Wednesday, December 19, 2012

What if the Guy in 50 Shades of Grey was...a Leprechaun? And other really really bad erotica.

My Twitter friend @stillmansays sent the following missive:

"@Jill_Hamilton please write about this... Abraham Lincoln: Presidential Fuck Machine."

I dutifully clicked the link.

And, well, Holy Fuck.

Abraham Lincoln: Presidential Fuck Machineis an e-book about, well, I'll just show you the blurb:

Few people know that Abraham Lincoln was the greatest fuck machine of all time. His sexual prowess is unmatched in the history of American presidents. When he gets word of a nefarious plot hatched by the insane Emperor of Japan, he must learn to use his most potent power--the power of his cock!

Uh, what??? "Abraham Lincoln" and "fuck machine" in same sentence? Cock power as 1800s foreign policy position? Possible need for insane Emperor to do anticipatory waxing for diplomatic summit?

The book is on Amazon, and has one of those "Click to LOOK INSIDE!" buttons. So--of course, yes!--I fucking well did click, immediately. And I am so glad I did because, well, behold this opening:

April 22, 1863

It was a balmy spring morning and the White House was abuzz with activity. I rose early, as I always did, and paced restlessly around the bedroom. Mary looked angelic in sleep, so I didn't wake her. As I stripped my nightclothes and prepared to dress, I noticed that my cock was fully erect and ready for duty, most likely due to some dream or humour that had overtaken me in the night. My birthmark itched, as it often did as such times. At first I considered mounting Mary and using her soft familiar slit to relieve the pressure in my prick but she was never very agreeable in the morning. Do not judge me too harshly, dear reader, but I must admit that, at that moment, I had an overwhelming urge to visit Martha instead.

As you know, I completely adore the idea of people's odd specificity in their porn/erotica, and this whole Lincoln thing is so...exactly that. The reference to humours, a man speaking of his "nightclothes" and even, gak, mention of his birthmark--even worse, an itchy birthmark. (Oddly, I find the birthmark detail much more off-putting than the idea of a pantless Lincoln and his "iron hard prick.")

The Lincoln porn turned me on to (note to self: think of different way of putting that) a whole new world of weird-ass e-book erotica. Holy crap, there are all kinds of these short ebooks about humans getting it on with every manner of literary creature, both mythical and beastly. Lincoln, at least, was both real and a human. Something which cannot be said for the other romantic leads in this genre.

For example, at the bottom of the Lincoln book page under "Customers Who Bought This Item Also Bought" was the title...Snowballin': I Fucked Frosty. Yes, that Frosty. The Snowman.

Of course--of course--I immediately pressed Look Inside! but there was no snowy, snowy action on page one and I had to content myself with the cover blurb: 

When a boyfriend fails to fulfill his sexual duties, sometimes the only option is to turn to the cold embrace of a snowman.

"That is someone who is not looking at their options realistically," said my husband when I told him about this, as he tried with increasing desperation to move the conversion in directions far, far away from snowman fucking. As a result, I was alone as I tried to figure out how things might have gone down with Frosty. I suppose his carrot nose is an obvious place to start, but I just read somewhere that it's dangerous to insert carrots in one's orifices. (Can't remember why it was dangerous, just retained the salient point--"do not fuck carrot.") Though I suppose, in this case, carrot loss is less of a concern than genital frostbite.

I eagerly looked under the Frosty book's "Customers Who Bought This Item Also Bought" and found all kinds of crazy-ass shit, including The Horny Minotaur, Fucked by the Lake Monster, Bred by Trolls, Merlin's Magic Wang, and Bred by the Boogeyman. I never knew this, but there is a whole sub-genre of these "Bred by" books. "Well, of course I didn't want to fuck the Boogeyman, but he forced himself on me."

However I found myself most intrigued with The Horny Leprechaun 1 not only because it has spawned a sequel, The Horny Leprechaun 2, but for fuck's sake, it's about a Leprechaun. Not only that, but this particular Leprechaun sounds like he's kind of a dick. Here's the blurb:

Some Leprechauns are not so nice........

