Saturday, July 31, 2010
Bernini was the first sculptor to realise the dramatic potential of light in sculpture. This is fully realised in his famous masterpiece Ecstasy of Saint Teresa (1645-1652, Santa Maria della Vittoria, Rome), in which the sun's rays, coming from an unseen source, illuminate the saint and the smiling angel about to pierce her heart with a golden arrow.
I would argue that the expression of sublime ecstasy on Saint Therese’s beautiful face, has little to do with her heart. It has everything to do with a swooning orgasm induced by the smiling angel’s golden arrow. The images of her smile and the golden arrow, are simply metaphors for what is really going on.
Cross posted from billierosie
…Or make love, have sex, do the horizontal mambo, knock boots, boink or any number of euphemisms. I often hear people (usually guys) fret about gauging consent and desire so I decided to make a handy little guide.
Really, there is only one sure sign of consent:
- Saying “I want to fuck you!” Or “I want to make love” or even “I want to have sex with you.” If your prospective partner is not the aggressive or outspoken type, responding “YES” when you ask “Do you want to have sex?” is also a sure sign of consent. [NOTE: Consent can be withdrawn at any time with the simple words "No"or "I want to stop."]
Aside from verbal consent to sex, there are easy ways to tell if you should keep going with your current sexual activity:
- Pulling their clothes off. Not necessarily a valid sign if this person is a stranger in a locker room.
- Pulling your clothes off. Unless they are an EMT removing your clothes after a car accident.
- Pressing their genitals on you. Hard-ons to the hip and wet labias on the thigh are good indicators of sexual desire.
- Rubbing their body all over yours. Something is going well if they want every part of them touching every part of you.
- Pulling you closer. Obviously they want you more near than far.
- Sitting on your face. Especially if they start singing Monty Python.
- Vocalizing desire. Oooh-ing, ahhh-ing, whispering/saying/screaming “Oh, yes, keep going.”
Now that we’ve established what wanton sexual desire looks like, how about lack of desire? If any of the following behaviors occur, STOP what you are doing and ask if you should continue.
- Pulling away from you.
- Laying there and staring into space.
- Talking about the weather.
- Turning on the TV and channel surfing.
- Texting/Tweeting/Talking on the phone.
And the number one sign that you need to stop:
THEY SAY “NO” OR “STOP.”
The bottom line is that if you are unsure someone wants to have sex with you, back off. Why would you want to fuck someone that isn’t crazy horny for you anyway? To score points? Bragging? Get a sex toy instead. Sex toys don’t press criminal charges.
Bonus advice: if you find yourself with a pushy partner exhibiting poor listening skills, look them in the eyes and say, in your calmest voice, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I guarantee they will stop. If they don’t, pull them by one ear, box them in the other and get out of there.Personal: And one time a chick had to go to the bathroom way too many times...that turned me off. Though I do wonder why she looked so satisfied, actually smiling as we were leaving...hmmm...no good bitch! Haha!
via The Sexademic
Friday, July 30, 2010
The upside of sex and its shroud of mystery? Here’s a look at some really awesomely bad myths roaming around our minds and the internet.
1. Men think about sex every seven seconds.
This is FALSE. According to the Kinsey Institute for Research in Sex, Gender and Reproduction, 54 percent of men think about sex everyday or several times a day. This also includes “43 percent a few times per month or a few times per week, and four percent less than once a month.” This means that while it is impossible to determine exactly how many times sexual thoughts flash though a dude’s brain, it is unlikely that it is happening every seven seconds.
2. Semen has a lot of calories.
This is FALSE and probably thought up by some clever dude who wanted to skip the dinner in the dinner date. Seminal fluid contains vitamin C, water, sodium, potassium, calcium, magnesium, zinc, citrate, chloride, protein, and fructose. But a normal male ejaculation only contains around six calories, making it harmless to a restrictive diet. However, some women are known to have a severe allergy to semen, resulting in itching, redness, and blisters.
3. All women are innately bisexual.
This is FALSE and we can probably thank reality show TV for this one. Despite the abundance of girl-on-girl kissing in Jersey Shore hot tubs, the Kinsey Institute reports that only 6.2 percent of men and 4.4 percent of women are attracted to people of the same sex. Further, five percent of men and three percent of women consider themselves bisexual. Sure, that means a lot of women are bisexual. Just not necessarily the entire female gender.
4. Most women orgasm through intercourse.
More FALSE. Only 30 percent of women orgasm through just intercourse. The Kinsey Institute reports that women are much more likely to orgasm while alone. But among women in a partnered relationship, 62 percent say they are satisfied with the consistency and frequency of their orgasms. Interestingly, 14 percent of women reported that simultaneous orgasm with their partner is a “must.”
5. You can’t get pregnant if your partner pulls out before ejaculation.
This is FALSE FALSE FALSE. I’m saying it triple time because when I Googled it, I found the question on a lot of teen forums and chat rooms. Listen up! (Especially you young ones!) When a man is aroused, he has drops of semen on the tip of his penis. This helps lubricate it. Even one drop of semen contains a million sperm, and it only takes one sperm to knock you up. Even after your partner ejaculates, sperm can be present. The only fool-proof way not to get pregnant is to abstain from sex. Other than that, use birth control.
