Friday, December 31, 2010
BLOOMINGTON, Ind., Dec. 30 (UPI) -- The new $15 million Indiana University Cinema has an unexpected problem -- what to do with pioneer sex researcher Alfred Kinsey's sex films.
The biologist and groundbreaking U.S. sex researcher amassed a huge archive of about 14,000 films and videos beginning in 1947 known as the "Kinsey Collection," the Los Angeles Times reports.
The collection includes everything from art house erotica and sex-education titles to about 2,000 crudely made stag party films from the 1920s through the 1960s that pre-date adult movie theaters, X-rated DVDs and online porn Web sites.
The racy stuff was kept locked away in a converted bowling alley near the Bloomington, Ind., campus for decades until the Kinsey Institute for Research in Sex, Gender and Reproduction moved it to a more modern facility.
The pornographic materials were not acquired at taxpayer expense, Kinsey Institute employees said. Kinsey, author of "Sexual Behavior in the Human Female," died in 1956.
"Kinsey had relations with police departments all over the country," IU film archivist Rachael Stoeltje told the Times. They would send him copies whenever they confiscated (such films). They're all amateur, all illegally made, all with bad lighting, but real gems. They're unique because this doesn't exist anymore."via UPI
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Grandma's Boobs Cause Trouble For New Zealand Airline
A billboard in the South Island city of Nelson for Air New Zealand's grabaseat with the headline, "Fares lower than your grandma's boobs" has raised the ire of a few and has been accused of being ageist, sexist and disrespectful to women.
Family First and Stop Demand Foundation both condemned the billboard and have asked that the billboard be taken down. In an email to Air New Zealand, Stop Demand Foundation Founder Denise Ritchie wrote, "Yes, most of us like 'edgy and provocative'. Most of us don't like, or accept, 'sexist and ageist'. Most of us know the difference. Apparently you do not,"
The billboard was created as part of a contest. Grabaseat Manager Duane Perrot said of the campaign, "What this person [the ad's creator] thought was funny, as did many others, clearly didn't resonate with some individuals today and Grabaseat will be removing the billboard shortly. We apologize if any offense was caused."
Monday, December 27, 2010
Sunday, December 26, 2010
M. Christian is the most phenomenal erotic short story writer - ever! He is wildly diverse. Think heterosexual, gay, lesbian, threesomes, robots, technorata and other interesting objects against crazy settings, like historical, futuristic, present day and virtual reality. And the characters - immortals, robots, prostitutes, pornography photographer, spiritualists, technophiles, androids, police officers, and humans just like us. M. Christian redefines sex, love and bdsm. And the greatest part about M. Christian's work is that he has something for everyone and in perfectly crafted bite size short stories for every appetite. (I have previously reviewed Blow Up and Beep, both of which I found hilarious and on a light, funny side.) Every lover of romance needs to read at least one of M. Christian's books, and I have two fantastic recommendations for you today - The Bachelor Machine and Rude Mechanicals.
The Bachelor Machine consists of 18 short stories. Some are light and funny, others are quite sexual, and others are somewhat grim. There are a wide array of characters, guaranteeing that no two stories will be the same. What I love most about The Bachelor Machine is the surprise. You finish a story feeling shocked, in awe, and thinking differently about sex, and when you read the title of the next short story, it gives nothing away as to the contents it holds secret. I feel like it challenges you in a way. "You won't know what this is about until you read me." Yes, that is how it mocked me. So I read the next story, having my world completely thrown into chaos over and over again. The same is true for Rude Mechanicals. This title features four fantastic shorts and two novellas. Just as hot, as provocative, and as daring as his previous work, M. Christian once again stretches your mind to its sexual limits. Perfect for those long, warm winter nights, or shorts spurts of lag time during your hectic day. Priced just right, you can grab both (22 shorts and 2 novellas) for under $12. That's definitely a steal. I promise these titles won't let you imagination down.
In the words of M. Christian, "Imagination is Intelligence with an Erection!"
