This is just so goddamn funny.
I wish I had a better quality copy of it, some of the best bits are obliterated. But still.
Details here: Eveready Harton in Buried Treasure
NSFW, but honestly, unless you're looking close you'd never notice.
(found on BoingBoing)
For some reason this video is oddly hot. I can't quite identify why.
(Click the pic - I'm sorry i can't embed that. I've yet to figure out a workable way to embed quicktime in MT posts. I've tried all sorts of voodooo and it never embeds correctly.
Who doesn't love a good sex dream?
Hell, without sex dreams, i have no writing career. My best work is all inspired by some form of sex dreams. The thing with sex dreams is, they let that part of the psyche free, let us savage or be savaged, romance or be romanced, do or be done unto, in ways we might not let ourselves in waking hours.
The funny thing, though, is often the whom; who gets into our sexual psyche in ways that percolate through the layers of strata and turn up in the watershed of dreams.
A blond star of a teens-in-beverly-hills teevee show; a composite character built of a Greg Rucka character and local tattoo scene people; game show hosts and small time stars, friends or relations or people we've never even met, yet know from afar.
Who knows why. I can't make heads or tails of what makes my sexual subconscious glom onto one particular person, nor why sometimes it will fabricate a person from raw material. God know i have no control over it, lest I'd have savaged many a starlet and schoolmate and co-worker and blog-reader.
In any case, last night i had a particularly vivid sex dream about Seska. And I have no idea why.
It isn't like I've been anywhere near her site in the last year or two (or three), though I'll admit to having been a big fan way back in the day when 'amateur' sites were generally free and wild and no one had yet figured out they could make money taking dirty pictures of themselves and their friends and posting them on line.
Yet there she was in my head last night, in a dream that's sadly now fading. I remember a large house, and many, many people, who seemed almost to be touring her house, as if they bused people in for a 'tour of the porn star's pleasure palace'.
And then i had her to myself and there was a great deal of kissing, though something seemed always to interrupt us, straggling tourists, calls, the usual series of starts and stops and frustrations one can encounter in dreams.
Finally though, I locked the bedroom door and we wound up not quite making it to the bed, and she opened her legs to me there on the floor as i pushed aside a filmy red nighty, and with the freedom of dreams, she guided my condom-free cock into herself, and showed me the sort of faces you can see on her site, and moaned by name.
Usually, almost always, my dreams end before penetration. As if the adrenaline and arousal form an internal alarm clock. Oh-so-many times I've woken with a start, a morphean coitus-interruptus, annoyed with myself for my dream's inability to consummate the act.
This dream was different; i can still feel the inside of her, smell the sexy-sweet girl scent of her. This is where in envy the women I know who can climax in dreams, because it's something I've not done since I was a teenager; and so I woke, unsatisfied, yet with my mind full of girl-scent and the bodies-merged feeling still lingering on my skin.
I still have no idea, though, why Seska. But I'm not complaining.
Oh, and let's hear some of your odd sex dream subjects. The weirder the better.
Songs about Sex and Candy. To suit a sweet new look for the Moronosphere:
Hangin' round downtown by myself
And I had too much caffeine
And I was thinkin' 'bout myself
And then there she was
In double platform suede
Yeah there she was
Like disco lemonade
I smell sex and candy here
Or we could try:
The Candy Man can
'Cause he mixes it with love
And makes the world taste good
Or a little different feel:
Candy asked me if she died
if I could go on
of course I said I couldn't
and of course we knew that's wrong
but candy, I said, candy no you can't do that to me
because you love me way too much
for you to ever leave
Or we could add a little chili pepper spice:
Step into a heaven
Where I keep it on the soulside
Girl please me
Be my soul bride
Every woman
Has a piece of Aphrodite
Copulate to create
A state of sexual light
Kissing her virginity
My affinity
I mingle with the gods
I mingle with devinity
Blood sugar baby
She's magik
Sex magik sex magik
And we dare not forget:
When you need a friend through thick and thin
Don't look to those above you.
When you're down and out, ain't no doubt
Nobody wants you.
But you're rock candy baby
Hard, sweet and sticky.
Rock candy baby
Hard, sweet and sticky.
Sugar and Sex. Celebrate the the rites of love, my friends. Feed your love on sugar candy, and fuck him/her half to death.
