the entire establishment in greasy, half-digested Catch of the Day.
“How can I help you, Sir?” he managed to say between loud, sloppy licks of the walls, floor, management, other customers, and me.
“Like I said, I’m interested in the tits in the window,” I said, scraping saliva off my new shark-skin jumper.
“An excellent choice, sir,” he said, belching loudly, the action setting his entire body to quivering with a heavy wave-action. I was momentarily fascinated by him, hypnotized, by the rolls of loose flesh and the way they undulated up to the top of his head – momentarily covering his beady-eyed face with greasy skin. “The finest quality of breast there is.”
“How much?” I repeated, knowing that the ballistic discharge of a meal had most certainly purged his memory as well: our previous conversation just a residue on the harder-to-reach corners of the place.
“For you, fine sir, just two hundred and fifty goobahs,” he said, smiling. The effect was disturbing in the extreme.
I swallowed my revulsion and my own breakfast of immature college graduates and slapped him again. This time his face only wrapped partway around his tiny skull – and I filed away the fact that either these guys were getting tougher or I needed to work out a lot more.
“What was I saying? My goodness, I must have forgotten my brain today! I mean to say that those choice items are currently being offered for the special price of two hundred goobahs.”
Luckily I’d remember to shop armed, so I was able to drop the price down to a hundred and fifty by shooting him in the foot. He made the most delightful piercing scream – shattering every toe and fingernail in the place – as he jumped up and down, thin, yellow blood bubbling disgustedly from the wound.
“Sold,” I told him – pointing my weapon between his tearing eyes in case he had any thoughts about offering insurance or, heaven forbid, gift wrapping. Posthaste, my new boobs were out of the window and into a travel-bubble. The creature was even quite civil as he accepted my squirming pile of goobahs and fed it into the maw of the banking worm.
So that’s how I got my tits. Spectacular, aren’t they? I do have to say that I am quite, quite pleased with them – but, to be honest, while they’re loads of fun, I have to admit that the actually shopping was more fun that the tits ever have been. Funny how that is, ain’t it?
Anasyrma (plural: anasyrmata), also called anasyrmos, is the gesture of lifting up the skirt or kilt. It is used in connection with certain religious rituals, eroticism, and lewd jokes, see e.g. Baubo. The term is used in describing corresponding works of art. Anasyrma differs from flashing, a physically similar gesture as an act of exhibitionism, in that an exhibitionist has an implied purpose of his/her own sexual arousal, while anasyrma is only done for the effect on the onlookers.
Anasyrma may be a deliberately provocative self-exposing of one's naked genitals and/or buttocks. The famous example of the latter case is Aphrodite Kallipygos ("Aphrodite beautiful buttocks"). In many traditions this gesture also has an apotropaic character, as a mockery towards a supernatural enemy analogous to mooning.
Ritual jesting and obscenity were common in the cults of Demeter and Dionysus, and figure in the celebration of the Eleusinian mysteries associated with these divinities. The mythographer Apollodorus says that Iambe's jesting was the reason for the practice of ritual jesting at the Thesmophoria, a festival celebrated in honor of Demeter and Persephone, but in other versions of the myth of Demeter, the goddess is received by a woman named Baubo, who makes her laugh by exposing herself, in a ritual gesture called anasyrma ("lifting up [of skirts]"). A set of statuettes from Priene, a Greek city on the west coast of Asia Minor, are usually identified as "Baubo" figurines, representing the female body as the face conflated with the lower part of the abdomen, much like the phalluses decorated with eyes, mouth, and sometimes also legs that appear on vase paintings and also as statuettes.
Saturday, April 18, 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.
Ralph Greco, Jr.
All that is old is new again. I am forever hoping this axiom will bear fruit-of-the-loom possibility in the unpredictable, wild and wacky world of women’s undergarments, most importantly, where panties are concerned.