Enough said? Now let's start screwing...
via Myths About Sex
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Eugenia Sharpe used to be famous. Now she's on a downward spiral to nowhere as her singing career sputters to a halt and the love of her life turns out to be a porn-addicted A-List creep. From Central Park West to Lower Manhattan, she looks for love in the arms of both men & women but it isn't until she meets Eddie Ramirez " a tough papi who doles out some tough love " that destiny finds Genie with a vengeance and turns her world back around
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
So I had two lessons recently in how our technology is intruding (good and bad) into our relationships.
I have said on more then one occasion that had they text-ing (even cell phones) back in the days of yore when I had my first girlfriend I doubt she and I would have ever survived the knowing where-one-another-is-always-at-each-other's-beck-and-call that the kids today (and adults to) get into when they are a couple. It's just too much noise and assumption. Like how when someone texts or calls you these days and you don't get right back to them they immediately assume you're dead since who in their right mind doesn't return their voice mail messages immediately or God forbid who shuts their phone off?!
We even assume all of us have portable access to emails (I don't...sorry I just ain't that important). I would never have survived such close constant contact (I barely survive it now).
But there were these two most recent instances that gave me pause.
I have a good friend-I'm not naming names-who came across some information about their partner (I'm not naming pronouns either) that rather upset my friend to the degree that my friend found themselves sneaking across her partner's Facebook account (that most insidious of all social networks) doing what my friend claimed they would never do and hating themselves for spying. They found out some stuff, while not completely innocuous truly doesn't amount too much more then Internet flirting and while we all know this can grow and fester to real life flirting and worse, this whole episode illustrated to me (and my friend) how dangerous this Facebook thing is. Not because of the opportunity it allows one, but its very existence creates more noise in our life and possible hurtles in a relationship then we ever need. Tweeting and twatting aside, I don't care what you had for lunch or that you took the kid shoes shopping, I certainly don't think any of us need any extra drama in our relationships because of a Internet social platform.
The second instance was somewhat sweet. Two of my best friends (in unrelated instances), one girl, one guy, both had a want, reason and opportunity to contact someone they had a slight interest in, though if it's mutual they don't know. Through a mass email (in both cases) these people happened to get the email addy of the object of their interest and both asked me if it would be ok to send a specific email addressing the subject of the mass email, to the object of their budding affection, with no more mention made about anything other then referring to the mass emails subject (follow me?) I barely use a knife and fork and slurp my soup, so what do I know of etiquette really, but I opined in the affirmative that their initiative was nothing more then an opening salvo. If the person they sent it to wished to volley back, if not it was a nice way to say, hey this was interesting this thing we all shared that the massive email was about. Here's where I was heartened by technology (which I so often am not these days): one can send an email as an introduction and it can be read, erased or answered where no one is any more or less embarrassed by the attempt.
So, as in all things, there is good and bad with this technology Interweb cell phone/emailing stuff. Though I will say unequivocally: Facebook is evil.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Visitors to the Bornstedt cemetery in Germany have been annoyed by Wolfgang Joop's stone angel with a protruding manhood since its erection in 2008.
Despite the desecration, Joop says he has no plans to fix the statue at his family's plot, though he has filed a complaint with police who are now hunting the vandal.
Joop said: "This is a desecration of a cemetery, snapping off an angel's stone penis is just not done."
CEN reports he had the mournful winged angel moved from his garden to the cemetery after the death of his father. Many visitors objected and even his mother, who died in May this year, wasn't happy about the artwork.
"My mother suggested I file the penis down a bit," Joop said just days before the theft. "But I didn't do that and for a time ladies would walk past and place a seasonal flower on the penis to cover it up."
The director of the cemetery, Jutta Erb-Rogg, said: "It's unbelievable and terribly sad. The angel was art - not pornography."
via Penis Theft
Juggs is a softcore pornography adult magazine published in the United States which specializes in photographs of women with extremely large breasts. It has been called "the magazine of choice for breast men."
via Juggs Wikipedia
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Congrats to our friend - author and fellow NYC history buff Mykola Dementiuk who has just had another book published by Synergy Press (NSFW).
Award winning adult fantasy and subjects author Mykola (Mick) Dementiuk returns this month with his latest publication from Synergy Press, "100 Whores: Memories of a John," a collection of short stories detailing the sordid and sleazy underworld of street-hookers and the customers (the "johns") who patronized them in 1960's and 70's era Manhattan.
It was a place and time when sex and kinks of any kind of description or variety were available for those who were willing to pay the going rate, much like today. But times were bit different then. If you had $10 or $20 for the girl and another few dollars to get a room, just about what ever your horned-up mind could think of could be yours. But sometimes, you might get much more than you bargained for. Or maybe less. Or maybe just ripped off.
And there were just so many of these girls working the streets! All day he'd see them passing by, looking for the guys, some like himself, who were single and out looking for a good time, others who were looking to live out fantasies their wives or girlfriends might not indulge them in. God, the women! Young ones, some who were WAY too young, some who'd been on the streets only for a few days. Older, experienced women who'd been at it a bit too long maybe. Beautiful girls, ugly girls. A lot of girls who were, upon closer inspection, not really girls at all. Boozer chicks and doped-out junkie girls. And most of them would do whatever you wanted if you just had the money. There wasn't a lot of love for most of these girls, who by the time they hit the streets had become a nameless, almost faceless parade of mostly-affordable and easily attainable jizz receptacles.