Satin Slippers - one of the net's best erotic sites, is (temporarily we hope) off line. I'm trying to get details from the People Who Know about if/when it will come back.
This is the site where my stories (Wanton, Man with the Bag, etc) were hosted, though I've got 'em here now.
I had an oddly hot dream last night, after not being able to get to sleep until very, very late.
It has to have been inspired by an episode of Project Runway (and I'll have to put off talking about that show for a bit because of the promise I made myself not to talk about any more reality teevee).
I was dressing a woman up in lacy, pretty, elegant lingerie. She was a tall, stunning brunette with a perfect figure, and I was choosing things for her to put on while she modeled them for me; garter belts, bra and panty sets, bustier sorta things. Garters and more garters, and some other things that might have been nighties and might have been very suggestive evening clothes, I'm not sure.
The clothes are kind of a blur to me now, I just recall fancy, very lacy things in a number of colors, maroon, pink, black, jade green.
What I recall, though, is the feeling of dressing this woman up almost like a living barbie doll; the subtle dominant/submissive feeling it had, her doing what I told her, putting on what I chose for her and modeling it for me while I sat watching, directing her to pose for me, to show herself off for me.
I woke up with the image in my head, watching her put on a lacy, fussy garter belt at my direction. It's been with me all day, that image.
I love what I find in my sitemeter.
I got hits today on the phrase "Santa's Little Whore".
I love it. C'mere, Santa's Little Whore, wherever you are!
I love the things you find on BoingBoing.
I bet it's only me who finds that hot. And there's also this. Don't click if you're the squeamish type.
While you're over there, there's also this tattoo, which, you know, is lame as a tattoo, but pretty hot as an image. Though I guess with the right model, I'd get that tattoo, just not where anyone else could see it.
So evidently sometime yesterday, a group of bad-boy hackers got in through a back door on our host server. They didn't do anything that we can find other than to steal bandwidth to do a buch of port-scanning, though we're doing a more complete scan. No harm no foul as far as moronoblogs are concerned, our database is free of corruption (well, other than that which we put there our own selves).
But I just wanted to tip the hat to Brandon who spent his friday doing battle with the forces of evil. As far as I know, he got the security hole plugged late last night, with very little help from me. Time for me to study up on security so I can be more use next time.
So I'd intended to (try to) repeat last year's bad santa challenge, and do another holiday-themed dirty story. I've utterly failed at that, not even starting such a story. Maybe next year I'll do better, but meantime, you owe it to yourself to read these wonderful tails of holiday depravity:
Because Papa Noel is a Bad Bad Man.
I'd love to have more to add to this collection, so if any of you feel motivated to write a holiday-themed erotic tale, by all means, do. They don't all have to be santa-themed, nor even specifically xmas.
And I need to get myself writing again. It's in there, I just can't seem to get it out.
This is what girls looked like when I learned just how much I really liked girls.
That's from a 'Chicas de calendario de los años 70s' collection - 70s pinups from Spain.
(found as usual, on BB)
Man, what a difference from today's porn.
Time for a dirty story.
This is a slight expansion upon one of the best sex dreams I've ever had. This was a long time ago, and certainly, some of the dream detail is lost, and thus replaced with the writer's waking imagination. Still, the basic details are direct from the dream. In the dream the ending was, as all my sex dreams, a too-soon waking; so the ending here is of the writer's-waking-imagination kind. But somehow the sudden ending didn't satisfy.
Somehow sex dreams are the source of a lot of my best erotic writing.
I've got a piece finished, but I think I need to proof read it one more time before I post it. It should be up tomorrow sometime.
It feels good to finish one, even if it's a short piece.
Ok, ok. Freya made me do it, by putting me on her BILF list. It isn't easy to limit these lists to just seven, I'm tellin' ya.
Seven bloggers I'd like to meet, watch, and fuck (ok, some of these are on more than one list but I'm gonna make the lists exclusive):
I'd like to meet:
Seven I'd Like to watch go at it (Honestly, this is an extension of the list below):
And finally, seven I simply need to get my hands and mouth on, and my cock into (God it's hard to get this list down to seven)
People I've already met, watched, or done, are excluded from this list, though that doesn't mean you're off my to do list if you get what I'm sayin.
I've missed a good dozen people. I'm sorry. Damned numeric limit...