Being in my teens in the mid-to-late seventies, I remember all too well the fascination I could muster over panties. From the high-legged ‘French-cut’ variety to the bun-hugging cotton standard, my friends and I were forever transfixed if and when we got lucky enough to spy a girl sans pants in a picture or dare-we-even-dream-it, live, for real, right in front of us. As we were not a generation of guys familiar with 'booty shorts' or thongs, if we wanted to see a bare female bottom in the flesh, we’d have to coax, wrestle, talk said girl’s panties down the hump of her booty to see it so. It was a taut tantalizingly teasing time to be a young hetero guy and more then bemoan the panty-covered derrieres of yore, I truly believe we appreciated the simple things 'back there' so much more; the sight of the bump and curve covered so tightly, the long white expanse of thigh to hip, the anticipation of the moment-again, if we got so lucky or our girlfriends so drunk-when we might glimpse the promised land of bare glutei.
Cut to a mere few decades later and any teenage boy worth his backed-up testosterone spies more booty in his daily high school rounds then I could ever have dreamed existed. Teen guys spy cheek, hip and ‘fishtail’ live and on the net (or even on cell phones) as their female fellows forever bend or tuck low their ever-low riding jeans. What young girls today wear as undergarments would have made strippers blush back in my day of full un-forested fronts and tight Jordash jeans. And I truly feel, that with the showing of this much skin comes a complacency, from the girls who show it to the guys who see it. There have been countless recent studies concerning the sexualizing of our youth, criticism and condemnation leveled at the Internet and an ever-more powerful perverted 'tween' commercialism. The flirt, tease, 'hippy-hippy shake' fun of tentative teenage sexual explorations has been lessened in direct proportion to how much skin girls show these days. Therefore I’d dare postulate; sexuality has indeed accelerated to perverted proportions because girls simply do not wear full panties anymore.
I recall my first-ever girlfriend modeling a G-string and stocking set for me and I thought at that moment I had touched the divine. Hell, every guy I knew thought legwarmers were sexy stretched way up a girl's thighs, even though usually over a pair of jeans. Is it any wonder that a bikini high-cut bikini bottom drove us like lemmings to the cold ocean to calm down? That when we saw a girl in panties, no matter the cut, size or material we were almost satisfied even if bare bottom eluded us? That, in some strange way, we didn’t even want to see bare buns, that the potential a full tight panty provided, the hint of the promise and that damned beautiful rise and curve were simply aesthetically pleasing sights in and of themselves.
I assume every single one of us, when we pass a certain age begins to regard our youth with some longing. And true, our memories certainly do allow for a lot of revisionism; I dare say I forget the many many girls who never let me see their panties, let alone much of anything else. Still, I do recall the full panty and how much I loved it covering a bottom, no matter the shape, size or whose it was. And not because of my desire to pull it down but more because of just the simple act of appreciating the thing for what it was.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Here's more info on this very fun, and informative, event:
Owned and operated by YNOT.com, Cybernet Expo is an annual international tradeshow designed exclusively for online business professionals. This year’s show is scheduled to take place from June 25th through June 27th at the Golden Gateway Hotel in downtown San Francisco. The focus of Cybernet Expo is the lucrative adult Internet industry, making this an ideal event for webmasters, online marketers, talent, technology professionals and anyone else with an interest in participating in this rewarding field. Cybernet Expo offers daily seminars and classes designed to teach you how to grow a profitable adult website business. Learn from the best about how to build better websites, shoot effective adult content, and market effectively online. Cybernet Expo also offers special networking events so you can make new business contacts that will last.
In the evenings Cybernet Expo attendees are invited to exclusive industry only parties where they can hang out with adult business leaders and industry talent. Evening parties at Cybernet Expo are second to none, and a great chance to meet new people who work in the rewarding field of adult entertainment. For more information, please visit www.cybernetexpo.com. If you are interested in promoting your company at Cybernet Expo, please contact firstname.lastname@example.org for details.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
The Mull of Kintyre test was an unofficial guideline said to have been used by the British Board of Film Classification in the United Kingdom to decide whether an image of a man's penis could be shown.
The BBFC would not permit the general release of a film or video if it depicted a phallus erect to the point that the angle it made from the vertical (the "angle of the dangle", as it was often known) was larger than that of the Mull of Kintyre, Argyll and Bute, on maps of Scotland.