Mick was young, (usually) had a job, and he had the money. Or he'd get it and come back. For the first 123 pages, he details, in short 1 - 2 page stories, the "100 Whores," each story a memory of an encounter with one of the working girls of 60's/70's Manhattan. Times Square was an obvious area where you might go to find whores in those days, but there was another area, further south, down on 3rd and 4th Avenues near 13th Street and the surrounding areas that the majority of these stories of Mick's adventures take place in. It was an area where old, cheap, run-down motels were abundant in those pre-gentrification days. The guy running the front desk sure didn't give a fuck what you were getting up to...and he wasn't stupid, either.
There are also tales of kinky, anonymous sexual encounters that take place in the now hard to imagine adult XXX theatres that used to be so prevalent in New York in those "sexual revolution" days. The pimps and other various shady characters of questionable stability and mentality were always nearby, threatening and disturbing much of the time.
As Mick states in the introduction to the book, "I was there when the whores were everywhere - the pimps, the johns, the winos, the alcoholics, the drug addicts - until you get a headache just thinking about it. Well the headaches are gone, the area is a much different place, but I still miss those days and events, no matter how crazy or dangerous they were..."
The second half of the book is given over to six short stories, with titles including "The Dildo", "The Trouble With Girls", "Cry, Baby", "Girlfriends", "The Girl On The Cardboard", and "Christmas Whore", each detaling stories of a similar vein to those found in the "100 Whores" section of the book. A woman teasing men in adult bookstores, she-pimps enslaving and selling the services of T.V. boys in 42nd Street prorno theatres, brutal butch lesbians selling the services of beaten and bruised submissive girls who will fuck you on a piece of dirty cardboard in plain view of everyone in the park for just a few dollars. A pair of young girls who find themselves in a twisted sexual encounter involving strangers in a dirty bathroom in another squalid porno theatre - a scene decribed in so much detail that you can almost smell the piss and amyl nitrate poppers.
All these scenarios and more like them play out in the second half of the book. Definately not reading for those with a "vanilla" sexual view of the world. "100 Whores" will be most enjoyed by those who are a bit more adventerous, have a bit more of an open mind and are curious concerning adult behaviours and activities that were so commonplace in the very different, now legendary time and place that was the sex-for-sale world of anything goes free-for-all in 1960's and 70's era New York City.
106 stories of lust, anger, betrayal, degradation and love. Stories of a New York world of whores in the nineteen sixties, when the drugs flowed, and Times Square was never far away.
5.5" X 8.5"
from This Ain't The Summer of Love
Saturday, July 24, 2010
The cross-dressing man was caught with the animal in the dry moat of King Henry VIII's Pendennis Castle overlooking Falmouth Bay in Cornwall. ... As the two ladies spotted the cross dresser he ran away. Later one of [their] dogs chased after the man; by the time the women had caught up, the man was having sex with the pet. Castle staff then restrained the man while police were called.
Sorry no more pictures
Friday, July 23, 2010
Last week, an excavation in Sweden turned up an object that bears the unmistakable look of a penis carved out of antler bone. Though scientists can't be sure exactly what this tool was used for, it's hard not to leap to conclusions...
I suppose she'll say, "Ooo, baby, don't go limp on me..."
via Sexoteric Blog
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Logical-Lust Publications Releases "Best S & M Erotica Vol. 3" edited by M. Christian
Logical-Lust Publications, UK publisher of erotica and erotic romance fiction, announces the release of its latest anthology "Best S & M Erotica Vol. 3: Still More Extreme Stories of Still More Extreme Sex" edited by M. Christian. In these pages you'll find light stories, dark stories, powerful stories, subtle stories, fierce stories, and even romantic stories—but all of them dealing with the basic idea of consensually giving up, or taking, sexual power and control. Featured contributors are PM White, Sharon Wachsler, Kane, Jean Roberta, Jason Rubis, Shanna Germain, Cecilia Tan, Xan West, Craig J. Sorensen, Ralph Greco, Jr., Theda Hudson, Jerry Rosen, Jan Vander Laenen, Mykola Dementiuk, Jude Mason, Billierosie, and Oatmeal Girl
Logical-Lust publisher Jim Brown said, “After the great success of volumes 1 & 2 of the Best S & M series, we were proud, and excited, to be the publisher of the latest volume. Best S & M Erotica Vol. 3 continues our tradition in publishing erotic anthologies that bring together some of the most talented authors and editors of erotic fiction. M. Christian has compiled a sharp collection blending many aspects of the lifestyle sure to impress both the curious and the connoisseur.”
"Best S & M Erotica Vol. 3: Still More Extreme Stories of Still More Extreme Sex" is available in both print and ebook formats at Logical-Lust.com, Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble and other fine online retailers.
Was in the ‘60s and I was cutting out of school, as usual, and wandering the streets of Times Square, much like everyone else was doing, old and young. It was a warm sunny day and I cursed my lack of funds. Some good films I wanted to see were released in those years, Cat Balou, Major Dundee,
On one of my walks along the streets, I had wandered onto
Not bad, I thought, see some skin on some foreign babes, Sophia Loren or Brigitte Bardot, ooh la la! I had heard of them and the hot movies they made but still haven’t seen any that they did.
