I love pumpkins! I love how they look, all orange and round and happy. I love how they taste; delicious pumpkin pie and crunchy roasted pumpkin seeds are the best in October. And, most importantly, I love carving pumpkins.

But, as I sliced through the pumpkin flesh and pulled out the gooey insides in preparation for Halloween this year, it occurred to me that there are ways to carve up your pumpkin so that it can love you too.

For one thing, before you hollow out your pumpkin, you could carve a medium size hole into one side of your pumpkin and a small hole on the other. The medium sized hole should be just the right size for you to shove your dick inside and pump your pumpkin. Cover and release the small hole to vary the sensation of suction on the backstroke.
(For best results, trying warming up your pumpkin a little bit.)
^_^

Of course, not all of us have the right appendage to love a pumpkin in this way — but that doesn’t mean we can’t have our own fun ignoring the trick-or-treaters, too. With a little clever knife-work, you could make yourself a frottage pumpkin. Simply lay your pumpkin on its side and draw one large oval with one small oval and one small circle inside. Being careful not to cut all the way through the pumpkin flesh, carve out a substantial amount of the pumpkin flesh inside the large oval, leaving the small oval and circle behind, sticking up. The raised circle will be your vaginal plug and the small raised oval will be your clit stimulator. Carve some ridges into your clit stimulator for the extra texture that will (hopefully) make this all worthwhile. Next, wrap your pumpkin in a couple of layers of plastic wrap, squirt on some lube, and set your pumpkin on the floor or on a small sturdy table or chair. Then it’s time to turn your speakers up enough to drown out the doorbell and grind your way to pumpkin-y ecstasy.
(instructions)

If you’re someone who needs something a little more… substantial to get off, you could always try mounting your favourite dildo into our spheroid orange friend. It’s easy: just lay your pumpkin on its side and trace around the base of your dildo, then draw another circle a few inches wider than your tracing. Cut out a hole, the same diameter as your dildo, in the middle of your big circle. Then cut out the big circle on an inward angle — like when you cut the lid of a jack-o-lantern. Scoop out some of the pumpkin flesh from the underside of your “lid” to make a niche for the base of your dildo so that it sits flush and securely. Fit the “lid” back on the pumpkin, wash everything down, place the dild-pumpkin on your bed or floor, crank the tunes, and ride ‘em cowgirl (or cowboy)!
(Instructions)

Pumpkin fucking not your kind of thing? Your house-mates/family/partner would prefer that you carve something that could be put on display? Well, there are other ways to express your pumpkin love.

Who’s to say that you can’t create a lovely pumpkin depicting a blow-job in progress, two lesbians in a 69 or even a simple penis or vagina? With a lit candle inside, your blow-job pumpkin could be quite beautiful and set the perfect mood for this year’s Halloween party.

What’s that? Oh, your house-mates/family/partner DID say that you can’t carve anything explicit into the pumpkin? Well, if you must carve a family-friendly pumpkin this year (or even if you don’t), there is one more way to really love your pumpkin: make a pumpkin-goo masturbator!

Here’s how: when you’re at the store buying the pumpkin, pick up two extra produce bags. As you prepare to carve your pumpkin, scoop out all of the gooey insides and put them into one of your plastic bags, picking out as many seeds as you can. When your pumpkin is all done, slide the plastic bag filled with pumpkin goo into an empty container (like a tennis ball canister or a pringles tin), fold the top of the bag open over the edge of the container and use an elastic band to hold it down. Next insert your second plastic bag into the middle of your pumpkin goo, open the top and secure the edges under the elastic band. Squirt a little lube in the inner bag and pump away until the party guests start to arrive!
(Instructions)

With a little pumpkin love, you’re sure to have a very happy Halloween this year.

originally posted at The S Spot

oh xkcd!

psst, my fave is totally 71
^_~

originally posted at TheSSpot.org

Suspension in the rope community is kind of like politics - you can talk about it for hours, with wildly disparate opinions from equally competent individuals, and everything from welding techniques to tables calculating the potential force of impact for falling bodies from various heights fill the mailing lists of rope enthusiasts.

What, you think we talk about the hot chicks gettin’ tied up and hung in the air? No, we’re too busy whining about the carabiner that pinched our fingers, or the fact that such-and-so put his shears in his right pocket, not his left, so wait, is he a switch now?

(and while that’s not an exaggeration, at least we don’t have to have a subgroup called “People for the Ethical Treatment of Pronouns.” And you know who you are).

That being said, my friend Matisse recently published a very fun interview with my other friend Lochai (both of whom I hate because they get to hang out a lot with people I see all too infrequently, beginning with themselves). It was presented as a description of someone who pretty much has a one-of-a-kind job, a dream occupation where he gets paid to tie up and sexually amuse some of the most beautiful women in the world. At the time I thought it might be fun to write an article about the other side of the coin, about what it’s like being one of the many everyday riggers who go out to clubs and tie up the rest of the beautiful people in the world for some variety of amusement or other.

I still think that would be an interesting article. But this is not it.

No, this article is for the other half of the equation: the suspendee.

You see, one of the things that your everyday average rigger does, on occasion, is goes to clubs that have some sort of “fetish nights” and puts up people in their first suspension. Or their 732nd, but the point is it’s just the fun of flying, of getting to play in the ropes. It’s like going and playing on the swing, for grownups.

Now, from a rigger’s perspective, it’s pretty intense. It’s a constant evaluation of many factors, starting with environment (often dark, often smoky, often crowded, often loud). There’s the person who wants to be suspended, often a stranger, and you have to evaluate their physicality and state of mind (or inebriation) and come up with the best way to tie the ropes (and, for that matter, which ropes to use? Which hardware?). I suspect that part of the enjoyment that the suspendee gets out of the process is not just the fun of flying, but also the focused attention of the rigger, who, if she/he is any good, is almost total.

I don’t want to give the impression that it’s like a checklist. No, if you’re rigging in clubs, usually you’ve reached a point where it’s more like rock climbing - you do these checks constantly, unconsciously, moving by feel rather than step by step. You learn to feel how a knot is, rather than seeing, and focus on the tension of the person and the frame and the environment all in a sort of fugue state.

It’s awesome.

But it’s also pretty draining, when all is said and done. And that’s why I’m writing this. The image above is of a friend who was in her first suspension, and it was great. She communicated throughout it how she felt, she had fun twisting and writhing (as you can see) and at the end she gave me a big hug and pronounced “I’m HUNGRY!” with a big smile, which I took as a great compliment.

Then there was C. and that’s what this post is about. Without further adieu or Princess-Bridesque introductions, here is Graydancer’s Guide to What Not to Do in Suspension:

1. Don’t hang back, looking like you really want to talk but not actually having the courage to do so. This breaks the primary need of good rope bondage, communication.
2. When you do come up, don’t start the conversation by saying “What’s the story with this, anyway? Why would anyone want to get tied up?” This breaks the secondary need of good rope bondage, courtesy. (Also known as respect, but I’m feeling alliterative alot as it ‘appens).
3. When you ask for a comfortable suspension, as opposed to a painful one, do not act as if the rigger’s suggestion that the underwire bra might be uncomfortable is the same as suggesting you let him double-fist you.
4. When the ropes begin to push the aforementioned underwire bra into shapes that reveal more of your breasts, do not act as if this was a plot of the rigger to try and expose more skin. I guarantee you, either he’s seen more, or she’s got more.
5. When the rigger is focusing on tying the ropes as comfortably on your body as possible, do not spend the time waving at, making gestures at, and shouting to your flabbergasted friends across the bar.
6. When you go up into suspension, it is fine to request that your feet and hands remain free. It’s even fine to twist around in the ropes and play - that’s what it’s for, after all. The rigger will be watching and sometimes touching the ropes or checking your hands (if tied) for tension and circulation. Your friends are not part of that testing process, however.
7. It is NOT fine, however, to comment sarcastically that the suspension would be “easy to escape from.” It will give the top a heart attack at the thought of an eel trying to escape a full suspension (gravity will help you at the most inopportune moment).
8. To then smirk sarcastically and remove the comfortably loose thigh ropes from over your (at your request) untied feet with your (at your request) untied hands and say “Well, THAT wasn’t very hard to get out of!” as you stand up is likely to make the rigger’s hands twitch. There’s a couple of Japanese words going through his/her head at that moment, and if you are into comfortable, escapable suspension, you don’t want to learn them.
9. To then shrug out of the chest and waist bands, leaving them in a traditional WhatTheFuck knot hanging from the carabiner is perhaps less than considerate of the rigger trying to get ready for the next suspendee.
10. To put on your skirt and top and then walk off to join your jeering friends - no thank-you, goodbye, or offer of a shot of Lagavulin neat and some Godiva extra dark -  breaks, again, the primary and secondary requirements of good rope bondage.

