Sunday, November 29, 2009

Once Again, the Pussifycation Of America By Ralph Greco, Jr.

Here's another great essay by my always-great, Ralph Greco, Jr.

Once Again, the Pussifycation Of America
Ralph Greco, Jr.

They were at it again today.

On a recent Ophra show titled: "Make Over My Man" the 'fashion guru' Tim Gunn called men out for their lack of fashion sense (of course presuming that there is even something called 'fashion' and not simply some annual opinions opined by the rich), by making them over. Sure Ophra's near all-woman audience cheered, the guys claimed they felt more confident post makeover, but what galls me about these shows is how they are simply another indication of the American media's constant pussyfication of the American male.

I once read a quote (and I'm paraphrasing): 'Women choose a man for the man they hope he will become, men choose a woman for the woman he wants her to remain'. This is pretty much spot on and the root of our hetero relationship problems as far as I'm concerned. You can't go changing someone, or trying to stop them from changing, it's just not going to work. But I would offer that our culture has allowed for more of the former sentiment then the latter in that quote. James Brown sang "It's a man's world" but baby, it ain't really.

Ever watch "Every Body Loves Ramon", there's the perfect example of the pussified man, cowering from his mother and wife. This mate-as-mommy syndrome is everywhere and it fed that Ophra show as much as it feeds every other aspect of our society that subtly subjugates men so we feel we are never good enough, make enough, or look 'fashionable' enough (of course presuming that there is even something called 'fashion' and not simply some annual opinions opined by the rich…oh sorry, I repeat myself). As much as the media in this country attempts to brainwash women that they can never be skinny enough, so do we get the signs-loud and clear-that men simply must change to a standard women (or gay men) are selling.

Never heard the term 'sex addict' til now have you? Sure there's many more ways to get 'it' these days, one need not even leave their computer, but didn't it used to be guys were just horny? Now our mate-mommies, doctor's, coworkers want us to see a therapist to, once again, pussify us (please don't get on me about women sex addicts, I am talking from only the male perspective here). Got a bad temper, you need anger management, maybe even a pill. God forbid we travel too far away from our girlfriends without the cell phone; mate-mommy has to be able to keep tabs on us…all my mom cared about was that I checked in when the streetlights winked on!
And how dare we think we're going out dressed like that!?

That Gunn guy called it the 'slobification of America'; he was close but had the first part of that word wrong as far as I'm concerned. During one segment of the show women were interviewed in a mall about this men fashion problem and the ladies (not all dressed attractive as far as I was concerned) went to town about uni-brows, bad footwear and pant choices of their men. What did I say as I witnessed their wailing? "Hey, if this is all you got to complain about" (and in all fairness they were being asked about their men's fashion sense… of course presuming that there is even something called 'fashion' and not simply some annual opinions opined by the rich. Sorry I did it again) "then," I continued to say to myself. "you must have wonderful husband-father-boyfriend at home'.

Men who they are no doubt attempting to twist and change every second of their day.
I'm telling you boys, we don't need Leonardo DiCap around to tell us that this fashion thang is simply the tip of the pussy iceberg.
Ralph Greco, Jr. is an internationally published author of short stories, plays, essays, button slogans, 800# phone sex scripts, children’s songs and SEO copy. Ralph is also an ASCAP licensed songwriter/performer and Internet radio D.J. He lives in the wilds of suburban NJ, where he attempts to keep his ever-expanding ego in check.

Saturday, November 28, 2009

The Sexy Art of Raf Marinetti

Here's a special treat: the seriously-kinky and seriously-excellent artwork of Raf Marinetti. A tip-of-the-hat goes to my pal, Mykola Dementiuk, for this great find.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Rude Mechanicals - The Commercial! Part 2

To go along with their commercial, here's a special solo spot the great folks at Renaissance E Books/Sizzler books put together for my erotica collection, Rude Mechanicals!

Present And Corrected By Elizabeth Coldwell

I'm VERY happy to be able to share this great story by not only a wonderful writer but also a wonderful friend: Elizabeth Coldwell.

Present And Corrected

Elizabeth Coldwell

It was a black satin blindfold.

Jillian looked at the package incredulously, searching for some clue as to who might have sent it. All round her there were neutral faces, enigmatic as a gathering of sphinxes. giving absolutely nothing away.

It had been a tradition to buy presents and hand them out on the afternoon of the staff Christmas party .as long as Jillian had been working at the agency. A week or so in advance, everyone would draw the name of a fellow worker, and be dispatched to buy them a little something. There were only two rules: no one was to spend more than five pounds, and no one revealed whose present they had bought.