All Karen wanted to do was go to Ireland.  That is until she goes out hiking one day and finds the rainbow's end. Unfortunately, she runs into one pissed off Leprechaun who thinks she is after his gold. Now the Leprechaun wants payment for trespassing with sexual acts that some called depraved while others might call it magically delicious. Karen finds herself with a bit of a sadistic man who takes what he wants and Karen finds that she likes it.

"The Horny Leprechaun 1" also starts with possibly the most alarming book preface I've ever seen:

"Warning: This story contains oral sex, forced seduction, and anal sex" ...WITH A LEPRECHAUN! A JERKY, BOSSY LEPRECHAUN! [ed note: yelling typeface part added]

This stuff must be getting to me because I'm already writing a scene for The Horny Leprechaun 3 (maybe 3-D? seek funding?)

Karen: "Helloooo, I'm in my hotel....What are you wearing?"
Horny Leprechaun: "Green booties with curly toes, ya filthy whore. Now get ye gigantic human-sized ass over to me mushroom house and I'm gonna pound ye with me wee green prick."

Fuck, that's hot.

To someone. Else.
Anyway, I'm gonna go keep looking at these. Need to figure out which first: Goblin Gangbang or Cum For Bigfoot 12 ? Or maybe I should just go seasonal with Bred by Santa (An Impregnation Sex Story). Oh, quit your judging. I read the first page already. Santa's not cheating or anything. Mrs. Claus is dead (one of many of his mortal wives over the years, apparently) and Santa needs to have a male heir. Anyway, I don't want to, like, fuck Santa, he forced me--for breeding.

Or maybe I should just stop.  I just had the suddenly sobering experience of seeing "Your Browsing History" for this session and am realizing that for the foreseeable future, whenever I log onto Amazon, I'm going to see messages like, "Recommended for YOU: Taken and Milked (a forced lactation sex fantasy)."

Right. I'm gonna go now. 


(image: The Grinder by the beyond fabulous and completely strange Mark Ryden. He is also obsessed with Abraham Lincoln, though probably not in the "fuck machine" way.)

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

"Ridiculous Tips For A Miserable Sex Life"

I'm all hepped up on Ridiculous Tips For A Miserable Sex Life from, a recurring feature that looks at men and women's magazines like Cosmo and Maxim to uncover what sorts of crappy sex advice they're dishing out to their love-challenged readers. This month is mighty good, if only for this bit of misguided love advice:
If things get too hot, "keep a spray bottle filled with ice water next to the bed, and give each other a strategic spritz to extend the encounter... Aim for the nerve-packed, thin-skinned areas on each other's body, such as the nipples." (On an unrelated note, this is also a great way to train your cat not to pee on the rug.) Once you've climaxed, take a big sip of the ice water you keep nearby and "envelope his balls." 
Now, I don't own a pair of balls myself, but I can't imagine that having an ice mouth on them would be particularly pleasant--especially unexpected ice mouth. Though maybe expected ice mouth would be even worse... (Note: I just called my husband--the poor man!--and asked him apropos of nothing, "Soooo, would it be pleasant if someone put ice water in their mouth and 'enveloped your balls'?" Through the phone, I heard a noise that I can only describe as a man version of a shriek, and my husband stated quite definitively, "NO, that would be godawful!" He then paused and asked cautiously, "Uh, why do you ask?")

I especially love the tips from last month. Writer Ben Reininga so gets the crazy-ass worldview of male-female relationships that is Cosmo--from their penchant to calling body parts by silly names (I mean, hoo-ha? Seriously?) to their strange insistence that sex should involve lots of slathering "your guy" with various food products. I don't know about you, but if I want some chocolate syrup, I'd rather just have it on some ice cream instead licking it off "my guy's" icy cold balls.