See, there’s this thing in kink called “aftercare.” Everybody has different needs for it. Her needs, apparently, involved talking with her friends about it, laughing, drinking more. That’s cool. But tops need aftercare, as well, and while that may be as simple as a polite “thank you, I’m HUNGRY!” it’s usually something. it’s polite, as in any human interaction, to at least ask.

Because I’m here to tell ya, even if the woman had the most amazingly smooth thighs I’ve ever seen (and yes, she did, in fact, I’ve tied a lot of people, and her thighs were quite literally breathtaking) at the end, if that’s how the suspension went…the rigger feels like shit. He/she is likely to get grumpy as they take down their frame and walk out into the night. And you are not likely to get suspended by that rigger again.

On the other hand, K, the model in the picture above? Treat the rigger like she did, and they are likely to text you and ask how you are the next day, and even share some really nice pics of the suspension with you and the entire audience of the Best Sex Bloggers.

However, the Lagavulin and Godiva special dark will suffice, as well.

So, I’ve smirkingly said in the past that erotica is nothing more than socially acceptable porn.  I was pondering this a few days ago with one of my Friend-With-Benefits types (well, okay - he’s the only one currently that fits that category) when I thought about what kinds of differences there really are between the two.  I can’t be the only person out there wondering about it, so I thought I’d do some research, and write a handy guide to help my fair readers discern whether they’re jerking off to porn or masturbating to erotica.

Erotica comes from people with names like Anne Roquelare, Rachel Kramer Bussel, and Lisbet Sarai.  Porn comes from people with names like Seymore Butts, Sledge Hammer, and Alexis Texas.

Erotica uses words like “mons”, “cleavage”, and “penis”.  Porn uses words like “man meat”, “jizz”, and “cum dumpster”.

Erotica has themes like sex with a stranger, surprise threeways, and sex in the woods.  Porn has themes like MILFs, Amateurs, and biracial orgies.

Erotica is generally sold with a very softcore image of a scantily or provocatively clad woman.  Porn is generally sold with a very hardcore image of a woman whose genitals are as air conditioned as a summer house in Georgia.

Erotica often has twenty minutes of erotic tension before the first sex scene.  Porn often has twenty minutes of advertisements before the first sex scene.

Erotica has titles like “Her Surrender”, “On The Balcony”, and “A Date with Destiny”.  Porn has titles like “Young, Dumb, and Full of Cum”, “British Older Amateur Housewives #1″, and “Little Red Rides The Hood”.

When you’re reading erotica, you feel “aroused”, “titillated”, and “swollen”.  When you read porn, you’re just plain ol’ horny.

One does not “masturbate” to porn - one jerks off, or double clicks the mouse, or shoots a wad.  One, also, doesn’t “milk the weasel” to erotica - one performs self loving, or strokes oneself, or in a fit of arousal one might even “ejaculate”.

One’s mother might not turn as bright a shade of red if she happens upon your copy of “Macho Sluts” as if she were to happen upon your copy of “Debbie Does Dildos”.

Erotica is not sold behind the counter in your shady neighborhood convenience store.  Porn is not sold in Borders.

Finally, erotica writers get reviewed using comments like “his grasp of the feminine sensibilities of this character makes his story a tour de force of passion and lust”.  Porn writers get reviewed using comments like “I give this story three cum shots!”.

Me, I don’t care so much whether what I write is called erotica, or porn, as long as it gets me more sex.

By now you’ve probably had a gander at Ross Douthat’s bloviating treatise for the Atlantic titled ‘Is Pornography Adultery?’… right?

Well, unless you’re a sex-blogger that is, in which case you’ve probably only been reading other sex-blogs, and maybe looking for cheat-codes/possible play-partners from World of Warcraft/Second Life. Because, you know, we’re kind of a weird, insular bunch.

Anyway. This rambling vomitorium is so tedious, so pedantic, and so utterly anachronistic, that a rebuttal almost seems moot. It would be like debating the concept of irony with a golf club and a super-sized jug of St. John’s wort. As such, I’m not really going to present a reasoned, rational rebuttal to this googly-eyed gobbledygook. I’m going to do exactly what needs to be done…

…make fun of it until it cries and runs home to its mom. Because if there’s one thing that white people everywhere need to understand, it’s that you have to stop sweating the small stuff. Getting offended doesn’t get anything done. That’s what cruel-tongued ridicule is for!

So, if you haven’t yet read Mr. Douthat’s article, please do so at this time. Then take this quiz. The answers are at the bottom – but be good, boys and girls (especially boys) – no cheating!

1. According to Mr. Douthat, viewing porn is like adultery when:
A. you are masturbating to someone less attractive than yourself
B. you mail your ejaculate to the person(s) you masturbated to
C. you pay to watch German scat videos
D. you’re in it

It reads kind of like a 527 ad, if the 527s were a somewhat literate bunch. You know, the Kristol Light gang. Besides, chances are that 527 groups would have a hard time taking the stupefying leap of faith from masturbating to Sports Illustrated’s Swimsuit Issue (it’s okay; don’t worry), to paying for hardcore porn on the internet (very, very bad). You know you’re in for a long troublesome read when you come across this: ‘the problem of the male libido’. Because, you know, we’re just that dumb.

Okay, so maybe we are. I’ll cop to that.

2. What precisely is ‘the problem of the male libido’?
A. it’s staunchly anti-American and pro-North Korea
B. its allergy to all things Jane Austen and/or Victorianism
C. like a squatter, it leaves in its wake a messy trail of used condoms, empty Funyuns bags, and gooey, shimmering blobs of evil
D. its relentless enthusiasm for really depressing porn
E. its tendency to scream at its wife the following terms of dis-endearment: ‘at least I don’t plaster on the makeup like a trollop, you cunt’
F. our unabashed love of cockfighting
G. quite frankly, it gets a lot more credit than it really deserves

First off, I am not plugging anything here – not porn; not really, anyway. I mean, for me, porn is like the Constitution – in theory, I love it – but in reality, it tends to get all twisted-up and interpreted worse than Scalia and Roberts trying to translate a Bergman film with their fingers in their ears and chanting ‘la, la, la, la, la, la, la!’

What all of this means is that old porn is okay; today’s porn is analogous to immorality, infidelity, and having sex with prostitutes. Makes sense, eh?

3. The difference between Debbie Does Dallas and Whipped Ass is:
A. 35mm film-stock
B. Debbie Does Dallas was turned into a musical
C. ass-to-mouth action
D. the spanking scene in Debbie Does Dallas was clearly staged; when Whipped Ass whips ass, they really let those asses have it

4. Playboy also earns a special exemption from Mr. Douthat’s formulation of Porns That Are Bad, due to:
A. decades of worthwhile fiction from John Updike
B. decades of excellent martini recipes
C. decades of Mr. Douthat desperately crushing on Shannon Tweed
D. decades of pre-Gawkerish Ivy league hipness
E. decades of Robert Christgau bloviating about jazz

According to Mr. Douthat, Dan Savage is wrong about everything. And for that matter, so are most women. Betcha didn’t know that. But all of that is dressing; the crux of the argument here is the formation of a ‘moral continuum’ between porn-viewing and adultery. Because watching Burning Angel, Bookworm Bitches, or Barely Evil videos online is totally the same thing as having an affair. With your own penis.

5. Who benefits in drawing a “moral continuum” between porn-viewing and adultery?
A. the 527s
B. the sex-positive blogging community, because if there’s one thing we love, it’s politicizing our sex lives!
C. Donny-Boy Wildmon
D. eunuchs

Don’t fight it. It’s universal. Kind of like the demonization of sex.

6. So, why do men cheat?
A. to impress our friends and neighbors
B. because we’re dicks
C. because we practice polyamory in its purest form: Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell
D. to piss off the lust in Jimmy Carter’s heart

7. And, why do men look at porn?
A. boredom
B. because we’re pretty sure our significant others aren’t going to be terribly interested in reenacting scenes from 2 Girls, 1 Cup
C. boobies!
D. to piss off the lust in Jimmy Carter’s heart

8. Okay. And so, what, if anything, is the correlation?
A. whatever FOX News tells us it is
B. while it may indeed be hard out there for a pimp, it is a far harder thing to be a sex-positive male
C. boobies!
D. if we legalize prostitution, Western civilization will crumble

I’ve been in plenty of relationships. A gaggle of them. And I’ve cheated in more than a few. And you know what? Nothing drove me to it – it’s just that I happen to act like a dick most of the time. Do I really have to blame that on porn? I mean, come on – let me keep my dickishness. I’ve worked hard at it. It’s mine. It’s every man’s. So please stop diagnosing it. I mean, equating adultery with porn-viewing is like comparing Manwich with prime rib - yeah; they’re both beef-based - but that’s about as far as the similarity goes.