I immediately took a seat in the sparsely filled auditorium and got used to the lighting. Up on the screen was Sophia Loren climbing out of a bus window as the driver was helping her out and looking up her nyloned legs; her dress rode up her legs as she squeezed out. I was amazed at how hard I had gotten in like 30 seconds of sitting there and looking up at Sophia’s nylon hosed legs which were so close I could just sniff and lick them when out of a corner of my eye a figure in the same row I was in was clearly masturbating, his pants tugged down to below the knees and his avid cock in his hand and beating it off. I scowled from nervousness; I’d often do that in bathrooms when I knew no one was looking and I must have felt embarrassed at what he was doing and what I was seeing because I turned red and felt myself growing soft. I stood up and got away from the jerking fellow, walking up the aisle to the rear of the movie house, passing other guys in the rows and it looked like they also were beating themselves off!
Was it my perverse imagination or was I seeing things that weren’t there? Did I imagine that everyone in the movie theater was masturbating?
I shook my head and kept walking until I came to the balcony and took a seat upstairs. More close-ups of Marcello Mastroianni feeling Sophia Loren as she rode in an automobile next to him and again I was hard and surreptitiously squeezing my hard-on. When I glanced in the corner of my eye and saw another man sitting in my row and rhythmically masturbating; where was his sense of embarrassment and shame? Again I wondered and felt like changing seats; I looked up behind him for a good seat to move into…when I saw still another guy masturbating out in the open and unconcerned of who may see him or not!
I shrank in my seat, thinking Wow, all around me are guys jerking off! I wondered if the fags knew about this theater…
Slowly my zipper came down and looking around me and knowing where I was I no longer cared who saw me, my dick was in my hand gently squeezing and caressing until I shot off….Oh wow!….I did it 3 or 4 times growing more open and bolder, comfortably just masturbating each time that afternoon and it felt very good about it. Of course I wasn’t that naïve to go and to do it in other movie houses in the evening or in the open when the place would get filled with fags just looking to get their hands and mouths on you but here at the Apollo in the afternoon with Sophia showing it off to Marcello it was comfortable and easy and seemed the natural thing to do....
Masturbation in the open, like sneezing when it comes upon you…that’s what it was….no big thing….I began beating again….
Many years have gone by but Sophia’s still my favorite actress with her nylons and big breasts that I have to pull my dick out every time I see her and just commence masturbating….Ah, those were the days…
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Someone Else's Skin
By Elizabeth Coldwell
I went in search of the kitchen. Like every other room in Jai’s apartment, it was tiny, and had no windows. Though when the view outside was just a bland, uninspiring corridor, who would want to look at it for any length of time?
The fridge was set flush into the far wall. It contained little apart from fruit and cans which were bound to contain some alcoholic beverage, if every other bachelor’s refrigerator I had seen was anything to go by. A plastic container on the bottom shelf contained a colourless liquid, which I sniffed dubiously before taking a sip; it had a faint tang of grapefruit and was surprisingly refreshing.
My thirst satisfied, I headed for the bathroom. It was as pristine as on my previous visit, and I wondered whether Jai did his own cleaning. I wished I knew more about him, about the person he was and I was going to be. Still, when I’d showered, I would go and investigate the files on that memory stick more fully, and see if I could access his e-mail. His in-box might tell me a few of his secrets.
There was no bath, though there would hardly have been room for one. The shower, when I examined it, had various settings: ‘relaxing’, ‘invigorating’, ‘tropical’. I like the sound of that one, I thought, turning the dial.
I stripped off the bodysuit and stepped naked into the steamy spray. The tropical setting was everything it had promised, beating down like rain from a blue Caribbean sky. I squeezed lemon-scented gel from a dispenser and rubbed lather into baby-fine hair and over the contours of my new body.
Jai Galloway was in good shape; there was no tell-tale thickening at his waist and his belly was flat. I soaped chest and back, let the spray wash the lather away, then moved down to the lean, firm thighs and what hung between them. I ran my hands experimentally over the velvet skin, cradling the heavy balls gently. I’d touched Matt and my other boyfriends there many times, brought them to orgasm with my fingers, but I’d never known how it felt for them to be on the receiving end of my attentions. This felt good, I had to admit; so good, in fact, that I couldn’t resist continuing.
Gradually the cock lengthened and stiffened, growing harder in my hand. I had always thought Matt had a pretty big one, but by the time I’d got myself fully hard I realised what I was holding was even more impressive. This was seriously weird: suddenly, I was better endowed than my own boyfriend.
It didn’t stop me from playing with myself in earnest. I varied the speed and pace of my strokes, learning more about what gave the most pleasure to this borrowed body of mine. It soon became clear that a little twist of the fingers at the end of every upstroke did it for Jai, and I leaned back against the shower wall, revelling in the sensations of jerking myself off. After a couple of minutes I felt the seed beginning to rise from my balls, and I concentrated on squeezing the spot just below the head ’til it was too late to stop. Spunk jetted out of me, in a swift climax which was so different to the diffuse waves of pleasure I was used to experiencing. I found myself hanging onto the shower gel dispenser for support as my knees buckled and I let out a couple of choice curse words.
When it was over, I felt exhilarated and strangely guilty, as though I’d been caught indulging in a forbidden pastime. Some people might consider I had, I reflected. I almost wanted to apologise to Jai for taking liberties with his body. What if Graham had decided to bring my out of the trance at that moment..?