But you want the tips anyway? Oh, fine. Here then is a tip from Cosmo's "The World's Best Orgasm Tricks."
1) Turn "up the volume on your moans." Say "things like, 'Omigod, right there feels so good.'"
Did you write that down? "Omigod, right there feels so good." Maybe you should take some Post-It notes to bed with you so you can robotically say your proper line. And here's another tip, which is gross and makes me sort of sick to even share with you:
1) What happens if you're out of lube? Cosmo suggests, "Mix 1 tablespoon of saliva (the kind deep in your throat works best — its viscosity makes it a good substitute for lube) with one tablespoon of water to stretch the spit." (They don't really explain if you're supposed to whisk it together in a bowl in the kitchen, or if you should just hock a loogie onto his junk, then reach for your measuring spoons.)
Okay, I am making myself sick now (and FYI, really lovely non-spit-based lube is readily available at Good Vibrations for as low as four bucks) so on to one last Cosmo ridiculous sex tip, this stencil (shown below) for pubic hair grooming:
I'm willing to accept that a couple so misguided that they say "hoo-ha" and need their orgasmic groans scripted might actually need a pubic hair arrow directing them to said hoo-ha, but they need a stencil to make the arrow? Not to be advocating a master race or anything, but should folks who need a stencil to make a flippin' arrow even be having sex?.... Er, but I seem to be veering from my notes. What I actually meant to say was, "Omigod, right there feels so good."

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

The Blow Job as Path to the Divine

I am not a religious person. I don't even know that I want to be. I have sort of tried, a little, but for better or worse, I don't seem to have the God gene. The closest I ever get to the sublime feeling of connection with the universe that religious people describe is generally through music. Walking at night, the wet smell of the evening mist, a full moon hanging overripe in the sky, and Pandora radio seducing me with exactly what I want to hear before I know myself (Damn, Pandora, I will tell you again, I would so fuck you if I could) is the closest I get to experiencing the Divine.

Except for sex. I think what's appealing to me about sex is not the actual friction between body parts-- although that's pretty damn good, too--but the out-of-body, out-of-your-fucking-mind, brain/body explosion that happens during the best sex. Good sex is just somehow...beyond. You're extremely focused on the Now, the line between you and other is blurred, and, in the best moments, you feel like you and the Universe are sort of throbbing together as one. Which sounds a lot like religious ecstasy.  (Other times it's just you and your partner, or your hand, or your vibrator--you get off, then go about your day. Which is fine as well.)

In an article in the January 2011 issue of Playboy, Samantha Gillison wrote a wonderful essay "The Platonic Ideal" on this idea of sex as route to the Divine. I would link to it, but--incredibly in this day and age--it is not available on-line! Well, unless you pay. This is why this month, I am a member of  For my $8 (paid happily because I care for YOU, dear reader), I get to go into the link that says "Members Only," which in Playboy parlance = "swanky". I can also look at every issue ever made, which would be great except my computer is so old that every issue ever made is slightly blurry, rendering the copy barely readable and the voluminous boobs semi-impressionistic swipes of pink and white.

In Gillison's piece, she describes the moment she became illuminated on the joys of giving head. It was after a Bad Brains concert, and in the darkness of the parking lot, she knelt before her date.
We could have been strangers--we almost were--and somehow the darkness, the anonymity of the situation liberated me from worrying about doing something wrong or feeling self-conscious. I allowed myself to sink deep into the fantasy of what it must feel like for him--the pressure, the warmth, the wetness. All of a sudden the only thing in the world was that cock and my connection to it.
Previously, Gillison had thought of blow jobs as something you gave, like a gift, or something you did as a favor. Plus there was some fear and uncertainty.
It was just that I was unsure of cock when I got up close to one; it contained unreadable male mysteries. I might hurt it or maybe just do nothing right. Maybe I looked ridiculous. I didn’t really know which parts of it wanted to be touched, or how. It seemed to be its own creature, almost uncannily separate from the man who owned it. Perhaps simpleminded but authoritarian and judgemental.  
 This time, however, she had a revelation.
But starting that night in the parking lot, I began to understand the profound, dirty pleasure of giving blow jobs. It isn’t just that I discovered how much I like being in control, how much I like giving the kind of pleasure that makes someone helpless, and how intoxicating it is to be on the receiving end of hurricane-levels of desire. But, that night, it was also the revelation of the particular male smell you get up close with a cock and balls that turned me on in ways that are almost beyond description.  It was like being inside sex.
Which is so completely hot. Are you still with me here?
Plato said that human beings can only truly access the divine through sexual ecstasy, Eros.  This has always made so much sense to me. When else are humans as rapt by feeling as when they come and when they touch God? That feeling of connection to the universal, the feeling of having exited my own body as I orgasm is nothing other than touching the infinite.