9. Judging from his body of work, Ross Douthat most likely is:
A. the large-headed love-child of Karl Rove and a tsetse fly
B. kind of a dick
C. just a simple man trying to spike his page-views with a bit of ludicrous controversy
D. a really funny guy
E. well, he’s no Ezra Klein, that’s for sure

10. And at the end of the day, the shimmering guardian-angel of Mr. Douthat’s argument is:
A. anti-porn, because if there was no porn, there would be no lust in our hearts (oh, shut up and let the little fella dream, okay?)
B. anti-prostitute, because nothing infuriates an ugly man more than having to pay for it
C. anti-woman, because there wouldn’t be porn if it wasn’t for women – logic achieved!
D. anti-internet, because if there was no internet, there would be a lot less porn for the women of the world to turn to for a steadyish paycheck (ha!), and this in turn would better-staff our Wal-Marts, making the American Shopping Experience a far more pleasing one

BONUS QUESTION: So, after having endured all that, what do Mr. Douthat and his ilk probably fantasize about?
A. Sarah Palin in dominatrix garb, spanking their bare little blogger bottoms
B. Rudy Giuliani in dominatrix garb, spanking their bare little blogger bottoms
C. the impending rapture
D. disproving the theory of evolutionism
E. all of the above

Answer Key: 1-D; 2-C&G; 3-A; 4-A; 5-C; 6-B; 7-D; 8-all; 9-E; 10-C; BONUS-E

Audacia Ray’s new short film, “Dacia’s Love Machine” has been released! The 25-minute director’s cut is available online in .mp4 and .flv and is only $2.99 to download. Pathetic, but true fact, downloading this film costs less than the gas it would take to drive to my nearest Starbucks to hang out with a friend over coffee.

I have seen it and it is hilarious. Obviously it’s a movie about a fucking machine, but ultimately it’s a comedy and the fucking machine is really the star.

You see, Dacia originally received the Love Machine to review. As I recall, it was something along the lines of her orgasm being in spite of, not the result of the Love Machine and so she was less than thrilled to have it laying around her house, so she put an ad on Craigslist:

Sex machine for sale (not a person, an actual machine) - w4mw - 27
Date: 2007-12-03, 9:37PM EST

So I’m a sex toy reviewer, and a little over a year ago I acquired a fucking machine to review (Topco brand, it retails at $395). It’s kinda big, and I really want it out of my apartment. It has all but one attachment (the one I used, which I will throw away), and technically it is lightly used.

Yes, it’s true, I’m trying to sell my lightly used sex machine on CL. I’m asking $100 for it, you come pick it and get it out of my life. It’s manageable to get it on the subway (probably easier with two people), but I recommend wrapping the box in brown paper or something, since it has pictures and words that will make your package very obvious.

CL doesn’t allow me to post the link to the review, but go to fleshbot[dot]com and search “Marital Aid Test Kitchen: The Fucking Love Machine,” and scroll down to the bottom of the page - the review was posted on October 20, 2006.

She filters through the responses, some of which are so outlandish that I had to ask her, “Did people really respond that way?” To which she replied, “Yes, all of those responses are genuine!” WOW! A study in strange humanology, but I love to peek through the door of the crazy world in which we live. Human nature only gets more and more curious as people stop by to look at the machine in person.

Click the picture to go to www.daciaslovemachine.com and download the movie. The first twenty five people who buy the download get a free sex toy courtesy of EdenFantasys - you have your choice between a pocket rocket and a masturbation sleeve.

Seriously, I personally guarantee you that this will be the best $3.00 you spent today ($2.99, actually). Marky and I got to preview the film and we both thought it was clever, funny, curious, voyeuristic, entertaining, and did I mention funny? Now go! Enjoy 25 minutes of unique entertainment.

Tags: Audacia Ray, Catalina Loves, catalinaloves.com, craigslist, Dacias Love Machine, daciaslovemachine.com, Director’s Cut, Download, EdenFantasys, flv, Free Sex Toy, Fucking Machine, Fucking Machine Review, Human Nature, Humanology, Independent Film, Indie Movie, Movie Launch, mp4, Online Download, Online Movie Download, Pocket Rocket, Reviews, short film, The Love Machine, Waking Vixen, WakingVixen.com, Weird Humans, wmv

Greetings from Black River Falls WI!

Spankfestival is in full swing right now, and when we say swing, we’re yes, talking about swingers, pagans, kinky folk, bikers, and librarians. All gather at the NCN Campground for a decadent weekend of debauchery and other de- words.

Sabrina and Graydancer have been busy (as can be seen from the above picture) teaching classes on Fetish Performance Techniques (where she gave Graydancer the all-new-epithet “Fucktard” as part of the performance) and Full-Contact Dom, where she developed the all-new ultimate fighter defense, Cross-Eyed Goofy Fist. Graydancer also returned to his food-service roots and decorated her with rope and sushi for an exclusive dinner party Thursday night. It was during that time that the important culinary discovery was made that while wasabi is not necessarily the best lubricant, it does, in fact, go well with grapes.

No joke. Really. Dip a green grape in wasabi. It tastes good. Trust me.

Last night was “kinko de mayo” and Sabrina and Graydancer worked with Leon (the Instant Expert), Lqqkout, Sarah Sloane, Ms. C and several other models to create a human pinata installation using 5 suspensions, 3 buckets of candy, 6 pool noodles, and hordes of sadistic sweet-toothed perverts. Today they will co-teach with Lqqkout and Nyxx a 4-hour suspension technique workshop and close out the night with a performance (weather permitting) about the dangers of being a red-headed whore of Babylon in the Bible Belt.

Video, interviews, and pictures of sexy, sexy people from Ms. Mayhem will be coming soon. We now return you to your regularly scheduled pornsurfing.

Tags: sabrina fox

Cross-posted from Junkbuzzed…

For those who missed it, this week I am reviewing the masturbatory wonders of the Fleshlight in a 5-post series. Parts one through three went up over the last three days – catch them here, here, and here. (I strongly recommend reading them in order, because reading my crap is a lot like watching HBO’s Carnivale, in that we both suck as exposition, unless said exposition is thrown out there to confuse the viewer/reader even further.) But nonetheless, a quick recap, for those suffering from short-term memory loss:
- I threw a hissy-fit over not getting any free sex-toys
- Always Aroused Girl, the Official Angel-Faerie of Teh Internets, offered me a Fleshlight through Eden Fantasys, provided I would review it
- I did a happy dance
- I stuck a Boba Fett action figure into it
- I turned it into a thermos
- I asked a nice lesbian to have sex with it using a strap-on

VII. FIELD TESTS (SEXUAL)

b. A TIME TO FUCKAll my other experiments were completed; it was time for me to take to the most crucial and decisive test, the act of inserting my own penis into the maw of the Fleshlight. I canceled all my appointments, drew the shades, and took a shower. It felt kind of like a date. Except that my date was expecting neither dinner nor small-talk. So it was more of an NSA Craigslist hookup than an actual date. Which is not at all a bad thing.As the time drew near, I again appraised the puckered lips of my Fleshlight. I began to think of it as a controlled glory-hole. (Which is my chief problem with glory-holes; if you’re as anal-retentive as I am, what sexual glory can you hope to achieve when you have absolutely no idea who or what is at the other end of that hole awaiting your cock?)

And so then there was just me and just it.

Well, that’s not entirely true. The M.A.F., having heard that I was down to my final experiment, decided to call me. Thirteen times.

“Hey – how is it?”

“I haven’t tried it yet.”

“Oh.”Ten minutes later…

“Hey – how is it?”

“I still haven’t tried it yet.”

“Oh.”

By the time of his eleventh call, the M.A.F. had finally worked up the nerve to say what he really wanted to say.

“You know, if you don’t want to try it, then…”

His voice trailed off, hoping he’d said enough without having said too much. Because no boy wants to sound desperate or needy when asking to ‘borrow’ another boy’s means of nutting. Which, as creepy as it was, it was still somewhat heartening – for this was reasonably good proof that the M.A.F. did indeed come equipped from Hasbro with a penis.

But, you know, seriously – fuck that shit.

“Um, yeah…no. I don’t think these things were meant to be shared, you know?”

“Oh, right. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah…”

It took two more calls before the M.A.F. finally got the message that he wasn’t going to fuck my Fleshlight. Then I turned my phone off. And then there was just me and just it.