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.
Monday, July 19, 2010
I was 15 too and scared shitless...Surprisingly I wanted to do it again. "Get lost, kid!" she said.
via Contact Music
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Jason rubbed his forehead, hoping the friction would warm up the creative part of his brain. None of his usual techniques – porn sites, Trendhunter, and the offbeat news feeds – were working for him today. He considered the gay chatrooms, but he’d backed off from there after he’d spent most of a day clutching at straws, finally coming up with an idea only to discover it already existed, and was referred to as ‘frelching’.
He needed something fresh, something that would revitalise his imagination.
As the person who’d invented freosoting, lizard slapping, the string theory position and the carburetor technique, Jason felt he had a reputation to uphold.
The human body, he thought, is a wonderful thing. It only has a limited number of orifices and sexual organs, and there are only the two primary sexes. Yet with some ingenuity and the use of objects, from the highly specialised to the everyday, there are extraordinary permutations to be created out of the simple act of sexual congress. Just as there are always new social trends and technical advances, so the number of possibilities was always increasing. Finding the interesting ones and giving them names was Jason’s job.
He felt the need for his particular form of liquid inspiration – a large, triple-strength skinny latte. In the lift down from his office to the foyer, two of the girls from the seventh floor were brashly comparing boyfriends. Some of their conversation set his mind racing, but not in a creative way. On the walk to the café, two skateboarders swept past. He envisaged a woman coming off a grind and landing open-legged on her partner… Didn’t do it for him. The coffee machine, wraithed in hissing steam and bubbling like a witch’s cauldron, set off some ideas. He’d done sex involving power washers a few weeks previously, though, and steam-powered vibrators might be too hot to handle. Bubbling sounds? They just reminded him of the frelching fiasco.
Walking back into his office, Jason encountered The Boss. The man whose idea it had been to turn his ideas into a revenue stream.
This was how it worked. Jason came up with the ideas. The phone company leaked Jason’s concepts to customers who signed up for sex texts, not knowing that the service was run by a phone company subsidiary. They texted their friends to discuss them. The uptick in the number of texts on the system was noticeable for days after one of Jason’s ideas went public. Even counted in terms of revenue generated from minimum-rate text packages, any one of his ideas was worth tens of thousands of dollars. The ultimate accolade was if they made it into Urban Dictionary, because the income from the corporation’s mobile internet business rose dramatically each time…
“I’ll be in a meeting from mid-afternoon,” The Boss said. His grin said it was the kind of meeting that took place in an hourly-rate motel. “So you’ll have the next idea on my desk by lunchtime, yes?”
Jason frowned and nodded at the same time.
“I’ve got some things I’m working on…” The lie tripped easily off his tongue. How the hell was he going to come up with something in the next hour? Jason felt like The Boss had graduated to the vampire school of business management, dissertation on How to get three pints of blood and a slice of your employee’s liver…
That was it! He held the thought. The Boss wanted blood and guts. He could have them.
scalpelfuck (n.) Sex in which the penis is used to penetrate an open wound, usually on the torso, which may be caused deliberately by e.g. a scalpel.
He’d played with other names. Gashfuck? Hatchetfuck? Both “gash” and “hatchet” were slang for female genitals, which conveyed the wrong idea. The Fourth Way? Vaginal, oral and anal sex as the first three. But there were already candidates for a fourth, fifth, and for all he knew forty-fifth way – handjobs, armpits, backs of knees…
He’d played with the idea of adding extras, like “Notably dangerous due to risk of infection,” decided against it. The fuckers should be able to work that one out, right?
The Boss didn’t even look at it, just grunted and forwarded the email to the right people to put it into circulation. His mind had already checked in to the motel.
It took three days for reports to surface of people actually doing scalpelfucks. The resident geeks, meanwhile, were raving about the text traffic the concept had generated. Jason didn’t know whether to be delighted or appalled. In any case, he was already distracted by how far he could push the boundaries. He was working on something that could genuinely be called a mindfuck.
Fulani writes erotica. Most of it is not as weird as this. Usually he’s a only a little bit twisted. For the inspiration behind this piece, he blames a late night conversation with Randy Wornhole. Fulani mainly writes short stories, published in Xcite Books anthologies though his first erotic novel has just been published by Pink Flamingo. He blogs at fulanismut.blogspot.com.
via German GQ Magazine
Saturday, July 17, 2010
CUNT! What is it about that short, four letter word that shakes us so? “You cunt!” It’s an insult; it’s offensive.
Germaine Greer says; "it is one of the few remaining words in the English language with a genuine power to shock.”
Such a tiny word; yet as a woman with the ability to curse along with the best of ‘em, it still shocks me -- even when I say it myself.
It’s just a word. It refers to a part of the female genitalia, essential for reproduction; the vagina. Somehow, shouting out “vagina”, or “vulva”, doesn’t have the same ring to it.
Even that other four letter word; “fuck”, pales into insignificance, compared with “cunt”.
I found this in Wiki. I’m not surprised that “Gropecunt Lane” fell out of popularity. Would you want it as your address?