Yet I have never been able to get close to that Platonic, out-of-my-mind kind of sexual ecstasy unless I can satisfy a primal hunger:  Whether in fantasy or reality, I need a connection to another equally raunchy human being. It has always been the case with me, since I was a teenager, that I have to see someone else’s horniness in order to feel horny. What I happily realized on my knees in the parking lot is that an erect cock in my face is among the most blatant ways of experiencing the realness of someone else’s desire I’d ever encountered. And every time, it spurs a response in me, hot and dark and if I’m doing something transgressive in the best possible way.
Blow jobs! Philosophical talk! The phrase "erect cock"!  Gah, I am a goner! LOVE this $%$#!

I'll add a little bit more of her essay, because I want to make sure I don't stray from "fair use" territory to "stealing" and "copyright infringement." Here's Gillison on the experience of blowing a long time friend and feeling, then overcoming, the awkwardness inherent in that particular situation.
But then a supple communication started between me and his penis as I began to suck, a communication beyond words and much deeper than any we had ever had before.

His cock felt so sexy in my mouth, hard and hot and aching with desire. But I could also feel how much of this man was being revealed to me:  his sexuality, his vulnerability, his musky smell.

Soon the connection started to feel like a merging, as though I was experiencing that blow job too. It felt crazy, off-the-charts raunchy, to fantasize that I was not only giving head but getting it. All of a sudden I was overwhelmed by pure animal pleasure. I was so turned on that I came.

Since that night’s discovery I always revel in the double fantasy of giving and receiving. And I honor the wisdom of the old Greek philosophers who pointed out that although the Divine is inscrutable, it is easy to find while sucking on a dick.
And there is no better way to end a post than what Gillison ended with right there, so I will leave you to your day.


* Afterword:  Do NOT do a Google image search for "penis public domain." Hideous medical photos!  "Lesion on the glans"! Holy crap! Look away! Look away!

photo: William M. Rattase

Monday, December 10, 2012

"Our Genes Can Be Heartless Puppeteers"

Note the grim, bored faces.
Too many orgasms for the Coolidges?
"Pete and I haven't had sex for awhile," said a friend. "I'm not particularly in the mood, but I feel like we should. You know, for the good of the marriage."

I murmured in an affirmative manner, conveying something along the lines of "Yeah, go hit that dutiful marital sex." After all, sex--even possibly tepid sex--has all kinds of benefits--the immune system boost, happy endorphins, lower incidence of incontinence and all that.

But, at it turns out, not only am I a sucky friend for putting her personal business all up in my blog, but I also might have given her exactly the wrong advice. At least according to the limbic system, a primitive part of our brain that doesn't care a whit that we've based our entire societal structure on the responsible-sounding, seemed-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time ideal of monogamy.

By having sex with good old Pete, my friend would be inadvertently setting off a chain of neurochemicals that would actually increase marital ennui (it means boredom/lack of interest, if you happen to be afflicted with dictionary ennui). Surprisingly, sexual satisfaction kicks in a biological impulse full of monogamy-unfriendly side effects like making a couple more irritated with, and less attracted to, each other.