Something had infected the air this year, Jillian was sure of it, for almost everyone seemed to have bought a present which was mildly erotic in nature. Steve, the senior designer, for instance, had unwrapped a paperback book which featured a pretty blonde heroine, her hands bound behind her, face turned away as if in shame, but her almost naked buttocks prominently displayed. Judy, his assistant, had been given a tub of chocolate-flavoured body paint, while Dennis, the chief copywriter, who had a renowned weakness for Italian food, had received a box of penis-shaped pasta. The devil must even have been in Jillian when she had gone shopping. She’d had to buy a gift for Marion, the department secretary, with whom she had never got on. The woman, who always dressed in a prim, severe fashion, with calf-length tweed skirt suits and scraped-back hair, appeared to know almost nothing about her own sexuality: it was even rumoured that, at forty, she was still a virgin. Some cruel impulse had driven Jillian to pick out a pair of whisper-thin seamed stockings for the dowdy secretary in the lingerie shop at Canary Wharf. She had noticed a startled look creep across Marion’s face when she had unwrapped the stockings and had been silently congratulating herself on her choice of present – until she had opened her own.

Closer inspection showed her there was a scrap of card in the cast-off wrapping paper. In typewritten capitals, it read “FOR LATER”. A shudder went down Jillian’s spine, part fear, part anticipation, as she realised that someone in this room was intending to see her wearing the blindfold. Who it might be, and for what reason, she dare not begin to guess.


Work ground to a halt in the department about an hour later, as Steve pulled a bottle of bourbon out of his desk drawer and sent Judy off to the vending machine to buy a couple of cans of Coke. Plastic cup of alcohol in hand, Jillian wandered into the ladies’ to start dressing for the party. She commandeered one of the cubicles, and quickly stripped out of her office clothes, changing into a black sequinned sheath dress which clung to the contours of her slender body and finished at mid-thigh level. Beneath it, she wore nothing but a pair of black hold-up stockings and a navy lace G-string, knowing that anything more substantial would show through the dress. She applied her make-up with care, reddening her lips and darkening her eyes more than she ever would during the day, and teased her blonde curls with her fingers until they had a tousled look which suggested she’d just tumbled out of bed. She felt strangely excited and giddy, as though she were dressing for a secret admirer. And perhaps the blindfold was a clue that she did have an admirer. There were a couple of good-looking men in the department, but she didn’t usually believe in mixing business with pleasure – she had seen too many inter-office relationships turn sour. But this was Christmas, when the usual rules did not apply, and if she happened to find herself with someone tonight who was looking for a night of fun and pleasure, that was fine by her.

She blew a kiss at her reflection in the mirror, and walked out of the toilets.


Two hours later, she found herself leaning against a wall in the dockside wine bar the agency had hired for the night, wondering if she had been mistaken. It had been a Christmas party just like any other, so far. The managing director had made his usual speech, which everyone had laughed at dutifully; the buffet had been picked over, but largely ignored in favour of the free sparkling wine which was being dispensed from behind the bar, and the single, predatory males had already begun their pursuit of the tipsy secretaries and junior accounts girls. No one had approached Jillian, however, and she had spent the last half an hour dancing with Judy and a couple of the other girls to the unimaginative selection of Motown oldies and Christmas standards that was being belted out by the DJ. She was surprisingly sober, and surprisingly bored. For want of anything else to do, she had helped herself to a glass of wine and was scanning her work colleagues, less for signs of their increasingly obvious indiscretions than for some indication as to who had sent her that wretched gift.

On some unnamed impulse, she had stuffed the little satin blindfold into her handbag. Now she pulled it out, and left it dangling from the top of her bag, like a flag. If someone was playing a game with her, as she suspected, perhaps this would be the signal they needed.

It was getting hot and stuffy in the wine bar, and she pushed open the door and stepped outside. There was a small asphalt square by the main entrance, with half-a-dozen wooden trestle tables which were used in summer, when it was warm enough to sit outside and enjoy the breeze from the adjacent dock, but now everything was dark and quiet, the tables shrouded in tarpaulins to protect them from the winter weather.

Jillian was about to reach into her bag for a cigarette, when she was grabbed from behind. A gloved hand was placed over her mouth, stifling her cry, and then, even more shockingly, something was slipped round her wrists. She had time to register the cool, hard feel of metal and then the cuffs were snapped shut, securing her hands behind her. A thousand fearful images rushed through her mind, but when the next thing she felt was the blindfold being pulled from her bag and wrapped round her head, she realised what was happening. “FOR LATER,” the note had said. Obviously, this was later.