Gropecunt Lane was a street name found in English towns and cities during the Middle Ages, believed to be a reference to the prostitution centred on those areas; it was normal practice for a medieval street name to reflect the street's function or the economic activity taking place within it. Gropecunt, the earliest known use of which is in about 1230, appears to have been derived as a compound of the words grope and cunt. Streets with that name were often in the busiest parts of medieval towns and cities, and at least one appears to have been an important thoroughfare.
Although the name was once common throughout England, changes in attitude resulted in its being replaced by more innocuous versions such as Grape Lane. Gropecunt was last recorded as a street name in 1561.
Some radical feminists of the 1970s sought to eliminate disparaging terms for women, including "bitch" and "cunt". In the context of pornography, Catharine MacKinnon argued that use of the word acts to reinforce a dehumanisation of women by reducing them to mere body parts; and in 1979 Andrea Dworkin described the word as reducing women to "the one essential - 'cunt: our essence ... our offence'".
Despite criticisms, there is a movement within feminists that seeks to reclaim cunt not only as acceptable, but as an honorific, in much the same way that queer has been reappropriated by LGBT people.
I'll be crossposting this to Frequently Felt in a day or so.
Friday, July 16, 2010
The definition of a new and insidious word today: Prostitot. Prostitots, it seems, are child harlots between the ages of 10-14 who
dress like tramps and prostitutes in imitation of the celebrity
Jezebels they admire.
see more: Prostitot
Through all of recorded history, mankind has dreamed of larger wangs. From the well-endowed seven-day-sexaholic Enkidu in our first recorded story Gilgamesh, to the hundreds of characters brought to life by legendary thespian Ron Jeremy, society is obsessed with writing about dudes with larger and larger junk. Meekly-endowed men are portrayed as hapless schmoes who buy expensive cars and putt around golf courses drowning in deeper neuroses, while their large-and-in-charge counterparts live easy, heroes with their Jack Johnsons wagging proudly in the wind. Fiction and cock are forever entangled, and forever shall be.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
By Jeremy Edwards
(from Spark My Moment)
It gave me a peculiar feeling to hear my name used in such proximity to her panties. ‘I’m glad you found it,’ I managed.
A brief look of concern flashed across her lively face. ‘I’m not embarrassing you, I hope.’
It struck me that this was one of those things that you should probably just leave unsaid, if you haven’t already said it by a certain point in a certain conversation. At least she hadn’t put it in the form of a question.
‘Let’s change the subject,’ she suggested. ‘Do you think men get as much pleasure from sex as women do?’
‘This is your idea of changing the subject?’
‘Seriously – what do you think?’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you trying to seduce me by engaging in abstract discussions of sexuality?’
‘No, and put that eyebrow down. I’m engaging in abstract discussions of sexuality because it’s what I do. If it has the effect of seducing you, that’s all well and good, of course. But that’s not why I’m doing it.’
Spark My Moment brings together a broad assortment of Jeremy Edwards pieces never before available in book form, including new stories written expressly for this collection. Ranging from playful, lascivious romps like “Mom and Pop Enterprise” to thought-provoking erotic art pieces like “Existential Wendell”—with forays into X-rated literary pastiche and steamy flash fiction—these stories are united by the author’s emphasis on joyful sensuality, libidinous urgency, offbeat romanticism, and the pleasures of language and laughter.
see: Best S&M III
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Nebraska residents who complained about a near-naked female store mannequin prompted police to conceal the window display and stirred a debate about obscenity.
Police covered the window at Hannah's Treasures for about a day last week after several people in Beatrice, a town of 12,500, complained about the mannequin wearing only shoes and a pair of pants around its ankles.
City Attorney Tobias Tempelmeyer said yesterday that he had yet to receive all the police reports on the semi-naked mannequin.
"We're not able at this point to issue a determination whether it's obscene or not," he said. Kevin Kramer, the owner of the closed shop, later dressed the offending mannequin in a bikini.
His lawyer, Dustin Garrison, said: "Nothing about a naked mannequin constitutes obscenity."via On or Off
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
If we’re lucky, we experience a moment in our life, a time that captures the essence of what it means to be young and free. For me, it was 1969, the summer Vancouver went crazy. The population was swollen with Vietnam draft dodgers, hippies built bonfires on the beach and sat in circles about the flames, playing guitar, singing the latest protest songs, espousing love not war, baby. And love, apparently, was free.
I was working as a junior reporter for a major west coast paper, a job I loved with a passion. I had a live-in girlfriend, quiet and Japanese, with soulful eyes like burnt almonds. I also had a drink problem. Everyone was into something and the acrid scent of pot hung on the air. So I liked a few beers. At least I didn’t snort coke.
It was a hot August evening. I’d been out chasing some stray dog story, interviewing old ladies. The office was strangely deserted then I got a call saying that the gang was at a party at a house in Strathcona and to get my ass over there. I can smell that evening, taste it. Heat-softened tar, my sandals sticking to the sidewalk, leaving tacky patches like black chewing gum. Summer city scents, dusty boulevards, the overpowering oily odor of a cheap Chinese restaurant. The sun setting, a mass of orange and scarlet over English Bay. I ducked into a liquor store and bought a case of beer then swung on over to the address on West 7th.