According to Professor John Hoyles of the University of Hull, the guideline was adopted by the British Board of Film Classification (BBFC) in 1992. Hoyles presented it as "the male performer's penis must never appear more than slightly tumescent". The Scottish lawyer Richard Findlay had previously alluded to it in a 1999 interview with Annette McCann. This test was subsequently adopted by UK television broadcasters and by some print publishers.
According to writer Emily Dubberley, the rule hampered the 1990s trend toward feminist pornography; since "you couldn't show a man in a state of arousal", the allowed depiction was "hardly a turn-on", and she criticized it as a double standard that was permitted due to the perception that women did not respond visually to erotic stimuli.
By 2002 the BBFC had largely abandoned its restrictions on the depiction of a tumescent penis. The rule is thought to have first been broken on UK television by a 2003 Channel 4 series entitled Under the Knife with Miss Evans.
Monday, April 13, 2009
From mischievous Native American spirits, to victims of cybernetic nightmares, these stories will amaze, amuse, terrify, fascinate and – always – excite you. Subtle and not, these well-crafted tales will touch you – and always excite you – in ways you’d never expect.Here's what people have said about this funny, wild, scary, and fun collection:
These aren’t just erotic stories; they are slices of life, fables, tales, and surreal anecdotes. Amazing, amusing, terrifying, and much more, they’ll excite and touch you in ways you’ll never expect.
I like M. Christian. Yes sireee. But up until now his punchy fiction has been laid on my lap drop by drop through various anthologies that have come my way. Once you’ve licked up one of his short stories, you’re left with a bitter sweet taste in your mouth that has you sniffling the air for more.
Dipping into his erotic prose is like being doused with a bucket of icy cold water on a sticky Summer’s day. It’s a sense awakening experience, which enlivens and sweeps you away in the same narrative breath. It’s dark, it’s dangerous, it’s horny, it’s mouthwatering, it’s witty and it’s sharp.
Read my lips: Read this book.
- Skin Two
Calling Dirty Words "provocative erotica" is like calling an orgasm "a pleasant sensation." M. Christian doesn't just peek over the edge; he grabs you and jumps and tells you a story all the way down, a story so strange and wonderful and deeply disturbing that you almost forget you're falling. You just hope you have time to find out how it ends before you hit bottom. It never ends the way you think it will.
M. Christian is that rarest of literary birds, a virtuoso stylist. Oh, I could rhapsodize about his tricolons, his parallel constructions, the noir beat of his prose rhythm. I could revel in the slow roll of his vowels, the crack of his consonants, and yes, even his assonance. But what it all means is that he reads like a dream. You can't open Dirty Words without finding a beautiful sentence.
To get the most out of M. Christian's haunting mix of rapture and horror, exaltation and degradation, love of language and lust for flesh, read him out loud. If you have someone to read him out loud to, someone who knows that the best porn is also art, you're both very lucky.
- Clean Sheets
As it is with anything (food, art, clothing, fill in the blanks), taste in literature is nothing if not subjective. When it comes to erotica, it is doubly so. There are some writers who, through the sheer brilliance of their work, transcend the boundaries of taste and genre in a way that appears almost effortless.
M. Christian is one of those.
Dirty Words, is a challenging and thoroughly enjoyable collection of short stories, all of which incorporates sex - and its peripheral issues - within their scope. Despite the common theme, the stories featured in the book cover a wide spectrum in terms of subject matter.
M. Christian is a writer who doesn't force the reader to labor through overblown descriptions or struggle with metaphors that don't quite 'click'. Rather, his language is so carefully chosen that it comes across as an untailored stream of consciousness: offhand, easily and very, very honest. It is the kind of writing that makes the process of reading seem unnecessary - the ideas simply exist on the page like surprises, waiting to be experienced.
I strongly recommend you experience Dirty Words by M. Christian for yourself
Part folklore, part pornography, part horror, part brutal romance - and all erotically kick-ass. Dirty Words takes readers in a tour of 14 contorted mental interiors and labyrinthine psychic dungeons inhabiting M. Christian's mind. This is not a collection of short stories where the music swells and the camera pans to clouds passing the bedroom window on a moonlit night.