The hand had been taken away from her mouth, and Jillian took her chance to ask, “Who are you?” There was no answer. Whoever her mysterious assailant was, they had taken pains to disguise their identity. The gloves disguised the feel and appearance of their hands, they wore no distinguishing cologne and they had not spoken a word. Privately, Jillian suspected it was Steve. His delight at receiving the erotic paperback with its submissive cover girl pointed to an interest in bondage games, and the model herself had not looked dissimilar to Jillian, with her curly blonde hair and slim, curvy figure. If that was the case, she didn’t mind: Steve was almost six foot in height, dark-haired, handsome in a weather-beaten sort of way. Just her type, if she was honest.

She had no chance to speculate further, as she felt a hand roaming over her chest, stroking and caressing her breasts through the dress. Jillian gave in to the sensations the hand was creating, leaning back against the solid body of her unknown admirer. Seduced into submission, she was shocked back to awareness when the zip of her dress was pulled down several inches and the thin straps pushed off her shoulders, exposing her naked breasts to the cold night air. Her nipples stiffened immediately, though she was shamefully aware that it was not just the temperature which was causing them to react so violently. The thought that she had been partially undressed just a few feet away from the place where a party was in full swing frightened and excited her. Anyone could walk out of the wine bar, or glance out of the big picture window, and see her as she was now, cuffed and blindfolded, her small, firm breasts on display. She could hear no traffic driving along the road at the moment, but a car might pass at any time. For all she knew, someone could be standing nearby, watching the erotic tableau unfold. And she did not know whether that scared her or turned her on.

The gloved hands were plucking at her dress again. This time, they were working on the hem, pushing it up her thighs until it bunched at a level where she was sure her underwear – what little of it there was – was clearly visible. A thumb reached up under the rucked-up fabric, hooked itself into the waistband of the G‑string and began to tug.

“Nooo,” Jillian moaned, frightened by the turn events were taking, and yet wanting it to happen, wanting to have her pussy bared for the eyes of whoever might be looking on.

First one side of the flimsy garment, then the other, was pulled down, until it was halfway down Jillian’s thighs. Now her wispy blonde pubic hair, which did so little to reveal the fat pink lips beneath it, would be on show. If her admirer cared to delve back between her legs, they would find that she was damp, the briny smell of her excitement already strong.

She was dragged forward, her movements hampered by the restriction of the G‑string, and pushed down, so that her chest was pressed against one of the tarpaulin-covered tables. The bitumen smell of the fabric seemed the perfect contrast to her own salty, seashore aroma, and the rough surface scraped against her nipples, stimulating her further. A foot nudging her ankles urged her to widen her stance as far as it would go.

For what seemed like minutes, nothing happened. Jillian imagined that whoever was standing behind her – and though they had still not revealed the merest hint as to their identity, she was now almost utterly convinced that it was Steve – was looking at her body as it was presented to them, the dark cleft between her pale, firm buttocks leading down to the hair-fringed pouch of her sex.

Suddenly, and without warning, a gloved palm slammed down firmly on her left bottom cheek, hard enough to leave a flaming crimson imprint on Jillian’s white flesh. With her hands still fastened behind her, she would have staggered and fallen had not her admirer grasped her firmly around the waist. What followed was a prolonged spanking of the kind Jillian had never expected to endure. The hand came down too many times for her to count, methodically covering the surface of her buttocks. The pain was like nothing she had experienced, throbbing and relentless. A tear rolled down from behind the blindfold, but she restrained her impulse to break down and sob like a child. That would have been just too humiliating.

She tried to wriggle free, but she was being held too tightly. The realisation that she was being forced to endure whatever might be done to her heightened her awareness that the pain she felt was changing. Strangely, it was becoming easier to bear, and there was a new, sweet undercurrent that she would – had she cared to put a name to it – have called pleasure.

She was being held so that her pubic bone was pressing against the edge of the table, and she attempted to grind herself against the tarpaulin-covered wood, wanting to assuage the fire that now burned as deeply in her sex as it did in her abused buttocks. She knew that if the spanking stopped now, she would carry on masturbating herself in this way, desperate to reach climax. The thought that the whole department might have stepped out of the wine bar and be watching as she did so was enough to trigger the beginnings of an orgasm, and she moaned low in her throat, hoping that her admirer would realise what was happening and thrust their hand between her legs.