Well, I thought, let’s just get right down to it. I dropped trou, made myself all nice and comfy on the couch, and unscrewed the cap on the Fleshlight, revealing once again its pooched nether lips. And with a fiercely retarded childlike ‘yaaahhhhh’ I thrust my penis into the cavity like a dude casting a spear at some unseen enemy.

This was immediately followed by another, more strained and pained ‘yahhhhhhhh’, as I felt most of the epidermal layer of my penis being ripped away.

At which point I called my girlfriend, whom I was insisting leave her poolside party in order to ferry me and my now-bleeding penis to the emergency room.

The upside of going to the hospital after having sustained a substantial penile injury is that they are going to give you some really fabulous drugs. The downside is that, aside from the drugs, if you have either insufficient or no health insurance, all they’re going to do for you is put some Neosporin and ACE bandages on it. (And make you famous via the internet, conventions, and in the nurses’ lounge.) However, having a male attending physician helps somewhat, as he will give you extra bonus drugs. Because when one man nearly rips his pecker off, every other man feels it. (And you wonder why the patriarchy is so damned effective? Hive-mind, baby.)

There are very few things in this world which I am truly and honesty grateful for. Sure, there are things like cigarettes, girls with low self-esteem, and Akira Kurosawa movies. But I would be remiss if I did not add to the list at this time Novocain, Percocet, and the sweet, sweet oblivion that they work in tandem to generate.

I arrived back home the next morning and limped over to my computer, my penis thickly gauzed and numbed. It was at this time that I noticed an awful lot of unopened emails, mostly from Always Aroused Girl.

From: AAG
To: TSM
Re: Just in case…
Hi. I get the feeling that you’re sort of a doofus. So I thought I’d pass on one kinda sorta important piece of advice – don’t forget to use lube.

From: AAG
To: TSM
Re: re: Just in case…
Hi. I haven’t heard back from you. Just in case you missed my last message – DO NOT FORGET THE LUBE.

From: AAG
To: TSM
Re: re: re: Just in case…
I just felt a great disturbance in the Sex-Positive Force, as if one really stupid motherfucker cried out in anguish and agony because he stuck his penis into a Fleshlight without any lube. That wasn’t you by chance, was it?

From: AAG
To: TSM
Re: re: re: re: Just in case…
Okay. So I just did a quick scan of hospitals in your area. And I’m pretty certain that it was you. So I am contractually obligated to inform you that neither myself, nor Eden Fantasy, nor the internet at large, will be paying for your skin graft. Hope your deductible’s paid up.

I then took a look at the packaging from the Fleshlight. Turns out it came with a pamphlet after all.“Be sure to use lube, you shithead,” the instructions said.Now they tell me. Don’t they realize that boys never read instructions until they’ve gone and done something irredeemably stupid?

After a druggy, ‘well whaddaya-know’ shake of the head, I trudged off to bed, where, thanks in no small part to the narcotics, I proceeded to sleep for three days. And I dreamt, of Fleshlights, caves, space slugs, and what might have been…

Ratings

- as a pecker-ripper-offer: A+++

- the American healthcare system: F

- the potency of Percocet,  Valium, and Novocain: A+

Remarks: While the Fleshlight does not possess any teeth, it can in the absence of lube stand in for the famed vagina dentata quite admirably. But really. Seriously. Use lube.   

Tomorrow: the stunning finale, with a cast of thousands, guest-directed by Michael Bay, where Paul Giamatti will portray yours truly giving the Fleshlight one more well-lubed go.

Cross-posted from Junkbuzzed…

For those who missed it, this week I am reviewing the masturbatory wonders of the Fleshlight in a 5-post series. Parts one and two went up Monday and Tuesday – catch them here and here. (I strongly recommend reading them in order, because reading my crap is a lot like watching HBO’s Carnivale, in that we both suck as exposition, unless said exposition is thrown out there to confuse the viewer/reader even further.) But nonetheless, a quick recap, for those suffering from short-term memory loss:
- I threw a hissy-fit over not getting any free sex-toys
- Always Aroused Girl, the Official Angel-Faerie of Teh Internets, offered me a Fleshlight through Eden Fantasys, provided I would review it
- I did a happy dance
- I stuck a Boba Fett action figure into it
- I turned it into a thermos

VI. THE CONCEPT OF A MAN IN HIS LATE 30S WHO HAS BOUGHT A FUCK-TON OF SEX-TOYS, BUT NEVER ONE TO USE ON HIMSELF

The arrival of the Fleshlight brought with it a bit of consternation. It wasn’t quite what I was expecting, but then again, I wasn’t really sure what I was expecting in the first place. I have been buying sex-toys for many, many years. But never for my own benefit – unless you count a lifetime’s accumulation of ass-whackers, bondage accoutrements, remote-controlled butt-plugs, ugly sticks and rock-chicks procured for the exploitation of others’ pleasure to be my own benefit. Which it sort of is.

But let’s be honest here – sex-toys for boys have been historically pretty slim and shoddy.

I mean, it’s not exactly rocket science, figuring out what sorts of things boys like to nut in/on/near. In short – holes. So let us take a brief tour of some of the many holes that boys have appropriated for the singular purpose of their own sexual gratification:

GIRL-HOLES:
- pussy-holes
- ass-holes
- mouth-holes

BOY-HOLES:
- ass-holes
- mouth-holes

OTHER HOLES:
- glory-holes
- fist-holes (a/k/a The Band of the Hand)
- love-doll holes
- holes in rocks
- holes in trees
- holes in sediment
- sink-holes (excessive girth and stamina usually required)
- doughnuts (primarily Dunkin Donuts, as Krispy Kreme doughnuts are far too moist and prone to breakage)

Assuming that the boy in question is looking solely for something to nut on/in/near, the pickings are maddeningly slim. Sure, there have always been the built-in-joke since time immemorial of the love-dolls, be they the cheap, inner-tube-grade blow-up dolls of yore, or the version 2.0 models, with their real-feel skin, porn-star vaginas, and $5,000 price-tags.

And not that it’s mattered so much historically. After all, boys are not exactly known for taking their genitals too seriously (one of the many advantages of being part of the patriarchy). The main rallying cry of a boy’s genitals is usually something like this:

‘Hey! I wonder what that hole feels like!’

And thus it was with the Fleshlight – the only difference being that this was something of a designer hole. Which from a certain point of view could take some of the fun out of it – because you know how boys love to improvise. It makes us feel crafty.

VII. FIELD TESTS (SEXUAL)

While I had completed all my non-sexual field-tests, I still wasn’t quite ready to take the plunge myself. I thought it best to give it a test-drive from a somewhat more female-centric point of view. Because if boys love pussy, then lesbians practically worship it (see Acantha, acanthus, and face-scratching).

a. THE GREAT LESBIAN FORD TEST-DRIVE EVENT

So I called up my friend Doris. Doris is a butch lesbian. But don’t let that scare you – other than her outright hatred for men, meat, and mirth, she’s really quite a lovely girl. IT geek by day, professional dominatrix by night, Doris is what you would end up with if you mashed-up Booger from Revenge of the Nerds, Bulle Ogier from Maîtresse, and Cookie Monster. Happy to contribute to the pursuit of questionable science, Doris came over, bearing, as requested, a strap-on harness and dildo.

(Doris Fun-Fact #1: Did you know that Dion’s classic song “Runaround Sue” was inspired by a girl named Doris? Doris, in fact, was to be the titular character of the song, but, upon realizing that the only good rhyme for ‘Doris’ was ‘clitoris’, Dion wisely changed it to Sue.)

After blowing through all my alcohol reserves in getting Doris good and tanked, I began plying her in my most gentle mode of coercion: ‘come on, fuck my Fleshlight. Please? I’ll make cookies!’

(For the record: never enter into a drinking contest with a butch dyke – it’s gonna end badly for you, trust me. She will drink you under the table; and, once satisfactorily slumped under said table, she will then rifle through your pockets, stealing your wallet, watch, and anything else that may be of value. Because while they seem really nice on network TV, take it from me – butch dykes are mean, mean people. So handle with caution.)

Never underestimate the power that freshly-baked cookies hold over a butch dyke. Thus, a quick trip to the stand-mixer later, and both of us were practicing our own wildly different takes on the creaming method: me with butter and sugar; and Doris, poking away at the Fleshlight’s pursed cavity with a lackadaisical forefinger. The remainder of her prep-work looked like that of a UFC fighter getting ready to clamber into the octagon, with a lot of neck-cracking, grunting, and the continued downing of scotch.

(Doris Fun-Fact #2: Doris Kearns Goodwin is an excellent historical researcher and writer. Well, she is when she’s not busy plagiarizing other people’s books. But that’s okay. Team of Rivals so quenched my own historical fetish for all things William Seward that she could give it up and start writing for TMZ, and I’d still like her.)