Smart, hot, and vorpal-blade sharp, Dirty Words is perfect reading for those who love their sex fantasies in-you-face and are unafraid of a little blood
- AVN Inprint
Order a copy today!
If you're interested in reviewing Dirty Words please email M.Christian:
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
Deborah Sampson (December 17, 1760 - April 29, 1827) was the first known American woman to impersonate a man in order to join the Army. She gave her name as Robert Shurtliff, and successfully convinced the Uxbridge Seargent that she was a man in order to join the Continental Army near the end of the American Revolution.
Deborah Sampson was born in Plympton, Massachusetts on December 17, 1760 as the fifth oldest of seven children of Jonathan and Deborah Bradford Sampson both of them were direct Mayflower descendants. Her siblings were Jonathan, Hannah, Elisha, Ephraim, Sylvia and Nehemiah. The family lived in Middleborough, Massachusetts. Her family was poor and her father was rumored to have drowned in a shipwreck in 1765, when Deborah was almost five years old. But the family later discovered that he left his family and started a new life in Maine. Her mother supported the family and her children were sent to live at different households.
Deborah lived in two different households; first with a spinster, and then with the widow of Reverend Peter Thatcher. Until she became an indentured servant in the household of Deacon Jeremiah and Susannah Thomas the parents of ten sons in 1770. She became strong and mastered both traditional men's and women's work including fertilizing and plowing fields, milking cows, stacking hay, carpentry, spinning, sewing and weaving cloth. She educated herself by reading books that she found around the house and by tagging along with the Thomas sons to the town schoolroom. With this education she began to develop a great interest in politics and in the events of the war that had begun between the American colonies and the Kingdom of Great Britain British.
When she turned 18 and was released from her indentured servitude with Thomas family she got a job as a local school teacher where she taught both boys and girls. Deborah was at the age where most young women got married. Her mother wanted her to settle down although she had no interest in it. After all those years she wanted an adventure.
In 1778, she felt the need to do her part for the war and wanted to enlist in the Army. Women were not allowed to enlist, so she disguised herself as a man. She had little trouble doing this, since she was tall, intelligent, and just as strong as most of the men. Even her own mother failed to recognize her while she was disguised. In disguise, the local recruiting office enlisted her under the name of "Robert" of Carver. Because of the notable manner in which she held a quill pen, she may have been recognized and did not report the next day for service. On May 20, 1782, she tried again, this time successfully enlisting in the Continental Army on the Muster of Master Noah Taft under the name of her deceased brother, Robert Shurtliff from Uxbridge, Massachusetts. Her signature still exists in Massachusetts records.
She was chosen for the Light Infantry Company of the 4th Massachusetts Regiment under the command of Captain George Webb. The unit, consisting of fifty to sixty men, was first quartered in Bellingham, Massachusetts and later the unit mustered at Worcester under the Fourth Massachusetts Regiment, commanded by Colonel Shepard. Although she had some trouble with the men in her regiment after she looked in on the men changing, her distant cousin, Reverend Noah Alden, a minister in Bellingham, kept her secret.
Deborah fought in several skirmishes. During her first battle, on July 3, 1782, outside Tarrytown, New York, she received 2 musket balls in her thigh and a huge cut on her forehead from a bullet. She begged her fellow soldiers to just let her die and not take her to the hospital, but they refused to abandon her. A soldier put her on his horse and they rode six miles to a hospital. The doctors treated her head wound, but she left the hospital before they could attend to the musket ball. Fearful that her true identity would be discovered, she removed one of the balls herself with a penknife and sewing needle, but her leg never fully healed because the other ball was too deep for her to reach. On April 1, 1783 she was promoted and spent seven months serving as a waiter to General John Patterson. This job entitled her to a better quality of life, better food, and less danger.