What happened was almost the exact opposite. Jillian was spun round, her sex still pulsing, and pushed to her knees on the cold asphalt. She heard the sound of a zip being pulled down, and realised what was to come. She was certain a fat, erect cock was about to be presented to her mouth, and she prepared herself for the heady taste and odour of an excited male.

A hand was twined in her hair, forcing her head up to what she assumed was crotch level. A rich, gamy scent assailed her nostrils; Jillian opened her mouth, and leaned forward. And forward...
Her nose was touching crisp pubic hair, but the penis she had thought to engulf with her lips was not there. Instead, as she reached out a tentative tongue, she touched a soft, moist cleft.
No wonder her admirer had not spoken, and covered their hands with gloves. Otherwise, she would have known immediately that she was being cuffed, stripped and spanked by another woman. Briefly, she fought against the knowledge, then gave in. So she had a mistress, rather than a master. Instead of sucking Steve’s cock, as she had hoped, she was more than likely about to pay oral homage to the pretty, red-headed Judy, or Lisa in marketing, who had once boasted over a Dubonnet and soda too many of her occasional bisexual flings. Did it really make any difference?

Beginning to lick, she decided it did not. The sex that unfurled beneath her questing mouth was as sensitive and responsive as her own, and from the murmurs of appreciation, she knew that what was she was doing was more than welcome. When her tongue settled on the other woman’s fat clitoris, already peeking from its protective hood, the murmurs turned to moans, and then to throaty exhortations for Jillian to lick harder and faster. When she came, she pulled Jillian’s face hard into her cunt, strong thigh muscles flexing as she swore an oath to the December sky.

At last, her spasms subsided, and she released her grip on Jillian’s hair. Jillian knelt back, feeling the woman’s juices sticky on her mouth and chin, and hoped that she might now be permitted to see exactly who she had been servicing.

When the blindfold was removed, Jillian almost gasped aloud in shock. Standing before her, naked from the waist down but for a familiar-looking pair of sheer, seamed stockings, a smile of witch-like triumph on her face, was Marion.
Elizabeth Coldwell lives and writes in London. Her stories have appeared in a number of anthologies from Cleis Press, Xcite Books, Black Lace and Ravenous Romance among others. She's hoping she gets everything she wishes for this Christmas.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Ewwwwww ....

Jenkem is an alleged hallucinogenic recreational drug composed of noxious gas formed from fermented sewage. In the mid to late 1990s, several reports stated that Jenkem was being used by Zambian street children. In November 2007, anecdotal American media reports gave the impression that Jenkem was a popular drug taking hold with American teenagers. Media reports were characterized by disbelief and distaste for the "grossness" of the phenomenon. Since November 2007, no new reports have appeared to corroborate the early speculations.

Several sources allege that this sudden spur of reports in US popular media were based on a hoax (see section below). David Emery of, popularly noted as an "urban legend guru", concluded that the recent news media reports that Jenkem is gaining a foothold as a substance of abuse among American youth is doubtful and "based on faulty Internet research."

The surfacing of the drug, or rumours of its existence, has caused at least one US municipality to amend its city ordinance regarding substances that cannot be legally inhaled to include organic substances.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

The Chinese Sex Museum

From the always-great Atlas Obscura:

Housed in a sprawling suburban campus fifty miles west of Shanghai, China's first sex museum has been titillating visitors since 1999. The museum's main collection is divided into several exhibits including "Unusual Sexual Behavior", "Marriage and Women", and "Sex in Primitive Society", where guests can contemplate the x-rated artifacts of China's earliest societies.

The sex museum is the brain child of Liu Dalin, a retired professor of sociology at Shanghai University and China's answer to Alfred Kinsey. In 1990 Professor Dalin completed a national survey of sexual behavior and attitudes in China. Informally dubbed the "Chinese Kinsey Report", the survey's results were published in English in 1997 as "Sexual Behavior in Modern China".

Professor Dalin originally opened his sex museum in Shanghai, but government enforced restrictions limited publicity and ultimately drove him out of the city. At first government officials would not allow the character for sex to appear in the museum's sign. Then the museum was denied status as a "scenic location", a designation that would have allowed tour agencies to list the museum in brochures and advertisements. As a result museum attendance suffered, and the Professor decided to move his collection of ancient pornography and sexual relics to the more accommodating town of Tongli in nearby Jiangsu province.

The museum's current location includes a provocative statue garden and a traditional tea pavilion, as well as meeting facilities, where Professor Dalin invites executives to hold their next meeting in the museum's "inspiring atmosphere."