Inside, the sitting room was filled with couples dancing to Desmond Dekker’s “Israelites”. There was something surreal about the way they stretched their arms in the air, their swaying bodies illuminated by the glow from a streetlight. The atmosphere was thick with smoke, a blend of tobacco, pot and incense. I put the case of beer on a table and realized that I did not have a partner to sway with. As usual, she was left behind in our apartment, waiting for me to stagger home in the small hours, full of cheap rum and charming fairy tales I couldn’t recall in the morning. I cast my eye over the feminine contingent of the gathering, hoping to find someone pretty and unattached. No such luck. I cracked open a bottle of beer. One of my colleagues thumped me on the back, already under the influence of a large joint.
“Hey, Peter. Any luck with the stray dogs?”
The pot smoke made my eyes nip and I blew it back at him.
“You’re a funny guy, Lou. I hear Rowan and Martin want you for their Laugh-In.”
“Wouldn’t mind if it meant getting a crack at Goldie Hawn.”
I laughed at the mental image of short balding Lou McGrath and the ditzy blonde Hawn.
“You murder me, McGrath.”
“Talking of which, have you heard about that Sharon Tate business?”
The conversation was turning less than festive. I drained my beer and reached for another. The music had changed, from the heavy bass and reggae rhythm of Desmond Dekker to the chaotic guitar riffs of Hendrix. “Purple Haze”. I moved away from McGrath, declaring that I needed to find the washroom. I climbed the uncarpeted stairs, stepping over several entwined couples. The bathroom door had a large psychedelic poster pinned to it. Turn on, tune in, drop out. I pushed it open and was surprised to find a girl inside.
“Hi,” I said, always one for a creative conversation opener.
She wore a long Indian dress, the kind with tiny bells sewn into the hem. Her feet were bare and she sat on the side of the bath tub gazing up at me. Jimi’s guitar reached a frenzied climax and she smiled.
“I like Jimi Hendrix. Isn’t he bisexual?”
An interesting rejoinder, preferable to the one about my zodiacal sign or whether I came there often. I tried to look intelligent as the effects of strong beer and second-hand marijuana kicked in. The girl had an accent of some kind. Scottish, Irish.
“You’re not from round here are you?”
She laughed at me, as if delighted at the stupid question and held out her hands. They were covered with rings, ethnic-looking, some vaguely occult. I wasn’t sure what to do so I took her hands in mine and stared back.
“I’m not from anywhere, really. I was born in Scotland. But it doesn’t matter, you know. All that matters is here and now.”
I wondered what she was on. The pupils of her eyes were dilated but the room was dim. I recalled my reason for being there and murmured would she mind if, etc. She rose to a delicate accompaniment of bells and wafted past me in a cloud of patchouli.
“I don’t mind. In fact, you’d be amazed at what I really don’t mind…”
She slipped outside and I wondered if she’d be there when I’d done or enveloped in the arms of another who really didn’t mind. She sat on the top step of the stairs, playing with a strand of her hair. It looked as if she had braided it when damp then let it dry that way. Lots of tiny crinkles. It looked soft as did her smooth pale skin. I sat down beside her, sensing the potential to become engrossed and entwined like all the other couples in the house. I put my arms around her and kissed her. Kissing the girl felt like a trip. I kind of dived in and swam, down, down, down into the very essence of her, swirled around and span. The music was there but distant, a throbbing pulse to our embrace. The house, the stairs were there but somehow detached. We were in our own world and I knew. I knew the moment I kissed her. She was the one.
Finally, we came up for air and I looked deep into her eyes, blue like my own but a different kind of blue. I thought of myself as the sea and her as the sky and then I wondered why the hell I was having these thoughts with an odd little girl I had only just met.
“I’m your nemesis,” she said, smiling, as if it was a gift she was bestowing on me. “You know that, don’t you?”
Like a fool I nodded and agreed with her. She smelled good. It wasn’t the patchouli but the natural scent of her body, her smooth skin, her hair. I buried my face in her neck and had a sudden sharp urge to nip her with my teeth.
“You smell good.”
My thoughts issued from her mouth. I watched her lips moving and I realized she was saying everything that was going through my own mind. She loved the scent of my body. I smelled good enough to eat. Kissing me was like falling through space, timeless and gravity-defying. For a silver-tongued devil I was speechless, lost for words. Her strong little fingers were in my hair, winding strands as if she might never let me go. Something in me welcomed that thought.
“You are beautiful.”
It should have been my line but, again, she spoke the words. I glanced up at a nearby mirror and saw only a familiar guy with a beard and a broad set of shoulders. Maybe it was my shoulders she liked. I turned her head to one side and kissed her neck, savoring the shiver that ran through her, the way her flesh ruffled with goose bumps beneath my lips. We had to go somewhere quiet.
“We can’t sit here.”
I rose, pulling her up with me. She clung to my waist, her head lolling as if drunk or stoned but I wasn’t convinced she was either. We began to play hunt the empty bedroom, coming up trumps on the third landing door. Inside, we didn’t bother to turn on the light. The girl was a soft warm shape in the sandalwood-scented darkness, leading me on, drawing me in. I took her in my arms and it felt as if she simply melted into me. I couldn’t tell where I ended and she began.
“Are you an acid trip?” I murmured into her ear.
“I’m a time-traveler. I’ve come from the future to change everything. It was the only way.”