Miss Emma S. was fair of face,And had the beauty of a Grace,But not one lover had she knownAnd always had she slept alone.Now as she added up her sum,She heard a rhythmic, playful hum,And looked up from her desk to spyA dreadlocked ghost with bloodshot eye.She gasped and scrambled for her gun.“Na worry, mon, I’m here for fun.I’m tellin’ you an’ get dis right,Wi gwaan hab a bashment night.”She guessed whose ghost this must be, sure,But why on earth had he come to her?He spoke no more but took her wrist,And the room dissolved in ganja mist.
Then from the smoke, a grove took form,Midwinter, yes, but still quite warm.A Roman man, in tunic gayGreeted her with a bright “Ave.“She saw by his paraphernaliaHe celebrated Saturnalia.The hat he wore was everyman’s;As he probed her with his Roman hands.She realized that she was nude,And he, engorged with rectitude,Ensured the rebirth of the sunBy thrusting deep beneath her bum.
Senses shattered, mind a’reeling,Overwhelmed with intense feeling,Scattered wide the bright conundrum,She woke anew in jolly London.A handsome man in waistcoat bright,Greeted her with pure delight,And as her breath and heartbeat quickensShe recognized old Charles Dickens!Or at least his phantom, stout of form,With eyes that pledged a pleasant storm,And a happy smile, did what he may,Took her in a Victorian way.Full of spritely Christmas cheer,He put his hands beneath her rear,And raised her up to meet his penTo write a tale with a happy end.
Breathless with the Yuletide coming,Serenade by Rasta humming,Traversed mists of chronal suture,Into an unimagined future.Nigh weightless on a lunarscape,Wearing but a silver cape,Awaited by a moon-bred lass,Full of breast and round of ass.“I greet you, woman of the past,Of this night’s lovers, I’m the last.Let me show you the sweet wayThat we in lowest grav can play.”Then the sportive lunar maidBent to the cleft where bliss is made, And with her tongue and fingers freeLicked and flicked Em’s zero G.
All across the plain of years,Miss Scrooge’s cries rang Yuletide cheers,And soon she fell in motion slowBack to her time in afterglow,Ope’d her eyes, and knew she’d dreamt,Smelled the fading trace of hemp,Heard a distant reggae tune,Looked out upon the fulsome moon.And knew that she’d been granted blissTo celebrate the winter’s kiss,To learn the songs that pleasures bring,And out of winter birth the spring.
For each is given but one lifeAnd much of it is woe and strife,So seize the chance for pleasure brightUpon the longest winter’s night.And in the days that lay aheadMiss Scrooge grew fond of giving head.The ghosts before her and behindWere often on her randy mind.And all who knew her oft did say,How much she’d changed that Solstice day,Reborn, inspired, and fond of fun,Her life renewed, just like the sun.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Who told you about me anyway? Was it that hate-filled stoplight at the end of my block? Or was it that conceited fire hydrant, all red and thinking he’s so cool. Neither of them has ever liked me.
Since you’ve succinctly summarized an abstract principle of my life (palpably restrictive but introspectively boundless) you must think you’re a pretty witty fellow, huh? Well I have news for you; you’re not as clever as you think you are. Just because you were able to stop me in the middle of a nice stroll on a warm autumn day, my very breath taken from me by the shock of an abrupt axiom on a road sign, my spirit, my soul touched (no, punched) by your four smug words, doesn’t mean your pompous attitude is justified. I know your type.
How long have you been there, waiting for me? So many people must have passed you by, day after day, thinking you were just a simple warning, not remembering you, not caring, not even (dare I challenge you?) not even reading your message. But you just stood there waiting for me didn’t you? For years I guess. For many years while I struggled to make sense of my inability to see what was ahead of me you just stood there knowing you had already summarized the culmination of my conflict. And in all that time did you try to help me? Did you ever once try to show me that struggling was futile? No you did not. You just waited there, knowing I would show up one day, and that day finally arrived.
But it’s too late for you to help me. I have gone beyond my struggle. I have accepted and even embraced what has made me into me, and I don’t need some smart-ass road sign to summarize it. And don’t try to apologize; it’s too late for that too.
You were made for me and now that I’ve seen you, what will you do with your life? Do you really think anyone else will ever care about your message? I doubt it. I know I’ll never pass by you again; I won’t have to. If ever (whenever) I feel life’s bittersweet tides toss me around and I become aware of the limits of my view bearing down upon me, I will look at the picture of us together and laugh.
Well, I hope you’re satisfied.