Ok so I keep seeing this headline on CNN.com:
TS Rita gains muscle to threaten Florida
...And sure, I know they mean Tropical Storm. But hell, we all fucking know TS stands for TranSexual.
So this rita, she's some big, muscular tranny, threatening Florida.
Um. You know, that's kinda hot.
Ok. So enough angry politics for a moment. I need to take a deep breath and enjoy some Pretty Girl Therapy.
This would be Jane Birkin, and it would be courtesy of a wonderfully eclectic 60's color gallery at discosantigos.com (via BoingBoing, of course).
Here's another favorite.
There. I feel a little better. And if that doesn't do it, I'll go for this or this or this or this or this or this or maybe this
I swear I haven't slept more than three hours any night the last week.
I'm getting on to that fog state where I'm sleepy and wired; I fall asleep when I'm watching TV but can't sleep when I get in bed.
I need to do someone some violence, but it needs to be, you know, the good hurt kind of violence.
Soon, if this keeps going, I'll get to the hallucination phase. That's where it gets entertaining.
I dunno what the fuck it is. Ok, well, that's not true, completely. Some of it's the cocktail of stress my life has become the last few months; new speed bumps in my road, old speed bumps come back. The usual, only more. And there's the low-grade mental and physical health shit that comes with that; not getting enough exercise, drinking too much, thinking about sex and escape all day and not having the time or energy or whatever for enough of either.
The wonder of it all is that I have not been sick, really sick, in almost a year. With kids in school, I'm used to having at least two major colds and a sinus infection every winter.
But it all adds up to no sleep. I managed to get myself on a school schedule last week, driving my kids to early day camps, and my clock's set for early wake-up already; yet my sleep-time clock (damn, I keep typing that as 'cock' - see where my brain is at?) is still set for well past midnight no matter how I try to get it earlier.
I need to channel is all into something. I need to get back to the gym and start pumping iron, I need to get my bicycle tuned up so I can ride it (21 gears don't help much when the front derailleur won't shift). And I need to get my head off of things I want but can't have. I need to get back to living in the here-and-now.
Or I need to go back to using narcotics.
Who needs a good spanking? I need to take out a little something on you. Now, not fair offering if you're far away and can't travel.
[made with ecto]
Ever have a moment where you look at someone and they look familiar, and you think, if you were naked, I would know.
Or is that just me?
It's been a few times lately.
My friend Andrea waits tables at a local, upscale restaurant, a wine and cocktails type bistro. She often comes over to my house after work with friends and co-workers, so I have several times wound up in the hot tub with naked, inebriated restaurant staff.
I was sitting at the bar one night, my bachelor week a couple weeks ago. I was sipping dirty martinis and people-watching; writing a story in my head that was being narrated by someone very like Marv in Sin City.
I was also watching waitresses. I love waitresses. And I kept thinking, I know that one girl but I could not dig up how.
It hit me. I think I've seen her naked. I could remember her full, luscious breasts.
If I could get her undressed, I thought, I could be sure.
Then there was another friend. I've seen her web cam photos, but when I met her in person, she was dressed. I didn't recognize her at all. Thne later, in the hot tub, I realized, I've seen those tits before. And it hit me. I'd know you if you were naked.
The last time was, of course, another waitress. A mexican joint not far from me. I used to eat there weekly, but not so much in the last year, for no reason other than shifts in dining habits. They have a new waitress, and as usual, I took a liking to her on first site. She looks youngish, brunette. Short, with great thighs in a too-short skirt. Pierced nose, pony tail. She smiled at me in a way that made me want to growl.
And I kept thinking, I know this girl.
In fact I don't, I finally realized what it was. She looks like a combination of a couple women. A stripper from some club I was at not long ago, and a girl I've seen on a porn web site. My brain fused them together and this cute little waitress was just similar enough that she pinged my sense of familiarity. And again, I had that thought. If you were naked, I'd know how I know you.
Maybe it's just that I know bodies better than I know clothes. People I've seen naked a lot, I know in my mind's eye every mole and scar and curve, every hair. Close friends, I could not tell you what they had on the last time I saw them, but I could tell you exactly what bruises they had the last time I saw them naked.
Wearing nothing is devine, naked is a state of mind I take things off to clear my head to say the things I haven't said I live inside the elements the the earth and sky are my best friends Water is the evidence that washes me from end to end
Ever have a moment where you look at someone and they look familiar, and you think, if you were naked, I would know.