Saturday, November 14, 2009

An Excerpt from As She’s Told, by Anneke Jacob

I'm very happy to be able to feature another excerpt from Anneke Jacob's As She’s Told. You can buy it from Pink Flamingo.

A Pervert’s Christmas
Anneke Jacob

I lay curled beneath the desk one Saturday afternoon, inhaling warm and gingery baking smells, listening to half a conversation in Danish above my head. The legs beside me took themselves off toward the kitchen. Through the slats I saw my master, phone in hand, looking through cupboards. An ingredients search, it looked like.

We were well into December now. The tree was up and decorated. Danish tradition was to leave it till just before Christmas, but Anders was using it to substitute for the lack of family fuss, and to be the recipient of decorations as we made them. He’d showed me how to make paper hearts in red and white, apparently traditional, and strings of little Danish flags, of all things. Plus small baskets of chocolates.

He’d been spending long hours in the basement, clanging and banging, leaving me tethered upstairs. Normally I got to spend some time chained beneath the bench, watching him work. I missed keeping him company down there. He’d fastened me to posts or joists and amused himself between the worktable and the lumber pile. When he’d been in a whimsical mood, he’d use me as a holder for small items, hanging them from nipple and nose rings. But I hadn’t been downstairs for weeks; he’d even taken over the laundry. It was obvious he was hatching more surprises than usual.

A really big Advent calendar now hung on the wall in the back bedroom, and starting on the first of December I’d been allowed one item a day. There were pockets of all sizes velcroed on; I suspected Anders of shifting things around to the day’s date to suit his mood. Things like nipple clamps, new whips, chocolate truffles, vibrators, cookies. Whatever it was I got to wear it, eat it or have it applied to me. And the non-edible items accumulated and got combined another day. Clamps were decorated by weights shaped like Christmas ornaments, vibrated, joined by silvery chains.

Today I’d gotten a break from the clamps; the day’s pocket had produced various small bells. One for each nipple ring, one on my nose ring, which made me feel truly silly, and some for my collar and cuffs. Oddly, they all seemed to produce different pitches. I tinkled like a wind chime. There were six left over which he’d put aside. Something told me the use to which they were going to be put.

Anders sat back down at the desk still in the midst of his conversation, and clicked away at the computer. I suspected him of downloading recipes, or perhaps his mother was sending them? Lately he’d been trying out all sorts of goodies on me, holding up tidbits and making me beg first, of course. He’d have to be careful, or the restraints would need to be let out a notch; that would be a first. His culinary skills never ceased to amaze me. I felt more than lucky to eat what he made, even from a plastic dog dish. Given my own ineptitude in the kitchen, I was still giving thanks that my work as a slave didn’t include attempts at cookery.

I curled around his leg, and felt a hand briefly in my hair. After a while the phone went down, and a bare toe flicked my nipple. The bell jingled. Anders went back to whatever he was doing on the computer.

The big production he was making of Christmas rather amused me, but his enthusiasm was infectious. I hadn’t felt this much excitement over it since my cynical adolescence. My manufacture of ornaments had gone on from set pieces to productions more or less original. A few miniature dreamcatchers first of all. As I made those I could feel my grandmother’s hands guiding mine, their warm, thin skin spotted and shiny with age. I also constructed little figures out of bits of cloth and paint and Anders’ leftover wood scraps. Some of these he had me make into Julnisse, elf-characters in pointy red hats. Apparently the originals hung around making mischief at Christmas unless fed. These were all male, with the exception of one completely non-traditional female Julnisse with dark, curly yarn hair under her red hat.

The other figures were whatever my imagination could come up with. A construction worker, complete with a round shampoo cap hard hat, was my favourite. Every afternoon I sat naked over these things, and then searched for empty branches from which to hang them. I’d made a couple to send home to amuse my parents.

Anders had already kindly allowed me the use of a debit card and a couple of afternoons to do some shopping for my family, with time and location tightly specified, of course. The resultant package was probably safe in the keeping of Homeland Security by now. This didn’t solve my constant problem, which was my present for Anders. Gifts were flowing in one direction only, from a lavish and imaginative soul. I had so little ability to reciprocate. But I was determined that come hell, high water or GPS tracker, he was going to find a surprise under that tree.

The week before I’d gestured toward a piece of paper on the dresser, the Home Depot gift certificate bestowed upon me at the Halloween ball. It was half hidden under a pile of small change and a telephone bill.

“Could I have that?” I’d asked him.

He’d looked puzzled, then amused. “Sure. Hey, you won it. Do you need more time to shop?”