Silly me. Well, I didn’t care if she was crazy. I wanted her. We kissed again, more intensely than before, tongues exploring each other’s mouths, and I fondled her bottom through the cotton skirt. Instinctively, she arched her spine and ground her hips against my cock. I needed to be deep inside her moist heat, fucking her hard until we both saw stars. I rubbed myself against her stomach, letting her feel how much I wanted her. The driving beat of the Stones’ “Gimme Shelter” filtered up through the floor. Freedom was just a shot away. Her warm hands cupped my erection through my jeans, stroked its length and then unzipped my fly. She sank to her knees and took my knob between her lips, delicately swirling the tip of her tongue in a tiny figure eight at the top of my shaft. I felt my balls tighten, an almost uncontrollable urge to come in her mouth. Her hands cupped my ass, squeezing rhythmically as she licked me. And then she stopped.
“What are you doing?”
I tried to keep my voice from breaking as I felt her move away from me, the entire universe centered in my cock. There was a rustle of clothing being discarded and she pulled me onto the bed. I could see her naked body, white and yielding, as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Her hands were between her thighs, touching herself.
“Make me come first. Before you fuck me. Lick me the way I just licked you.”
Oh Jesus. Of all the things the girl had to ask for, it had to be that.
“Make me come. I want you to kiss me down there. Please.”
Her voice changed, the whole mood of the moment altered perceptibly, like reality rushing in as an anesthetic wears off. The girl writhed before me, her creamy thighs parted, a surprising insistence honing the edge of her to something sharp, almost venomous. My wraith-like nymph had turned into a snake. Mick Jagger sang on, the bass line pulsing beneath my feet. Freedom was just a pussy-eating session away.
She sat up, her question a dainty steel stiletto that caught me somewhere in between my stomach and my crotch. I sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her arm, an ineffectual gesture of appeasement. Her flesh felt firm, the boundaries between us intact.
“I’m sorry. I don’t like it. I’ll do anything else. Well, almost anything.”
I laughed sheepishly, a hollow sound in the uncarpeted room. I could make out Che Guevara, staunchly gazing down from the ubiquitous poster pinned to the closet door. There was a long pause. I wondered what she was thinking. The scent of sandalwood seemed poignant rather than exotic and arousing. I’ve never been able to smell incense without thinking of that night. She spoke, her voice a whisper, dry as dead leaves
“You’ll never change. What do you want to do with me? What really turns you on?”
I caressed her shoulders, relieved to feel her respond with a jolt. A thought came to me. Hell, I knew what turned me on. I’d known that since I was in short trousers. I patted my thigh.
“Over my knees.”
In a moment she was there, her bottom thrusting up to meet my hand. Had she been spanked before? I ran my fingertips down her spine then bent to kiss the nape of her neck. She shuddered and ground her hips against my thighs. I placed my hand on her silky cheeks and she pushed her wet pussy towards my fingers. I rewarded her with a sharp smack. She cried out but I knew it was more in pleasure than pain. I began to spank her, firmly and fast, first on one cheek, then the other, covering every inch of her lovely skin. I felt the warmth start beneath my fingers, then intensify and spread like wildfire in her smooth cool flesh. I imagined her squirming scarlet ass cheeks, her flushed face, her lips parted in that delicious blend of shock and desire. She writhed over me, spreading juice from her swollen pussy and I slapped the backs of her thighs, making her gasp. Pre-come oozed from my cock as her frantic movements massaged it. I loved having her naked, acquiescent body over my knees. Breathless with lust, I began to lecture her, punctuating each stern phrase with a swat near her slick cunt. She leapt like a fish and I grasped a handful of her hair.
“This gets you hot, doesn’t it? A good bare bottom spanking from Daddy.
I was only old enough to be her brother but she nodded and moaned. My God, I thought, I’ve found her. My naughty little girl. A stream of adolescent fantasies flashed through my brain, images long-suppressed for fear of being branded a pervert.
“Fuck me, Daddy!”
Christ, if I was twisted then she was deviant too. I pushed her onto the bed. She crouched on all fours, head down, hot bottom raised to greet my bursting cock. In a few seconds I was deep inside her, shafting her hard from behind, swiftly draining my balls in a shouting climax. Fuck! What couldn’t I do with this girl? We were a kinky dream come true. Visions of depravity danced in my head. Breathing hard, I turned her over and held her close. To my surprise, she was sobbing quietly, her face damp with tears.
“What’s wrong? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
She shook her head . I kissed her softly on the nose. Suddenly, she seemed small and vulnerable. Had I stirred up some latent father complex with my Daddy routine? Or was she simply coming down from a trip?
“You won’t understand. I’m not even here, not really. I just came from the future—”
“To change everything. So you said. Was it a success?”
Her eyes gleamed faintly in the darkened room.
“I don’t know. I won’t know for sure until we meet again. I’m like a silent note, you see, caught between the rhythm and the bass line. You can’t hear me but I’m there. I will return.”
I stroked her hair, breathed in her scent. She seemed calmer. Downstairs, the Doors were playing “Light My Fire”. Was my world ablaze, thanks to an odd little Celtic girl who seemed to occupy an alternate universe and willingly called me Daddy as I spanked her bottom to a rosy glow?
“I’ll wait for you,” I said and, strangely, I meant it. She was mine.
Miss Jay Lawrence is an expatriate Scot who currently hangs out near Vancouver, Canada. She is the author of various erotic novels and short stories which have appeared in publications on both sides of the Atlantic.