Or is that just me?
It's been a few times lately.
My friend Andrea waits tables at a local, upscale restaurant, a wine and cocktails type bistro. She often comes over to my house after work with friends and co-workers, so I have several times wound up in the hot tub with naked, inebriated restaurant staff.
I was sitting at the bar one night, my bachelor week a couple weeks ago. I was sipping dirty martinis and people-watching; writing a story in my head that was being narrated by someone very like Marv in Sin City.
I was also watching waitresses. I love waitresses. And I kept thinking, I know that one girl but I could not dig up how.
It hit me. I think I've seen her naked. I could remember her full, luscious breasts.
If I could get her undressed, I thought, I could be sure.
Then there was another friend. I've seen her web cam photos, but when I met her in person, she was dressed. I didn't recognize her at all. Thne later, in the hot tub, I realized, I've seen those tits before. And it hit me. I'd know you if you were naked.
The last time was, of course, another waitress. A mexican joint not far from me. I used to eat there weekly, but not so much in the last year, for no reason other than shifts in dining habits. They have a new waitress, and as usual, I took a liking to her on first site. She looks youngish, brunette. Short, with great thighs in a too-short skirt. Pierced nose, pony tail. She smiled at me in a way that made me want to growl.
And I kept thinking, I know this girl.
In fact I don't, I finally realized what it was. She looks like a combination of a couple women. A stripper from some club I was at not long ago, and a girl I've seen on a porn web site. My brain fused them together and this cute little waitress was just similar enough that she pinged my sense of familiarity. And again, I had that thought. If you were naked, I'd know how I know you.
Maybe it's just that I know bodies better than I know clothes. People I've seen naked a lot, I know in my mind's eye every mole and scar and curve, every hair. Close friends, I could not tell you what they had on the last time I saw them, but I could tell you exactly what bruises they had the last time I saw them naked.
Wearing nothing is devine, naked is a state of mind I take things off to clear my head to say the things I haven't said I live inside the elements the the earth and sky are my best friends Water is the evidence that washes me from end to end
This is what you want call an early warning.
Last year we had a small but excellent showing of filthy holiday stories I like to call Bad Bad Santa.
I'm just sick enough to go back and do it again. So put your dirty thinking caps on.
Basically, there are few rules -- stories need to be 1) dirty, 2) holiday themed. You can take on the jolly old elf like the rest of us did last time, you can besmirch Rudolph, Frosty, that wicked old Mrs Claus, the Grinch, even little Cindy Lou Who. Or you can take on another holiday and do unto the Easter Bunny or Cupid, or a holiday mashup like Jack Skelington and his crew.
Whatever.
Think on it. Let inspiration strike.
I'll put out an official call later this summer and put up a drop box of some sort to collect them. Stories remain the author's, I'm just gonna collect 'em up and feature the best ones.
You know, I can write a lot of things pretty easily. A sex scene, a fight, dialog. I can write about cunnilingus, I can write a tender, loving, gentle scene full of love and caring. I can write a violent non-consent scene.
You know, I don't have much trouble with any of that.
But I can't seem to write a fucking blowjob. I've been working on something for a week now, and I just can't seen to get past one damned blowjob.
It's a mystery, I tell ya.
I admit it. I've got a crush.
This is the sort of thing I do when I'm hung over and way short on sleep on a sunday afternoon. I turn on random things on teevee. This is where I hope for a baseball game, or if it's the right season, a hockey game. But if I get skunked on all that, and I really just can't get up off the fucking couch, I'll wander aimlessly around the dial (aside - who actually remembers when teevees had dials and we had to get up to change channels?).
Usually this leaves me with a cooking show, or a documentary. Sometimes even a re-run of American Gladiators, but we'll talk about that crush later.
Sunday, though, I stopped on a little thing called Xtreme4x4.
Now, I drive a jeep. But there's really nothing 'Xtreme' about it. I don't do a lot of actual off-roading (I try, you know, but who has time). I don't have it heavily customized. Who can afford it, and when most of it's miles are road miles, what's the point? But saturday I was out shopping for some nice new tires, and my head was all full of four wheelin', so when I landed on Xtreme4x4 on Spike TV, my thumb rested on the remote control.
Now, I think this would have held my interest for five, ten minutes. Maybe a whole episode, but maybe not.
Only...