For a split second I was tempted. Shopping on my own, even in Home Depot, now had an air of forbidden adventure. But he’d know eventually that it hadn’t been necessary, and then I’d be in trouble. “No, master, thank you.” He’d glanced at me with narrowed eyes, and for a second I’d thought he was going to squeeze it out of me, but he’d let it go.

The bare foot slid out from beneath my breast, and the legs were gone again. Oh, lord. Anders was near the tree, hanging something from the ceiling beam. My heart began to thump.

“Come here, my little ornament, and let’s decorate the living room some more.”

I crawled out from beneath the desk, jingling all the way, and presented myself to him. The apparatus above me wasn’t the wrist and ankle cuff arrangement, but a sling of some sort. He extracted me from the chastity belt and lifted me up into it. I swung a little, feeling momentarily like a little kid.

“What are you looking so shiny about?”

“Wow, a sitting position!”

“Why of course, my dear. Your comfort is my goal, always.”

I snorted, and peered around. He’d put me at about at his own eye level, and the floor was surprisingly far away.

“The house looks so different from this angle,” I said. “How bizarre to spend your life at such an altitude.”

He tingled the bell hanging from my nose. “So speaks the floor-dwelling tambourine.”

Daringly I stuck out my tongue at him, and got it yanked.

“Behave yourself, moppet. All right, hands behind you. There. Legs now. Wider. That’s good.”

He strapped my thighs and ankles to the sling. Then he ran his fingers through channels and inclines, and over the arc of pubic bone. Tiny squirms were amplified by the setup; I began to swing. He steadied me, and confirmed my expectation about the remaining bells, hanging them from the labia rings. They were heavier than I’d expected.

I watched him stand back and consider me. “You’re extremely ornamental, but I think I’ll make you a little more obviously seasonal.” He went off and came back with garlands and glittery chains, which he spiralled round my neck and legs and around my breasts. Two tree ornaments ended up hanging from my ears.

“Better. Very festive. This calls for a beer.” From the kitchen he came back with a dark and foamy glass, wiping his lips. “Wait, I forgot the hat.” Red and pointy, on it went. “That really is cute,” he said, standing back and admiring.

He brought out a couple of those little wooden sticks with balls at the ends. “Okay, let’s see how the bells sound. Get you tuned up.” This turned into serious musician business; one bell was trifle flat and he spent several minutes fiddling with it. A few got moved around on some harmonic principal or other; he exchanged a nipple bell with the nose bell, and rearranged me to be more upright so that the collar bell would hang free.

Then he began to play. First a scale and an arpeggio, then a tune, initially clumsy but defter with practice. I was vibrating along with the bells.

“Recognize that?” he asked conversationally.

“Um…something about drinking…harvest supper…?” I breathed.

“Very good!” He continued tapping, and belted out the tune in his deep baritone, loud enough for a whole roistering table full of farm hands.
Our sheep shear is over and summer is past,
Here’s a health to our mistress all in a full glass,
For she’s a good woman and provides us with cheer,
Here’s a health to our mistress, so drink up your beer.
He grinned at me and took a deep draught. “Here my good mistress, try this, it’s the Granite’s Peculiar; outstanding stuff.” Dutifully I took a sip. It all tasted the same to me: like beer.

A lively little jig now. “Stop whimpering, you’re out of tune. Name this one. Quick, now.”

“The – The Sailor’s Wife?” The bells seemed to keep vibrating even when they weren’t being struck. Despite my efforts to hold back, my hips thrust rather desperately forward, causing Anders to strike a wrong note. I got a good whack across the ass that hurt quite a lot even through the sling, and set everything jingling at once.

“Hold still!”

“Sorry, master.”

The next song seemed to be in the key of the nose bell; anyway, the tune kept returning to that one. My head started to buzz. The bell was tingled four times in two bars and I sneezed.
“Hey!” he laughed, but he didn’t stop.

At the next nose vibration I sneezed again, and we both cracked up. “All right, that’s it, it’ll have to go somewhere else.” A brief pause while he strung a chain between my nipples, polished the bell and hung it from that.

He played a couple more tunes, quizzing me on each. I couldn’t dredge up the fourth one, though it sounded vaguely ragtime, and I got whacked again.

“You know,” he said, striking notes at random, “this would be a great way for people to start making their own entertainment again at parties. Most of them have lost the knack; they just shove in a CD, and leave it to the music industry. Where’s the fun in that?” Ping, pang, clangle.

“Not everyone – has your talent – master –”

He gave me a slow, rather ominous smile “Oh, but with such an instrument available – and so decorative, too – almost anyone could make a pretty tune.” Suddenly I could envision the room full of people, laughing and drinking and joining in on the choruses. With me as the centrepiece.