All her accoutrements set firmly in place – and let me tell you, there are few sights as stunningly twisted as a drunken butch-dyke wearing a strap-on harness and dildo over her khakis while preparing to mount a Fleshlight. Seriously. It just doesn’t get any better than this.

“Why am I doing this again?” asked Doris.

“Because you are my friend and you love me very much.”

Doris harrumphed and waggled her plastic purple penis at me.

“And because I am making cookies.”

“Oh yeah.”

(Doris Fun-Fact #3: Doris, in Greek mythology, was one busy chick, pumping out no less than 50 – count ‘em – 50 sea-nymphs from her engorged loins. That’s a whole lotta nymphage.)

As I pulled out the first tray of cookies, Doris slid her plastic purple penis into the fish-mouthed maw of my Fleshlight.

“I can’t believe this is how I’m spending my Saturday night,” she sighed.

“How is it?” I asked, grabbing my notepad.

“How is what?” she grumbled.

“How is it?” I repeated, nodding to the Fleshlight. “Is it a good fuck?”

“Are you retarded?” yelled Doris.

“I’m a journalist,” I said resolutely, waving my pen for added effect.

“You’re a moron,” she responded, “and a bigger pussy than this thing I’m fucking. Now give me a cookie.”

A plate of cookies later, and I once again impressed upon Doris just how important her forthrightness was to my pursuit of scientific truth.

“Well,” she drawled through a mouthful of cookies, “it’s a hole. Pretty sturdy, too. So, you know, it’s all good.”

Which is why I love Doris so much. And why every straight man should have at least one butch dyke friend. Because they’re like a perfect hybrid of all the best parts of men and women. Except that they will under no circumstances ever have sex with you.

Rating: A (like the lady said – a hole’s a hole.)

Coming up tomorrow: the Snarling Misanthrope himself sticks his own penis into a Fleshlight, forgetting one really important thing.

Cross-posted from Junkbuzzed…

For those who missed it, this week I am reviewing the masturbatory wonders of the Fleshlight in a 5-post series. Part one went up yesterday – catch it here. (I strongly recommend reading them in order, because reading my crap is a lot like watching HBO’s Carnivale, in that we both suck as exposition, unless said exposition is thrown out there to confuse the viewer/reader even further.) But nonetheless, a quick recap, for those suffering from short-term memory loss:
- I threw a hissy-fit over not getting any free sex-toys
- Always Aroused Girl, the Official Angel-Faerie of Teh Internets, offered me a Fleshlight through Eden Fantasys, provided I would review it
- I did a happy dance

III. SEE WHAT BROWN HAS DONE FOR ME

Like a kid who begins his Countdown to Christmas three months early, I too awaited the arrival of my Fleshlight with what can only be described as savage glee. For this represented several personal (if not mildly pyrrhic) victories for me, which I proudly trumpeted to anyone who would listen to it:

- I am a bold, fresh new voice on the internet, and thus the internet respects me
- AAG has promised not to file a restraining order against me
- I like toys
- I really like free toys
- Not only am I receiving a free sex-toy, but I am continuing to make good on the enduring promise of manhood, which of course is to stick your penis into as many different holes as possible before you die (I think it’s in the Bible)
- The internet really wants me to masturbate and tell them all about it

One week later, Brown came a-knocking at my door. And Brown, for those not in the know, always comes as advertised – brown shirt, brown shorts, brown knee-high socks (you know, it’s sort of a Catholic-tranny kind of thing when you get right down to it), and a big brown box. With my name on it. The topper is a beatific smile, because if you spend your days clad in the color of turd, you may as well let yourself be in on the joke, right?

“Good afternoon!” I said. “What can Brown do for me today?”

“Brown can give you some sex-toys,” responded Brown, handing me the big brown box with my name printed across the front.

Please remember that you should always be kind, courteous, and above all respectful toward Brown. Because if you piss him off, Brown can fuck your shit up but good. And so, a glass of lemonade and a slice of coconut cake later, Brown was on his way, off to shower more of his special brand of goodness upon the rest of the world. Kind of like a benevolent brown Santa.

Again I thanked Brown profusely. Then I locked the door and checked the box to make sure that he hadn’t given it a test-drive.

And then I beheld it.

IV. FIRST IMPRESSIONS

…are important, but overrated – after all, there are far too many ugly people having sex for first impressions to matter that much. Nonetheless I will now share with you my first impressions upon my Ark-like unboxing of the Fleshlight, STU Vagina series (Stamina Training Unit; it sounds so suburban commando, doesn’t it?):

- It looks like a Maglite, minus both the Mag and the Lite.
- In lieu of these things is a silicone-molded vaginal sheath with that real-feel sense of microwaved chicken breast. Which is actually kinda nice.
- It is essentially a giant pussy-thermos. Which is subjunctively different than a thermos full of pussy. Although I wonder, if I were to remove the pussy from the equation, would it serve double-duty as a beverage/soup thermos?
- It’s not really pink, or any other realistic Benetton-hue of vagina. It is in actuality more of a brain-matter grey. Which means that zombies will love the fuck out of this thing.
- As is the case with most silicone products kept in tightly-sealed storage, it smells kind of like old-lady feet wrapped in nori. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing; I have been known to succumb on occasion to some good, sturdy MILF (and even the occasional post-MILF).
- Due to its resemblance to a heavy-duty flashlight, I am suddenly struck with the vision of young costumed children on Halloween accidentally taking it out with them for their trick-or-treating. Hilarity, I am sure, ensues.

V. FIELD-TESTS (OF A NON-SEXUAL VARIETY)

I thought it both novel and wise to begin the field-testing phase with several non-sexual experiments. One is a direct throwback to childhood – a fetish of sorts that has haunted my waking dreams for a long 25 years.

One is simply the by-product of can-do man-talk, in that, unless it is really shiny and really expensive, any and everything you own should serve as a multi-tasker of sorts – even if you have to force it into double-duty.

The third and final of the non-sexual field-tests is a process of determining exactly how much like a flashlight a Fleshlight actually appears.

a. THE BOBA FETISH

If you are not a regular Junkbuzzed reader (and if you’re not, you are so due a whipping – go on – get my belt – I said git!), then you already know of my Boba-Fetish for all things Star Wars.

Allow me then way-back your asses to the Supercuts days of Return of the Jedi. After Luke kills Jabba the Hutt’s pet Rancor, a totally pissed-off Jabba orders Luke and Co. taken to the Pit of Carkoon, where they will be tossed into everybody’s favorite vagina dentata, the all-powerful Sarlaac.

Even in 1983, at the not-quite percolated age of 11, I was well aware that George Lucas created the Sarlaac as a representation of Freud’s vagina. And we’re not talking about the new-and-improved Special Edition version of the Sarlaac, where Georgie CGed in a rather PC-like venus flytrap-beak thing into its vaginal cavity, probably as an apology to his then-girlfriend. Because girls in general tend to take it personally when boys depict their va-jay-jays in such fashion; don’t ask me why.

No, this was the old-school Sarlaac, big and pink and slimy, with thick hentai-like tentacles designed to drag kicking and screaming any boy who did not dive in of his own accord. Oh yeah – and it had teeth, too. Big sharp nasty ones.

So of course my first field-test for the Fleshlight would be to insert Boba Fett into its not-so-gaping maw. (After all, I did request the extra-tight model, because either I have a tiny penis, or I have a tendency to stick my penis into inordinately large holes. Like, you know, bathtubs.)

I called up one of my toy-collecting friends and quickly laid out the situation. It didn’t take very long, as each and every Star Wars fan already equates Sarlaac with vagina. (And you wondered why there are so many single men in their mid-late 30s.) A short time later, my friend the M.A.F. arrived, bearing a shopping bag full of toys.

M.A.F. is short for Mini-Action Figure (nobody knows his real name). The M.A.F. is duly monikered thanks to his rather diminutive stature (on his tippy-toes, he is almost 4’9”). And his general appearance – slim, clean-cut, sort of non-descript – suggests that he began life as a GI Joe action figure clad in Bermuda shorts. Unfortunately, as the manufacturers of GI Joe felt they could not adequately market a gay beach-resort trooper, they sent him to the My Little Pony factory, where he was kissed by a fuzzy-bellied Fairy-Tale Bird, and became a real boy.

They kind of fucked up the voice-chip thing though, as he sounds like Tom Waits on helium.

Furthermore, the M.A.F. is a rather ambiguous ‘figure’, sexually speaking. No one can ever recall him going on a date of any sort, even though he spends no less than six hours each day grooming himself.

We just like to say that the M.A.F. hasn’t yet figured out which way his kung-fu grip extends.