Marnia Robinson in Psychology Today reports that sexual satisfaction, specifically orgasms, actually compels us to want to move on to a new partner. 
[A] mating frenzy (hot sex, lots of orgasms) resulting in sexual satiation (that "I'm done!" feeling) plays right into Cupid's plan. Decreasing dopamine (after the delicious neurochemical blast of orgasm) tells your limbic system, "Fertilization duty is done here; time to find this mate less alluring-and respond to any potential novel mate with gusto."
The same cruel, cruel swirl of chemicals that make you swoon over another's perfection and general dreaminess, then:
 --makes you think it's a swell idea to bear children with this lovely person, 
-- fills you with a fiery rage toward this person who can't seem to fucking realize that wadding up a wet towel makes it moldy,
--makes you think a new partner would be a much more suitable mate. (I'm keeping a shortlist, just in case.)

Our bodies are, annoyingly, designed to make us stop desiring a mate once we've had our way with them. It's all about creating genetic diversity in our young, maximizing our fertility and all sort of other biological constructs that don't go over too well with a certain monogamous mate.

It's called the Coolidge Effect, and refers to the tendency in mammals to develop deadened sexual responses to their familiar mate while miraculously having no such problems with a novel mate. The name comes from a story about Calvin Coolidge and his wife touring a government farm. After hearing that a particular rooster spent a good part of each day mating, Mrs. Coolidge, in a moment of First Lady TMI, supposedly remarked, "Tell that to Mr. Coolidge when he comes by." When told, the president asked the farmer, "Same hen every time?" "No, sir," answered the farmer. "Tell that to Mrs. Coolidge," retorted the President, thus ensuring that no one in the Coolidge house would be doing any mating that evening.

In the Coolidge Effect, a male rat will mate with a receptive female (so made that way through chemical injections) until his libido dies out and he gives up and ignores her, doing whatever the male rat equivalent is of grabbing the remote. However, if a new receptive female enters, he jumps out of his stupor and begins banging her with a fresh vigor. The effect repeats--Mr. Rat rising to the occasion with each fresh female and giving them sweet, sweet rat love--until the dude is overwhelmed with exhaustion.   

I know this is science and all, but part of me wants to take the Creationist Approach to Science and just declare that, hey, I don't believe and/or like this idea, ergo, it's untrue. Despite all the testing, data, chemical analysis, carbon dating, friggin' dinosaur and early human bones littering the whole fucking, sorry, off topic.  

I mean, I get the whole fresh-excitement-with-new-mate part. Anyone who takes a look at the latest celeb pairing on US Magazine's cover can see that clearly enough, but the rest of it is so counter-intuitive. Having sex with your mate is...bad? And orgasms are especially bad because they make you want to leave your mate and move on? 

So where does this leave us? We live in a society that at least nominally supports families and lifetime pair-bonding. But our uncouth biological impulses are fighting us with every one of our well-intentioned, sanctioned-by-marriage thrusts.

It is a bit of a pickle and I don't have any great solutions for you yet. In the meantime, should you have sex with your mate? Hell, I don't fucking know. Play it by ear and we'll figure it out next time.


"Our senses crave novelty.  Any change alerts them, and they send a signal to the brain.  If there’s no change, no novelty, they doze and register little or nothing.  A constant state--even of excitement--in time becomes tedious, fades into the background because our senses have evolved to report changes, what’s new, something startling that needs to be appraised, a morsel to eat, a sudden danger.”  Diane Ackerman, A Natural History of the Senses

Saturday, December 8, 2012

The Appeal of the Experienced Lover, Or Why Older Women Are So Very Fuckable

I am 46 years old and I have never felt hotter. Never. Hotter.


And I'm not just saying that to dull the pain of some Horrible Truth like when people tell you men only care about a woman's inner beauty or that if you just breathe in a jaunty, can-do manner during childbirth, it won't hurt.

When you're older, sex is just...better. Way better. You notice more, you feel more, you just enjoy it more. In the post, In Search of the Elusive Third Type of Orgasm, dear reader Anonymous had this theory about it:
AS we get older, we are less concerned about how we look when screamin', whoopin', full heartedly ENJOYING mind-blowing sex. 
True. Plus once you hit 40, you get a delightfully useful "Fuck it" attitude that makes life much more enjoyable. Things you don't want to do? Don't do them! Fuck it! Boring people in your life? Don't talk to them! Only deal with people who enchant and entertain you. (And if you don't agree, piss off! I've got no time for you!)