After the peace treaty was signed, everyone thought the war was over. However, on June 24 the President of Congress ordered General Washington to send a fleet of soldiers to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, to aid in squelching a rebellion of several American officers. During the summer of 1783, Deborah came down with malignant fever and was cared for by a doctor, Barnabas Binney. He removed her clothes to treat her and discovered the band she used to bind her breasts and, thus, discovered her secret. He did not betray her secret; he took her to his house, where his wife and daughters further treated her.
After Sampson recovered she returned to the army, but not for long. In September 1783 peace was assured through the signing of the Treaty of Paris. November 3 was the date for the soldiers to be sent home. When Dr. Binney asked her to deliver a note to General George Washington, she knew that her secret was out. However, General Washington never uttered a word; instead, she received an honorable discharge from the service, a note with some words of advice, and a sum of money sufficient to bear her expenses home. Thus, on October 25, 1783, General Washington honorably discharged Deborah Sampson from the Army at West Point, after a year and a half of service.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
"Slow-motion film of Reagan's speeches produced a marked erotic effect in an audience of spastic children"
It is written in the style of a scientific paper and catalogues an apocryphal series of bizarre experiments intended to measure the psychosexual appeal of Ronald Reagan, then the Governor of California and candidate for the Republican Party nomination for the 1968 United States presidential election.
Ballard himself was inspired by the then-new phenomenon of "media politicians" and in his preface to the 1990 edition of The Atrocity Exhibition, explained:
In his commercials Reagan used the smooth, teleprompter-perfect tones of the TV auto-salesman to project a political message that was absolutely the reverse of bland and reassuring. A complete discontinuity existed between Reagan's manner and body language, on the one hand, and his scarily simplistic far-right message on the other. Above all, it struck me that Reagan was the first politician to exploit the fact that his TV audience would not be listening too closely, if at all, to what he was saying, and indeed might well assume from his manner and presentation that he was saying the exact opposite of the words actually emerging from his mouth.
In 1970, the pamphlet was added as an appendix to The Atrocity Exhibition, leading Doubleday to pulp its first American edition of that work.
Berg Katse has made the following claim:
At the 1980 Republican Convention in San Francisco a copy of [Why I Want to Fuck Ronald Reagan], minus its title and the running sideheads, and furnished with the seal of the Republican Party, was distributed by some puckish pro-situationists to the RNC delegates. It was accepted for what it resembled: a psychological position paper on the candidate's subliminal appeal, commissioned by some maverick think-tank.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Sex In San Francisco
Erotica With a City By The Bay Kink
A book of straight and female-focused bisexual erotic stories set in, and featuring the allure of, San Francisco. To be published by Renaissance E Books (http://shop.renebooks.com), tentatively scheduled for Fall 2009.
There’s no doubt that San Francisco is a sexy city with a long and noble erotic history. Sex In San Francisco is to be an anthology of erotic short stories exploring and celebrating the sexy side of this great American city.
Stories should not just be set in the city but actually use the city itself – its history, style, ideals and attitudes – as a majority part of their sexual dynamic. Stories can be modern, though a few historical stories will be considered.
If you have questions about whether or not your story may work for this anthology, please contact me with your questions or concerns.
Previously published as well as original works will be considered.
Story length: 2,000 to 5,000 wordsEmail submissions should be sent to: email@example.com (rtf format only, be sure to include contact information on all attachments)
Deadline for Submissions: July 1, 2009
Rights: First North American Anthology Rights
Payment: $25, paid on publication
Questions? Contact M. Christian (firstname.lastname@example.org)
M.Christian is an acknowledged master of erotica with more than 300 stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and many, many other anthologies, magazines, and Web sites. He is the editor of 20 anthologies including the Best S/M Erotica series, The Burning Pen, Guilty Pleasures, and many others. He is the author of the collections Dirty Words, Speaking Parts, The Bachelor Machine, Filthy, and Licks & Promises; and the novels Running Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, Me2, Brushes, and Painted Doll. His site is www.mchristian.com
Monday, April 6, 2009
Polari (or alternatively Parlare, Parlary, Palare, Palarie, Palari, Parlyaree, from Italian parlare, "to talk") was a form of cant slang used in the gay subculture in Britain. It was revived in the 1950s and 1960s by its use by camp characters Julian and Sandy in the popular BBC radio shows Beyond our Ken and Round the Horne, but its origins can be traced back to at least the 19th century. There is some debate about how it originated. There is a longstanding connection with Punch and Judy street puppet performers who traditionally used Polari to talk with each other.Polari is a mixture of Romance (Italian or Mediterranean Lingua Franca), Romany, London slang, backslang, rhyming slang, sailor slang, and thieves' cant. Later it expanded to contain words from the Yiddish language of the Jewish subculture which settled in the East End of London, the US forces (present in the UK during World War II) and 1960s drug users. It was a constantly developing form of language, with a small core lexicon of about 20 words (including bona, ajax, eek, cod, naff, lattie, nanti, omi, palone, riah, zhoosh (tjuz), TBH, trade, vada), with over 500 other lesser-known items.