The M.A.F. swore that he’d never before seen a Fleshlight – but really, any boy would swear to another boy that they’d never seen such a thing. They’ll cop to all the porn-watching in the world; they’ll cop to owning all sorts of sex-toys to use on their significant (or insignificant) others; they’ll cop to pretty much anything under the sun – but, by and large, a boy will not admit to another boy that he has ever used a male-masturbation device.

Of course I told him the same thing. But, you know, I was totally telling the truth.

Regardless, he brought his toys over, which at the end of the day is all that really matters. This set the scene quite perfectly: two boys, an as-yet unused Fleshlight, a bag of Star Wars toys, a carton of smokes, a digital camera, and the great outdoors – male bonding at its finest.

And thus ensued one of the most surreal fetish photography shoots ever shot….

Ratings:
- as a representation of Freud’s vagina: C (it would’ve been a B+, but the absence of teeth brought down the overall score)
- as a play-set representation of the all-powerful Sarlaac pit: A (the absence of teeth didn’t really matter much, as federal safety regulations would have defanged it anyway)

b. THE PUSSY-THERMOS

It looks like a pussy-thermos. So why not, right?

Granted, it isn’t insulated, nor does it come equipped with any sort of water-sealant. Plus, one might suspect that since it was not expressly designed to hold beverages, it might contain certain chemical agents which humans were not meant to ingest.

But, you know, fuck all that shit. If it looks like a big ol’ Slushie cup, then a big ol’ Slushie cup it shall be.

So I fixed myself a pussy-thermos full of Jim Beam and Coke. Which was pretty sweet in and of itself, as there just aren’t a lot of sex-toys on the market that you can really get your drank on with.

And really, it wasn’t so bad. As a cup, it’s perfectly adequate, as it has no holes or leaks. And the polyurethanes only served to heighten my buzz, as well as provide me with a low-level sense of vertigo. Although the lack of insulation meant that I had to keep adding ice every 20 minutes or so (apparently the manufacturer built in some sort of constant heat-applicator to the thermos, in keeping with the motif of Pussy Is Hot).

The most impressive aspect of it however is in being able to boast to your friends that after you are finished getting your drank on, you are then going to fuck the shit out of the cup.

Now that’s pretty cool.

Ratings:
- thermos: C-
- cup: A
- coolness ratio, a/k/a, drinking from that which you might later fuck: A+

c. CHAMELEON NATURE

The final of these field experiments is perhaps a nod to the late Steve Irwin, who taught us in his short time on earth two very important things:

1. if you want to see some cool shit, poke it a lot
2. if you want to see some cool shit but don’t want to get your face eaten off in the process, learn the art of disguise

As a boy who rather likes having a face, hairy though it may be, I elected for the second option – the Fleshlight as chameleon.

Yeah…this one didn’t turn out so well. Probably because during the two days I left the Fleshlight out on my coffee table, nobody came over. Can we call that a push?

Rating:
- passing as a flashlight: INCOMPLETE

Tomorrow: the Fleshlight undergoes its first sexual field-test (but it’s totally NOT what you’re thinking).

cross-posted from Junkbuzzed…

I. HOW THROWING A HISSY-FIT WILL ALWAYS GET YOU WHAT YOU WANT

As Americans, we have certain inalienable rights. Among these are the rights to life, liberty, and the never-ending pursuit of NSA sexual gratification. But there are other rights just as resolute as those committed to history in the Bill of Rights, and just as imperative:

- the right to always be offended
- the right to better, cheaper pharmaceuticals with a longer-lasting buzz
- the right to start your own sex-blog (apparently everybody got the memo on this one)
- the right to get what you want when you want it
- the right to raise a big stink about it when you don’t

These last two rights are downright essential to life in this post-post-modern world. For in order to truly be a viable part of the American experience, you must first learn and master the gentle art of Throwing a Hissy-Fit Until You Get What You Want. Of course, there are alternate terms for this of which you may be aware: Showing Your Ass; Being A Rich Old White Dude; Owning An SUV; Getting Your Wrong On; Throwing A Wobbler; and finally, Getting A Free Gift-Card At The Piggly-Wiggly.

Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, ‘now that’s just not right – you can’t just throw a fit and expect to get what you want!’

Why not?

But instead of boring you with more rhetoric, allow me instead to show you some positive examples of hissy-fits that changed America, and possibly the world:

- The Boston Tea Party
- Mr. Sherman Pays a Visit to the Beautiful City of Atlanta (now commemorated as a lovely collector’s-edition children’s book with lots of pop-up flames)
- Reagan in ’87: ‘Like, tear down this wall, you bitches!’
- That time I started shrieking and flinging myself into end-caps at Hills department store until my mom finally bought me that Star Wars figure that I really really really wanted (Dengar; because everybody loves a fat man wrapped in bandages)
- Kathy Griffin’s entire career

Case in point: I recently posted a hissy-fit of my own on the anti-man policies of teh internets when it comes to the rationing out of free sex toys.

I am Sick and Tired (Sick and Tired is a registered ™ of The Internet and its parent company, Ennui, Inc., all rights reserved) of being treated like a second-class sex-blogger. It’s well-known that every sex-blogger with a vagina has an affiliate deal with one of the sex-toy e-tailers.

I mean, just look around. Every single girl sex-blogger gets free sex toys to review and keep. Look at Ellie. Look at Catalina. Look at Curvaceous Dee. Look at Essin’ Em. Amongst a hundred-thousand others. It’s like the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon – you cannot make six consecutive sex-blog jumps without tripping over at least a couple of girl-blogs with affiliate deals and free toys sticking out the, well, you know.

Hell, I even hear that the state of Florida sends Feministing all their confiscated truck-nuts for “constructive demolition”.

And what do us boys get? Nada. Zip. Zippo. Nil. Zilch.

II. ENTER THE ANGEL-FAERIE OF TEH INTERNETS

A scant hour after my hissy-fit was posted in all its pristine eloquence, I received a response from everybody’s internet angel, the Glenda the Good Witch of Sex-Positivity, the one and only Always Aroused Girl, who set into motion a rollicking exchange of emails:

From: AAG
To: TSM
Re: Fleshlight
The internet has heard your shrieking hissy-fit and thus would like to offer you a complimentary Fleshlight.

From: TSM:
To: AAG
Re: re: Fleshlight
Well, it’s about goddamned time.

From: AAG
To: TSM
Re: re: re: Fleshlight
Um, yeah. So do you want it or not?

From: TSM
To: AAG
Re: re: re: re: Fleshlight
Is it used?

From: AAG
To: TSM
Re: re: re: re: re: Fleshlight
Uh, no. And you’re starting to creep me out.

From: TSM
To: AAG
Re: re: re: re: re: re: Fleshlight
I thought you were Always Aroused.

From: AAG
To: TSM
re: re: re: re: re: re: re: Fleshlight
Apparently there’s an exception to everything.

And after a few days of apologizing for my haranguing, AAG finally agreed to have Eden Fantasys ship out a fresh new Fleshlight to my Fortress of Attitude on Ice Planet Hoth.

Of course there was a catch of sorts. In exchange for a freshly-minted Fleshlight, the internet, as well as its sex-positive parent company Eden Fantasys, would require that I write a review of the product. This was a challenge which I was ready to welcome into my heart and home. Seriously; I get to play Ralph Nader with a Fleshlight?

The American Dream, dear reader (citation needed), is alive and well.

(And for all you sex-positive young-un’s out there who have no idea what I’m talking about – let me assure you that once upon a time, before he became such a self-aggrandizing political irritant, Ralph Nader was perhaps the coolest, bad-assiest nerd in all of America.)

EDITOR’S NOTE: Did you know that Eden Fantasys is one of the world’s largest, if not super-best e-tailers of sex-toys for the sex-positive elite? So, uh, get ye over there, and buy a boatload of shit. Tell ‘em TSM sent you. (On second thought, don’t – they might charge you double.)

But this led to a whole new crisis. What sort of review system would I employ? Thumbs-up/thumbs-down? A 5-star scale? Score it out of 100? Could I declare it fresh/rotten, a la Rotten Tomatoes? Or maybe I should take a(nother) page from my dad’s old porno mags and score it by number of erect/limp penises. Or Cialis tablets.

Oh, great world of wonder! So much you have given me to ponder!

But all I had to ponder now was the wait.

Coming up tomorrow, in Part Two: See what Brown does for me - and - the unboxing of what just might be the final Cylon - the Fleshlight.

Cross-posted from Junkbuzzed…

As you already know, this past week we took the first step of anointing our new god, the golden child, the chosen one, the Padawan who would be Supreme Galactic Chancellor. And what a picked pickled pepper of pageantry that was. We had all the drama that the NPR-elite could possibly muster, except without all the lisping that you get on the radio version. The sidebar to this was the 1000-fold increase in activity on Denver Craigslist. Everybody got some, and then some.