Not only do I feel way hotter than my 20 year old self, I think I probably am, in some sort of observable, measurable manner, actually more smokin' hot. But in lieu of a complex and probably cost-prohibitive science experiment involving a time travel machine, a startled (and most likely drunken) version of my 1980s self, and an intrepid team of embarrassed/aroused scientists in lab coats calculating orgasm response times, we will have to test my hypothesis with empirical evidence. That is, observation and experience.

Exhibit A, Experience:  A 43 year old friend of mine recently bought a sex toy (It was something like this, with an inner dildo-y part plus so-called "rabbit ears" for outer stimulation) and quickly discovered that she could have g-spot orgasms. She had never known this about herself.  For 40-fucking-3 years! This information can be nothing but good, I say. Nothing but good! 

Yeah, it's definitely his Inner
 Beauty that's got us.
Exhibit B, Observation: Here I will have to go with Benjamin Franklin, favorite of old broads everywhere.  Franklin was not a looker, but he had a good brain which is ten times as hot, and was thus quite popular with the ladies. Here in his (once banned!) Old Mistresses Apologue (June 25, 1745), he advises a friend on why older women are clearly better Amours
I repeat my former Advice, that in all your Amours you should prefer old Women to young ones. You call this a Paradox, and demand my Reasons. They are these:
1. Because as they have more Knowledge of the World and their Minds are better stor’d with Observations, their Conversation is more improving and more lastingly agreable.
2. Because when Women cease to be handsome, they study to be good. To maintain their Influence over Men, they supply the Diminution of Beauty by an Augmentation of Utility. They learn to do a 1000 Services small and great, and are the most tender and useful of all Friends when you are sick. Thus they continue amiable. And hence there is hardly such a thing to be found as an old Woman who is not a good Woman.
3. Because there is no hazard of Children, which irregularly produc’d may be attended with much Inconvenience.
4. Because thro’ more Experience, they are more prudent and discreet in conducting an Intrigue to prevent Suspicion. The Commerce with them is therefore safer with regard to your Reputation. And with regard to theirs, if the Affair should happen to be known, considerate People might be rather inclin’d to excuse an old Woman who would kindly take care of a young Man, form his Manners by her good Counsels, and prevent his ruining his Health and Fortune among mercenary Prostitutes.
5. Because in every Animal that walks upright, the Deficiency of the Fluids that fill the Muscles appears first in the highest Part: The Face first grows lank and wrinkled; then the Neck; then the Breast and Arms; the lower Parts continuing to the last as plump as ever: So that covering all above with a Basket, and regarding only what is below the Girdle, it is impossible of two Women to know an old from a young one. And as in the dark all Cats are grey, the Pleasure of corporal Enjoyment with an old Woman is at least equal, and frequently superior, every Knack being by Practice capable of Improvement.
6. Because the Sin is less. The debauching a Virgin may be her Ruin, and make her for Life unhappy.
7. Because the Compunction is less. The having made a young Girl miserable may give you frequent bitter Reflections; none of which can attend the making an old Woman happy.
8thly and Lastly They are so grateful!!
I'm especially fond of number 5, with its talk of "what is below the Girdle" and Franklin's trying to explain to his friend that below-the-girdle action remains oh-so-good by invoking sciencey phrases like "Animals that walk upright" and "Deficiency of the Fluids."

Franklin wasn't alone in his love of experienced older women. Men throughout history have come to the same conclusion. In this article in The Smoking Jacket (a site from Playboy, Worldwide Headquarters of young nubile boobs), writer Chris Lathrop cites Franklin's letter and his "centuries-ahead-of-its-time awareness of something that's become common knowledge among modern men and anyone who watches Sex and the City or Desperate Housewives: Older women fucking rule."

