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.)

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 

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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