Polari was used in London fishmarkets, the theatre, and the gay subculture. As Polari, it was used to disguise homosexual activity from potentially hostile outsiders (such as undercover policemen), but also because many gay men worked in theatrical entertainment where the lingo originated (including fairgrounds and circuses, hence the many borrowings from Romani in Polari). The almost identical Parlyaree has been spoken in fairgrounds since at least the 17th century and continues to be used by show travellers in England and Scotland. As theatrical booths, circus acts and menageries were once a common part of European fairs it is likely that the roots of Polari/Parlyaree lie in the period before both theatre and circus became independent of the fairgrounds. The Parlyaree spoken on fairgrounds tends to borrow much more from Romani, as well as other languages and argots spoken by travelling people, such as cant and backslang.
Henry Mayhew gives a verbatim account as part of an interview with a Punch and Judy Showman from the mid 1800's. The discussion he records references the arrival of Punch in England, crediting these early performances to a performer from Italy called Porcini (see also John Payne Colliers account of Porsini (Payne Collier calls him Porchini), in Punch And Judy Mayhew provides the following:
Punch Talk "'Bona Parle' means language; name of patter. 'Yeute munjare' - no food. 'Yeute lente' - no bed. 'Yeute bivare' - no drink. I've 'yeute munjare,' and 'yeute bivare,' and, what's worse, yeute lente.' This is better than the costers' talk, because that ain't no slang and all, and this is a broken Italian, and much higher than the costers' lingo. We know what o'clock it is, besides."
There are additional accounts of performance and particular words that relate to puppet performance. " 'Slumarys' - figures, frame, scenes, properties. 'Slum'- call, or unknown tongue. By 'unknown' he is referring to the voice modifier used by Punch performers called a swazzle, the composition of which was a longstanding trade secret.
On one hand, it would be used as a means of cover, to allow gay subjects to be discussed aloud without being understood; on the other hand, it was also used by some, particularly the most visibly camp and effeminate, as a further way of asserting their identity.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Penis captivus is an urban legend describing an event that allegedly happens in rare instances during heterosexual intercourse when the muscles in the vagina clamp down on the penis much more firmly than usual, making it impossible for the penis to withdraw from the vagina regardless of erection status.
The first report of the penis captivus sexual phenomenon can be found in an 1884 article by the fictitious Egerton Yorrick Davis in The Philadelphia Medical News. The article was later discovered to be a hoax perpetrated by Sir William Osler. Historians speculate that he was annoyed by an editorial published in the same journal by Dr. Theophilus Parvin, "An Uncommon Form of Vaginismus." Both men served on that respected journal's editorial board.
There is only one known report of penis captivus, in a letter to the British Medical Journal relating to an apparent case in 1947. According to the BMJ, this condition was otherwise unknown in the twentieth century.
Penis captivus should not be confused with the relatively common condition of vaginismus.
Friday, April 3, 2009
The Naked Supper
With legs like bags of cement, the Fat Man was led to his regular table. Sitting in the offered chair, his creamy mass rolled over the seat and around the straight iron back. Nervously, he lingered over the menu, only occasionally lifting an elephant-like head to free jowls from stiff collar. Then, with great expertise, the Fat Man ordered.