The Roman poet Ovid* (43 BC- 17AD) also noted that older women fucking rule, albeit more eloquently (i.e. "enjoy the fruits of Love in their full and ripe maturity") in The Art of Love--Ars Amatoria, a sort of instruction manual on Love:
They are well versed in all the mysteries and attitudes of Love, and are thereby able to enhance your pleasure...Their appetites do not need to be provoked by wearisome titillations and they will share their pleasures with you equally...Dutiful embraces repel me, for nothing can be more pleasing to the ear of a lover than a trembling voice of the beloved when she whispers ecstatically of her joy. What can compare to my happiness when my fair one pleads with me to prolong her rapture? Naught can be sweeter than my beloved, inebriate with ecstasy, holding me at arm's length and pleading with swimming eyes that I slacken my pace.
So what do you think of all this? Men, do you agree? Have you known the pleasures of an older women? Women, are you feeling sassier these days? Is your body more responsive? Less so? And does anyone else besides me wish that they were gazing upon the face of their beloved "inebriate with ecstasy" instead of sitting here at the fucking computer?


* p.s. If you want to feel smart and read something pretty sexy at the same time, I urge you to read The Art of Love at once.

Beware: some of Ovid's advice can be:
--practical, yet not currently socially acceptable, i.e. take two mistresses instead of one so you don't get too attached, or,
 --comically weird and outdated, i.e. this recipe for a face of "dazzling whiteness" which begins "Pulverize the first horns dropped from a lusty stag." (note: Ovid provides no clues on determining which stag is the lusty one.)

But most of his advice is still perfectly good. Here's Ovid on taking your time in Love, which, more than 2000 years later, is still damned good advice.
If you will listen to me you will not be too hasty in attaining the culmination of your happiness. Learn by skillful maneuvering to reach your climax by degrees. When you are safely ensconced in the sanctuary of bliss, let no timid fear arrest your hand. You will be richly rewarded by the love-light trembling in her eyes, even as the rays of the sun fitfully dance upon the waves. Then will follow gentle murmurs, moans and sighs, laden with ecstasy that will sting and lash desire.

photo source 

Friday, December 7, 2012

7 Things I Learned at Homemade-Sex-Toys

Homemade Sex Toys is a site for people who like DIY projects. But what sets these folks apart from regular old Squaresville do-it-yourself-ers is that, instead of thinking, "Can I fix the broken breadmaker?" they think, "Can I have sex with the broken breadmaker?"

Now, I am utterly arts and crafts deficient, so I have a healthy fear having sex with anything I made. And near as I can tell, none of my 6th grade-era macramed plant hangers or bicentennial rug hook projects seem the least bit fuckable.

Still, I admire a can-do attitude, so I wandered around the site awhile instead of doing any number of more productive things. The site wasn't nearly as entertaining as I'd hoped, but I did learn a few things. To wit:

1.  People of both genders can have sexual relations with a cucumber. (New slogan for Association of Cucumber Growers? Send memo.) I think we all know what women can do with a particularly fetching cucumber, but men, if so inclined, can hollow out the insides of a cuke (not one of those long skinny kinds) then make sweet sweet love to it. Important: Do not fall in love with your cucumber because this is a relationship that must remain brief (see also: composting).

2.  Men can also have sex with a whole host of household objects including a heated melon, balloons, a doctored-up toilet paper roll and a bean bag chair. (Note to self: avoid bean bag chair). Women can have sex with a blanket, a cell phone (There is indeed an app for that), and a toothbrush.

3. To my surprise, there's a whole section on fucking toothbrushes. When I got to the heading labeled simply, "Toothbrush in ass," I had to click away because I was too busy running to get my toothbrush--No! NOT to put "in ass"!--but to grab it to make sure it never leaves my side. I am going to insist that my toothbrush take an immediate vow of chastity.

4. The holes on blow-up sex toys are sealed with pull tab-like bits of plastic "for hygienic and safety reasons." (Warning: removed tabs may alert the blow-up doll's strict parents that you two did more than just "hang out at the mall.")