And this coming week we will bear witness to the congregation of the veritable Legion of Doom to the DNC’s Super-Friends. Yes, the Republicans are coming! And they’re bringing the earth’s most popular governor with them! (Of course, it’s easy to be the earth’s most popular governor when the state of your governance has about as many people in it as Columbus, Ohio.) They’re bringing a crotchety old guy who can’t remember stuff! And they’re even bringing their own Hillary Clinton – no, not Sarah Palin (she’s more of a William H. Macy from Fargo sort of figure), but the brokenhearted, crestfallen figure of one Mitt Romney. (Let us hope that Tag and Trig can forge some sort of truce.)

But can the conservatives top the liberals in terms of sheer electronic sexual alacrity? So far, it looks like a no. But in order to sniff them out, first you have to learn how to crack their code. Republicans more than any other race of humanoids rely on code-speak to a ridiculous degree. But we’ve broken it. And so, for your edu-tainment, here are but a few of the acronyms that Republicans use when trolling the intertubes for a little NSA filibustering…

F – let’s fuck

LFCH – let’s felch

LPH – let’s phish

IWTDYOSMB – I want to drill your off-shore mines, baby

GAAPOTMLATTYC – go ahead and plaster on the makeup like a trollop tonight, you cunt

IWYTSMLOPN – I want you to shake me like our party’s nominee

OPIGDASWI – our party is going down, and so will I

SKSVILA – seeks Vicki Iseman look-alike

WINBOBFISP – who in the bluest of blue fucks is Sarah Palin

PGMHSS – please, God – make her stop screeching

YKINMK – your kink is not my kink

OKMT – okay, maybe tonight

YKINOK – your kink is no one’s kink

YKSLAADBPB – your kink smells like ass and discount-brand peanut butter

IAATPB – I am allergic to peanut butter

BITMFT – but I take medication for that

LGKTSICDULTOIT – let’s get kinky tonight so I can draw up legislation to outlaw it tomorrow

TIPCAICY – tonight, I’m pro-choice – and I choose you

AEIOU – autocratic ejaculate is our ulterior (motive)

ASY – and sometimes yellow (instead of ejaculate)

RNC=AR! – the Republican National Convention equals anal rampaging!

PDLLAC – please don’t look like Ann Coulter

FFMUILLAC – force-feminize me until I look like Ann Coulter

LLCT – let’s Larry Craig tonight

IBWATMSPIA – I’ll be waiting at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport

S#_ - stall # ___

PAMR – Patriot Act my rectum

YMTHAABOJB – you, me, Ted Haggard, and a bottle of Jim Beam

LMFDAGI – let’s meet for drinks and grope interns

TWML100YBIOL2M – the war might last 100 years, but I only last 2 minutes

PDOM – please don’t out me

SEGWMM – seriously, Ed Gillespie will murder me

RTAPT – Rudy’s throwing a party tonight

BYOD – bring your own dress

Crossposted from your friendly neighborhood Junkbuzzed.

I don’t really know when it started. Like matter, anti-matter, and Catholic guilt, it’s just always been there. I am speaking of course about porn – and I don’t just mean pornography in the traditional late-70s/early-80s glossing over of the more arcane (and dare I say, ‘nether’) of the girl-parts; I am talking about porn in the abstract: specifically, the art of transmogrifying the mundane into the pornographic when there are no other options.

It sounds hard, I know. But stick with me – all you need is a penis, a television, and a little imagination. And a dad.

Back in the 70s, there weren’t a great many TV stations from which to choose. You had your Big 3 networks, cranking out the hits since time immemorial:
- ABC: home of Wonder Woman, Isis, and Three’s Company
- CBS: home of The Incredible Hulk and The Jeffersons
- and NBC, home to a googillion spanking fantasies, thanks to the whippin’-a-week antics of the gang at Little House on the Prairie (if you’ve never done a naughty Nellie Oleson/angry Nells Oleson getting the belt sort of scene, you don’t know what you’re missing.)

Then there was PBS, which existed solely to make children not want to watch television, thanks in large part to Mark Russell and a weird fetish for stiff British melodrama which continues to this day. Mark Russell, it should be noted, is one of the primary reasons why the children of the late 70s and early 80s STILL PLAYED OUTSIDE. (With no video game consoles to console ourselves, we needed some means of escape. And that’s precisely what today’s kids need: less mind-altering pharmaceuticals, and more Mark Russell, singing those goddamned insipid political song-parodies of his. Yeah; he was the Jon Stewart of the day. You see now why Gen-X is still so fucked up?)

And, depending on the quality/malleability of your rabbit-ears, you might have had a UHF channel or two. These channels of the obscure served to fill the federal government’s quota of no less than 14 hours per day of Woody Woodpecker, 3 Stooges shorts, and a whole lot of Streets of San Francisco.

But the really weird shit came out of Canada. I grew up near the border in New York, and as such was entertained/stupefied by such televised delights as child-talent competitions (if you too as a child living in or near or border town were similarly forced to watch Tiny Talent Time, please email me – I’m setting up a support group), SCTV, and hours on end of staring at a barely-in-focus maple leaf.

Early morning however was my dad’s favorite TV-viewing time. Canada, it seemed, was really serious about physical fitness in those days. So serious in fact that they cock-blocked any and all morning cartoons in favor of a two-hour block of exercise programs. Tightly spandexed Canadian girls with really large feathered hairdos did slow-mo squats, thrust, and dips, all while yelling, ‘how’s that workin’ fer yeh, eh?’ (Bear in mind that Canada was somewhat ahead of the curve with this one. It would be a few more years before a fledgling ESPN, desperate for content, began running their own exercise programs in five-hour blocks daily, thus giving the unemployed/sick renewed reason to just stay home and jack off.)

In my house, the daily rigmarole of getting ready for school was executed under a strict Don’t Go Into The Living Room edict. For the living room was where dad held court with the fitness beauties of eastern Ontario, clad only in his bathrobe and puffing on a cigar.

“Your father’s exercising,” mater would say as she served breakfast. I was never invited to exercise with the old man, and subsequently I began to suspect that this was an entirely new discipline in the Physical Fitness arts.

Also, though I was but a wee and therefore moronic young Misanthrope, I understood one basic principle of exercising – which is that if you’re doing it right, you’re probably not smoking a pipe during. This continued until I was old enough to get it, at which point my father promptly bought a second TV for his bedroom.

By 1980, Family TV Time was a regular Saturday night activity, also known as Special Family Torture Time. Disco was dying, but its bad hair, clothes, and expensive coke habits weren’t. And thus, as it was far too early to banish me to the clutches of bed, I found myself privy to the old man’s latest TV obsession. There were two shows that my father liked to watch on Saturday nights. No – there were two shows that he insisted upon watching each and every Saturday night.

The first of these programs was Hee Haw.

Now we were not a country music sort of family – My Mother the Filthy Hippy raised me on a steady diet of Dylan, The Beatles, The Stones, and a touch of Neil Diamond – because even fist-pounding rebellion needs an occasional feel-good moment. As such, I would stage elaborate protests, complete with signage, body makeup, and protest songs (“ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s Hee Haw farm no more”; “Old MacDonald had a farm, until he saw Hee Haw and died of a massive aneurysm”; and “Haw no, we won’t Hee”). These demonstrations were met with the icy glare of a dad who really needed to see some titty. Which in retrospect was a far kinder sort of quashing than how Nixon might’ve responded.

Regardless, each Saturday night at 7:00PM, we were welcomed back to the Joke Fence/Grassy Knoll by the porcine visage of Roy Clark. If you never saw Hee Haw, please allow me to sum up a few of its running features:
- all goings-on took place in Kornfield Kounty. They were rather skittish about disclosing fully the name of the actual town, at least in proper order with the county: Kerfuffle.
- moonshine was used as the premise of many a skit, because as we all know, rural alcoholism is a hoot.
- banjos. They really liked banjos.
- whenever they felt that the audience wasn’t being completely pandered to, they resorted to singing gospel songs. With banjos.

But the real reason that my old man (and the rest of America) really watched was because of the Hee Haw Honeys. These were the sirens of the cornfield (excuse me – Kornfield), always outfitted in the traditional ethnic garb of farmer’s daughters – i.e., cutoff denim short-shorts, and a red-and-white checkered napkin tied around their chests. All I remember from these segments are tits and “y’all”. Which I’m pretty sure is exactly what the old man was going for.