First, rushing out of the noise and turmoil of the kitchens, was the bread. Buns soft as down, lying poised and inviting on a plate. Tender to the touch, with a firm, barely yielding, crust. Delicately parted, the buns steamed from pale white seams--the crust delightfully resilient, but easily kneaded and clutched by gripping hands. The insides were velvety smooth, warm and subtly moist. Butter streamed down tanned sides, pooling on the plate: tempting an eager tongue. A softening cube of brilliant yellow slipped gently by, ringed with clear, hot fluid--bubbling around the edges and sinking into the dough.
With a clatter, the soup was brought: a lake of liquid ecstasy. Onions, small and nymphish, played hide-and-seek among rafts of cheese, flirting with the spoon, pushing up against the firm, curved shape--spashing and faintly giggling at the clumsy attempts to snare them. But for all their acrobatics and squeals of playful delight they finally surrendered, their furtive advances giving way to a ballet of fire and verve when tasted. The rest of the pool held tempting secrets, hiding them beneath a broth of warmth and stimulation.
A fragile young thing was brought to the table; so fresh and untouched. She was delicate enough to tear under brutal handling, never to be whole again, but with enough spirit to allow a hold, a grip to go onto greater things. The salmon lay sublime on a cool platter, staring out with eyes full of innocence, yet with a hidden, mischievous glimmer of wanton surrender; a quiet invitation to a ravishing. It patiently waited advances, the release of that innocence: awaiting a firm hand to take what she offered, lying there to her side. She waited for someone to consume her with mad abandon and the touch of a trained palate. The salmon eagerly awaited consummation.
A bowl was delivered: a secret forest concealing deep and mysterious pleasures. In a fold of green, hidden beneath a creased lettuce leaf, lay a subtly enticing tart. A juicy little tomato that darted through the forest and folds, from the strong support of the cauliflower to the entrancing hypnosis of the fork. Tempting disaster, the fragile thing played with the chase--filling the air with the smell of her slick, oiled skin--and then vinegar when it looked as she might be passed by.
Two breasts, upthrust and firm, golden in the sun’s setting rays. Daring and obvious, challenging all comers. No innocent this chicken. Young, yes. Spring, definitely. Outrageous and provocative, stomping a shapely drumstick and demanding, in a loud aroma of heady spice, that she be consumed. Here! This minute! Now! Glistening butter rolled slowly, melting more and more with each steamy inch towards the thighs, down browned skin with the hint of hidden, pale, white meat imminent. Plucked nude, with her thighs wide apart, breasts exposed, the chicken leered and demanded--before possibly growing cold.
Pert. Good body. Excellent aroma. Full of vigor. No doubt of French extraction. Aged just enough for experience, not so young as to be easily bruised, and not too old to sour. A dazzling little ‘25, lazily floating in the glass, tantalizing with eager provocations. Comfortable to taste, to kiss, to embrace with lips, and to drink--just as that little tart with the good body and a distinctive heady aroma loves to consume.
A perfect cone of delight, uptrust and ready, a velvety cherry precariously poised on the brink, ready to topple into a debauchery of whipped cream and strawberry preserves. The dessert coyly avoids all advances, leaning one way, then the other. Toying, playing with and being played with. The cool dish wiggled a frosty lady-finger, inviting all comers to break her ice cream exterior and get to the rich, sweet insides.
Coffee. Steaming hot and fierce. Spicy, waiting to break free and run rampant: raising temperatures and setting hearts a-pouding with ferocity. A true Colombian spirit, bubbling secretly in a china cup, struggling to break free with steamy excitement, a mad Amazon fighting the trap.
With lips to cup, a little swish for taste--that delicate bouquet of strong urges, overriding everything else: driving the heart and raising the temperature, the blood pressure. Wild power, tickling tongues and warmed cockles. Building towards a pleasurable pain, straining for release, any release, to escape the burning, the steaming concentration--and with an exhausted sigh, to swallow the hot coffee.
Finished with his meal, the Fat Man pushed himself away from the table and leisurely smoked a cigarette.