He ran his sticks back and forth over the labia bells, hit the nipple bells with a little ta-ting, and then pressed one of the sticks up against my clit. Not moving it, just pressing. My voice slid upward in pitch, quavering like a violin tremolo. “See?”

The stick was withdrawn, and I groaned. “Oh, god…. Please, master…” Here it came. Begging. Whether I wanted to or not. No matter how futile the exercise. “Please, master, please…”

“Stop wriggling, slave.” He sang a teasing chorus of ‘Beggin’ Woman.’ Then he wiped the stick clean and played on. When I couldn’t shut up and stay shut up I got strapped into a full gag and muzzle. The hat went back on top.

And somehow the stopping of my voice sent me inward, the recipient, now in no way a player but only played upon. The pure tones picked up some kind of harmonics in my flesh, which resonated with the ear’s vibration. Melody, in the key of exquisite arousal, with no crescendo. There was a faint echo in my mind of that story of Kafka’s, the ordeal and the enlightenment. What I was absorbing I couldn’t put words to; couldn’t have produced. I was literally nothing but the sounding board.


Anders stood back and observed the silent figure in the sling, the muzzled head sagging back, the eyes, framed by straps, deep in the glaze of subspace. Setting the mallets aside, he gently removed the labia bells. A little height adjustment. Then he was inside her, his cock gliding slowly, slowly along slippery walls, his hands gripping her hips. By now he knew well how to make use of his vessel, stage by stage and nerve by nerve, always bringing her along with him, always gently leaving her just outside the door while he stepped through. Every moment, every movement, had to be considered and deliberate. And when the long, slow orgasm, magnificent as a cathedral chord, had played itself out, he stood there with his eyes closed, using his hold on her to stay upright, shuddering with the aftershocks brought on by the urgent convulsion of warm wet flesh around his softening cock. The rigid thighs, the helpless moaning. So sweet.

A little further decoration and then it would be time to make dinner. Anders hung his slave’s labia and nipples with the clamps and ornament-shaped weights that he’d been using all week, this time hanging the bells at the ends. He strung coloured lights across the ceiling from either side of her, down the sling, in a gentle loop between her feet, back under her to her bound hands. When they were turned on he swung her gently, listening to the bells’ tinkle and the faint groans at the additional drag of weight on her flesh, and made sure the lights made no contact with skin. Then he turned on some old wassailing songs from the 18th century and went into the kitchen.

Every minute or so, between cutting board and saucepan he looked over at his creation. A Pervert’s Christmas, he smiled to himself. The lights blinked, and skin and decorations glistened in their multicoloured glow. All the hanging things trembled at his footsteps’ vibration. His most recent decoration gazed mesmerized at the tree, into the button eyes of another small dangling red-hatted female figure: her companion piece.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Les Poupées de Paris

Les Poupées de Paris (The Dolls of Paris) was a musical puppet show created, produced and directed by Sid and Marty Krofft, that toured the United States throughout the 1960s.

Puppeteers Sid and Marty Krofft and had a successful career on stages in America and Europe throughout the 1950s. One morning, Sid awoke with the idea to create a show with his marionettes for adults only, complete with music, comedy, horror, celebrities and topless puppets.'

Nat Hart, a maître d' at the Flamingo Hotel, became a fan of the Krofft's work during repeated viewings of their shows at the hotel. Hart approached the Kroffts one day and announced that he was going to open a club, and he asked the Kroffts to put together a puppet show as an attraction for the new club.

The resulting show, which came to be known as Les Poupées de Paris, was modeled after the revues at Paris' Lido and Folies Bergere. The Kroffts opened the show at their newly built theater at "The Gilded Rafters" in the San Fernando Valley, California in October 1961., though the show was later relocated to "P.J's," a 200-seat dinner theatre in Los Angeles.

In addition to original characters, many of the puppets were modeled after celebrities. The Kroffts had been the opening act for entertainers like Judy Garland, Liberace and Cyd Charisse, so they were able to get many celebrities to record voices for their puppets. Some of these puppets included Pearl Bailey, Milton Berle, Cyd Charisse, Gene Kelly, Liberace, Jayne Mansfield, Tony Martin, Phil Silvers, Loretta Young and Mae West, whose puppet appeared topless. A handful of puppets were unofficially modeled after celebrities (Pelvis Essley), and several weren't created specifically for the show -- their Frankenstein, Dracula and Madame Jenkins Foster puppets all made brief appearances in the 1957 television pilot Here's Irving.