5.  You can make your own solar powered vibrator. I like solar power and *mumbling a bit here* yes, fine, I like vibrators, but when it got to talk of "soldering" and diagrams like this...

...I knew I'd rather just pony up the cash and get a vibrator made by vibrator-making professional. Besides part of the whole "solar" thing is that it uses the sun, meaning, you'd be gettin' down with your jimmy-rigged, questionably-soldered solar vibe out in the damn yard.

6. There are people who enjoy inserting a banana into their loved one's personal sexual orifice, then eating said banana.  I am not one of those people. Again, I like bananas, I like my loved ones, and yet...

7.  And finally, and perhaps most importantly, this information: "Jerking off with Icy Hot or Ben Gay will put you in a world of hurt." Which--although I now strangely intrigued by the idea--I will probably just take their word on.

(photo by Dennis Hopper.  Image source:

Thursday, December 6, 2012

Cathy, the Inflatable Cow. That You Fuck.

Well, I finally found a way to snap out of my intrusively sensual and inappropriate neck-sniffing daydreams. It is this and, well...let me just show you the photo.
Let us read the ad copy together, shall we?
Elsie Blow Up Cow is an inflatable cow. Elsie has a rear entrance and makes a moo sound when she is excited! For farm sexual enhancement.
Okay, let's stop here a moment and take stock. "Cathy" is an inflatable cow. That you fuck. That much is clear. But as highly disturbing as that is in itself, it is just the beginning of the conundrums Cathy brings up. For one, why does it come with the supposed aphrodisiac Spanish Fly? If fucking a blow-up cow is your thing, shouldn't an aphrodisiac be unnecessary? Two, why does the product come from a company called Discreet Romance? Maybe it's the writer in me, but I think the word "romance" is a bit strong for what's going to go down with poor Cathy. And finally, and perhaps most unsettlingly, don't the people who designed the box know that there's no apostrophe in "moos"? It an outrageous misuse of punctuation, I tell you!  

And not to offend both the right wing and PETA with a few careless words, but is it really so difficult to get lucky with an actual animal? I mean, how much of a loser do you have to be to not be able to score with livestock? "Yeah, last night I was with this really cute sheep. I bought her dinner and got her pretty drunk, but she's just not ready for an intimate relationship."  

Maybe I don't understand. Cathy and I would have to overcome several barriers to have a "romance." One of which is that I am a women and the only thing I can think of to do with Cathy is to go down on her. And that doesn't seem like it would do much for me or Cathy, despite the potential for Cathy making "a moo sound when she is excited." 

If you want to create a whole sexy barnyard menagerie, you can also get some of Cathy's buddies, including Blow Up Billy GoatErotic Love Piggie and Luvin Lamb. That way, if you and Cathy have a fight or something, you can still get some sweet vinyl love action. (Although, I can't help but worry about those jagged seams where the vinyl meets. Sharp seams + personal area = can't be good.)

If you're still determined to go this route, as I see it, your biggest problem--besides, of course, that you're fucking inflatable animals--is making sure you have a really, really good hiding place for them. Even the most penis-like looking vibrator can be semi-passed off as a personal massager, but good luck explaining why Luvin Lamb is lying ravished in your bed, all covered in Spanish Fly lube. "She's....she's....she's...oh, damn it, we're IN LOVE!"

Addendum:  I was discussing Cathy with a friend and reported that on her web site there were testimonials from supposed "customers" on Cathy's reputed hotness. They were all along the lines of "I got Cathy as a joke, but then one night I was feeling lonely and..." My friend considered this and said, "I've been lonely, but I've never been cow-lonely."

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Note to self: Think of better name than Rerun Week

Hello brothers and sisters, my in-laws are visiting so I am hereby declaring this Rerun Week. If you get the blog via email or RSS reader, you'll need to click over here yourself. Tiresome yes, but for your trouble you'll get fresh, or freshish, content every damn day. And I'm taking requests, so if there's something you'd like to re-see, let me know.

See Day One: The Copulatory Gaze and the Body Language of Flirting (note: contains one aroused chimp.)

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