After Hee Haw, Special Family TV Torture Time then segued from the cornfields to intergalactic space-tranny dancing. No; it wasn’t Dance Fever (Adrian Zmed was many things to many people, but he was always All Man.) Of course I am referring to Solid Gold. If you don’t remember Solid Gold, allow me to defrag your memory. Solid Gold, like Law & Order and all its subsequent spinoffs, was predicated on two separate but equal facets of the musical-television genre:
1. The hosts: Marilyn McCoo, Dionne Warwick, and Rick Dees. Yeah – the chick from The Fifth Dimension, the Psychic Friends lady, and the “Disco Duck” guy.
2. The Solid Gold Dancers, who were actually Pod People hatched from mold spores found on the outer hull of the Apollo 11.

The show’s format was pretty straightforward. After all, there wasn’t much need for smoke and mirrors (well, not the mirrors, anyway – I do remember a lot of smoke machines in play) – these were the last days of television as we knew it before MTV. Back then, a singer with a face made for radio could still score a hit single. And this is where Solid Gold came in. Dionne or Marilyn would babble a bit (if we were really lucky, we’d be treated to a little Andy Gibb in this segment as well), and then introduce the week’s Top Ten singles.

The Top Ten was the exclusive domain of the Solid Gold Dancers. Imagine an ensemble of dancers so garishly awful they couldn’t even break into the chorus lines in Las Vegas, but had just enough pride left to keep themselves from doing hardcore porn. On Solid Gold, these dancers found their bespangled Shangri-La. It was a happy, coke-fueled median of sorts, where the music and the fog machines were always set to high. And so were dreams!

Here, in their natural habitat, they performed really bad sexually-suggestive dance interpretations of the day’s top songs. So if you ever wanted to see a troupe of so-tightly-spandexed-I-can-see-your-uterus dancers dry-humping the sky to Christopher Cross’ “Sailing”, then Solid Gold was the show for you. Which means that in those waning days of the family Betamax, every dad in the USA was watching.

I was 8 when I was first subjected to the Solid Gold Dancers. And to me they looked like cut-scene space-transvestites from Star Wars. Which might’ve been kinda cool if not for all those goddamned Olivia Newton-John songs. At the time, I just thought it was all part of my father’s ongoing campaign of domestic terrorism against me, the goal of which was to ruin my life. Though I suppose that this is the inadvertent goal of most fathers. Meanwhile, the old man watched Solid Gold every week with a steely, stoic expression. He never let on just how much he was enjoying himself. I guess I should just be grateful that there wasn’t an internet in 1980.

It took Air Supply to show me the way. With a little help from the Solid Gold Dancers.

One traumatic Saturday night, the Dancers pulled out all the stops in their spastic neon ballet set to Air Supply’s future classic “Making Love Out of Nothing At All”. Because if you’re gonna do interpretative dance to 80s songs, you might as well do it to a Jim Steinman composition. (If you don’t know who Jim Steinman is, you know his songs. He’s the flaming MC of all things Melodramatic and Douchelike, responsible for Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart”, Celine Dion’s “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now”, the Sisters of Mercy’s “More”, and pretty much every godawful thing that Meatloaf ever recorded.)

It was a hot mess. The Solid Gold Dancers were inspired – they danced like they’d never danced before. They really were making love out of nothing at all. Well, it was nothing at all, unless you count all the dry-humping going on. Whoever washed the Solid Gold floors after each taping had quite a task.

And then I got it. That was the point of all this Special Family TV Torture Time. The old man was trying to teach me something. And really, it’s one of life’s most valuable lessons, if you’re a boy.

When there is no clear avenue to porn, you just make your own. A little visual stimuli, a glass (or 8) of wine, a penis, and a quick jack-it of the imagination. Boys don’t have a word for this process, but I believe that this is what women refer to as objectification.

My response? And how! Because porn is expensive – objectification is free. Actually, it’s better than free. It’s like arts and crafts for boys, without all that girly arts and crafts stuff.

It might not be the real thing. And I’m told on a near-daily basis that it most certainly is not love. But in a pinch it’ll do. Because there really are some things that you can make – by yourself and for yourself – and out of nothing at all.

Gosh, my kids are gonna be soooo fucked up.

I have a lover that doesn’t talk dirty to me. He says he isn’t good at it, but I wonder, why is that? I think people are more intimidated by talking dirty than they really need to be, because frankly, this guy could read a sushi menu to me and get me dripping wet.

“Inari roll….Quail egg over flying fish roe…Dragon roll with sweet potato tempura…”

“Yes! Fuck me hard, baby!”

…you get the picture.

But generally, talking dirty should be about the sex - or rather, the promise of sex. Tease it - make it sweet, make your partner hard or wet (or both!), make their blood surge out of their brains and into their demilitarized zones, and most of all, turn yourself on at the same time.

The first trick of talking dirty is to know your audience. Dominant-types won’t often get off on hearing “I want to see you tied down, with your legs wide open and your cunt begging for my hand”…but sometimes they do (and sometimes they literally flip for it!). Likewise, waiting for someone who is a to-the-core bottom to be the dominant force of a phone sex session is likely to leave you…waiting. A long time. Also? Know the non-starter words. For instance…if you are talking dirty to me and call me “princess”, you’ll get the verbal equivalent of a knee to the solar plexus. I have friends who feel the same way about “slut”, however I can’t relate to disliking that word at all…

Ahem.

The second trick is to actually get started. I’ve had issues in the past with being hesitant to get the ball rolling (which is bad enough when you’re doing phone sex, but when you’re the coordinator of a gang bang starring yourself it’s just devastating - trust me, and don’t ask me how I know this). Initially, it might feel a bit clumsy. There’s just not a good, clean seque between “So, you like the Red Sox?” and “I want to slip my tongue between your ass cheeks and lick your hole til your cock is dripping precum” - though if you find one…would you let me know? This comes up more often than you’d think! You can always take the easy way out - ask them about a minor fantasy, ask them what gets them turned on, ask them what special trick they love to have a lover do to them. Or tell them yours. Tell them that the minute you saw them naked and begging to be beaten harder at that play party last weekend, you wanted them. Tell them that their ass has the most delicious curves to it and how much you’d love to trace them with your hands.

Once you get started - don’t stop. Yes, you’ll say things inevitably that you don’t mean, especially if you’re tired…so be prepared to ignore a few hesitations, and misspoken words. This is also not the time to get grammatically correct - who cares if you say “you and I are gonna fuck in the parking lot tomorrow”, or “you and me are gonna fuck in the parking lot tomorrow”? A suspension of belief is also rather important when it comes to talking dirty, and frankly, can make it even hotter. No, I’m not going to let the guy I just met a few weeks ago fuck me without a condom, but as long as he and I are both aware of that boundary, what’s the harm in saying “I want to feel you shoot your cum all over my naked pussy”? It certainly makes the visual hotter for both of us.

Finally, be vocal. If you have the ability, don’t breathe out your orgasms like you’re furtively jerking off in your girlfriend’s living room in high school while her parents are downstairs. When you like what your partner is saying or doing, tell them. When you want them to do something else, tell them. When you want to add in some begging, pleading, or demanding, do it. There is nothing sexier in the world that fucking a partner and having them saying how good it is, or encouraging you to do more. “Harder, sir, fuck me harder”. “Suck it, baby, yeah..”. Who cares if you sound like a porn star? Frankly, the more sense you make, the less you’re enjoying yourself. I don’t want to have sex if I’m still going to be coherent enough to remember the “Friends, Romans, Countrymen” speech I memorized in eighth grade. So gibber yourself into oblivion - and when your partner starts running all their words together and all you can hear is “yesyesyesmmmmmmmumblemumblecumhard”, you know you’re a success!

“Ok, kiss me there,” and he handed me the card.

Olecranal. I remembered seeing that word on the diagram. Let’s see.

“The olecranal region is…” and I softly, slowly kissed his…

Regular readers of Pornocracy.org might know that I recently left my old career of hospital chaplaincy. I’ve now begun new schoolwork, training for another field. So on August 18, I simultaneously became a schoolgirl and… wait for it… a massage therapist in training! Gabe, for some odd reason, is very, very happy about this turn of events.

Last night I began studying for my first Anatomy and Physiology test. I made flashcards of the names for various external regions of the body, and handed them to Gabe. When he handed one back, I licked and kissed him in that spot. It was yummy! And he had a good time too! We found several spots that he enjoyed having kissed that we didn’t already know about - the inner crease of his elbow (cubital). The top part of his foot (dorsum). His spine (vertebral region).

Now, I don’t remember making two flashcards for the pubic region, but somehow the card came up again at the end, the last card of our study session! I took it as a sign to move into some in-depth oral exploration of that area.

Originally posted here.

Tags: Elizabeth, Gabe, Hot Couples, Humor, It Really Happened, Pornocracy

As soon as she hopped into bed, I started to warm up, wit