The show was a success, and became a key attraction at The Seattle World's Fair in 1962. The lavish production cost $200,000 to produce, the elaborate sets took three months to install and included a revolving theatre, elevators, an ice-skating rink and waterfall. The Reverend Billy Graham caught the premiered World's Fair performance of the show and immediately denounced it, citing the "women don't wear bras". He failed to mention that the "women" were puppets. This anti-endorsement, coupled with a write-up in Time Magazine, resulted in the show taking in record crowds -- the Kroffts claimed that tickets were scalped and the performances were so packed that they couldn't let in personal friends. "Be sure to mention it's dirty, that will give them the picture," Marty explained.

The show traveled around the country for the remainder of the decade and was seen by an estimated nine and a half million people.

Although there was a common practice of filming live shows to be broadcast as American television specials, Les Poupées de Paris was a bit too risque to air on television. However, the Kroffts did hit several popular television shows to promote their live show, including The Jack Paar Show (November 1961) and The Bell Telephone Hour (December 8, 1964).

Les Poupées itself led to brief stint on The Dean Martin Show. In 1964, producer of The Dean Martin Show caught Les Poupées de Paris at the New York World's Fair, and recruited the Kroffts to create a puppet segment on Martin's variety show that captured the essence of Les Poupées. This was their first break into television, but it was to be short-lived; the Kroffts were fired after 8 episodes because Martin felt he was being upstaged by the puppets.


Check this out: a very cool commercial from Renaissance E Books/Sizzler books, including my own Rude Mechanicals and the always-wonderful Ralph Greco, Jr's Bad Girls!

Sunday, November 8, 2009

I Now Pronounce You Woman And Monument


Objectum sexuality commonly referred to as OS, is a pronounced emotional desire towards particular inanimate objects. Those individuals with this expressed preference may feel strong feelings of arousal, attraction, love, and commitment to certain items or structures of their fixation. For some, sexual or even close emotional relationships with humans are incomprehensible. The term objectum-sexuality (Ger. objektsexualität) was coined in the 1970s by Eija-Riitta Eklöf Berliner-Mauer, a woman from Liden, Sweden who was "married" to the Berlin Wall. Objectum-sexual individuals also often believe in animism, or the belief that objects have souls, intelligence, feelings, and are able to communicate.

In Feb 2008, Erika Eiffel, an objectum-sexual from San Francisco, California founded OS Internationale, an educational website and community for those identifying or studying the condition to love objects. The website generated a flood of international media interest. Eiffel, whose name derives from her marriage to the Eiffel Tower in 2007, has been featured as a spokesperson in variety of international articles, radio talk shows, and television programs.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Tears in Her Eyes by Rajah Dodger

Here's another great tale by Rajah. Enjoy!

Tears in Her Eyes

Rajah Dodger

HAHHHNK!! The Number 27 bus pulled up to the commuter stop, diesel fumes accompanying the noise of its brakes. The woman on the bench winced and put a hand to her face, fingers returning wet. The man sitting next to her noticed, and offered her a tissue. "The fumes get to me as well," he sympathized.

He was right, but he was wrong.

It was a small town bus station, the kind that used to hold the nation together. She and Billy had just come out of the maintenance closet, sweaty and unkempt, when the noon bus rolled in, air shimmering ahead of its shiny front grille. Brakes squealed, and exhaust filled the building. That's when Billy popped his surprise.

"I'm goin' to the city!" he told her excitedly. "Got me a good offer, more'n anything I'd get around here." Her face reacted, and he held her close, chiding her. "Now don't you go lookin' like that, hon. Coupla years and I'll be set, you'll see. We're gonna go places!" He kissed her then, and his hand squeezed her bottom, but gently, and all the more painful for that.

Bereft of responses, the girl pressed herself against the window, watched Billy get on the bus, waited until its only remnant was an oil spot on the concrete.

"City Council said they'd get those new low-emission buses, but it's just politicians as usual. Say, you need help with those groceries?"

The woman stood, sunlight picking out the highlights in her grey hair, and declined. "No thanks, I was just resting on the bench." She paused, and added as if apologizing, "The bus doesn't go my way any more."

The commuters boarded the bus, and it roared and puffed on its way, leaving her memories in its wake.
Rajah Dodger is a Houston-based computer professional who enjoys science fiction, classical music, comic strips, women and dogs. When the muse takes him by the throat (or other responsive part of his anatomy) he turns into an erstwhile composer of erotica and has done so for over a decade.

Make Believe Time