Now, these pictures all suck. The stupid bastards who did the web site think we want pictures of trucks. We don't care about trucks. We care about Jessi. She's way, way cuter than that when she's moving.
She welds. She uses power tools. She customizes trucks. She has tattoos.
I Want Her.
I just have to put in a quick plug (a-hem) for Brett and Hiromi's Panties Panties Panties blog. I mean, they understand Tim Powers, fercrisssakes.
[edit - that blog is long gone now -- (3/6/2005)]
They also have some absolutely lovely panty fetish pictures. And as some of you know, I do have something of a fetish for panties (Though I must admit, I'll always choose commando before panties, no matter how cute the panties are).
Anyway, show B&H some panty-fetish love, they're fine, fine people.
So I check my sitemeter all the time. Not so much because I care how many hits I'm getting, though that's vaguely interesting. But because it's interesting, educational, and sometimes amusing to see what search terms I get hits from.
Spanking Art is a huge one. Hits on that many times every day. Live Wrong gets me a lot of them too. Erototoxins did for a spell but not so much any more.
I got a couple, a while back, on Spanking Policeman which got me laughing. No idea why that hit me. I get tons from searches on Skull Ring and quite a few from related searches, Crazy Pig and Tony Creed.
I get tons of hits from Tattoo and Kilt searches. I'm staring to get some for Hold Fast.
You know, the stuff I talk about.
But today I got one that simply delighted me.
Fuck Me So Hard It Hurts, the search was on.
Who are you, oh AOL user who found me that way? Did you find what you're looking for? I can't tell, since it was an AOL search and I can't see the results page.
But I must say, there's nothing anyone can say to me that will delight me as much as that phrase. Well, I can think of a few things, from a few people, mostly involving the word "yes", but aside from that, Fuck Me So Hard It Hurts is music to my sick, twisted ears.
C'mon. Say it to me again.
Again, what would we do without BoingBoing.
This is from a gallery exibit on the pulp work of Norm Eastman.
Take a look here, at pages one, two, three, four, five and six. It's a festival of nazis and tormented women in torn clothing.
I guess we add this to the Sick and Wrong Art category. Me likey.
I have to take a moment here to love on both Doxy and The Artist who does her cartoons (same lovely lady who did my Cartoon Karl Elvis).
There's my easter bunny, right there!
A friend of mine just mentioned a fetish I'd never heard of before.
Trampling.
You know, it's not like I've heard 'em all. There's pretty much a fetish out there for anything you can think of. Still, this was a new one on me.
You foot fetishists in the audience (and you know you're out there) -- You know about this?
Evidently there's a big contingent out there who not only want to worship women's feet, but also want to be brutally trod upon. Who knew?
But you know, I started thinking about this and had to google it up. Trample Fetish. Trample Porn.
And I got to thinking -- why can't I have google hits from that?
So here we are. Take that, you googling trample-o-philes.
Ever have one of those days where all you can think is red-hot haze?
Those are the days the animal in you needs to hunt.
Those are the days where we go out and drink and fight and fuck. Kill or die, rape and pillage. I can see my ancestors, celtic warriors, franks, danes, visgoths, all those party animals who sacked rome again and again. I can see, sometimes, how simple a life it would have been. My axe, my spear, maybe a war club, nothing but white-hot berserker rage to fuel me, that and maybe some crude fire-water, some foul-tasting, sour mead or ale. Sweep in, screaming and roaring, over-whelm my foes with my fury and need to kill and crush, rend and tear.
Then bloody and battered, a captured wine bottle in my hand, I find the treasure, the prize won. The women await, for a different kind of violence.
Simple. Kill or die. The winner takes the prize. The most powerful, most beastly, gets the choice of the spoils.
Ah, how do I love ErosBlog?
Let me count the ways:
MUST HAVE YONI! (Not at ALL work safe, but mouth-wateringly good)
More Yoni! (Work safe until you click the links)
It's a tough job, Bacchus, but someone has to do it.
The title of this entry is from something Kenny used to say when describing self-indulgent soloing in bands we went to see. The kind of playing that's all about the player and his ego, not about the song or the band or what belongs there.
He'd describe the guitar solos as "so much widdly-woo" (Which he'd illustrate my miming Eddie Van Halen type two-hand playing on the fretboard, coupled with the sound effect "Widdly-widdly-widdly-widdly-wooooooooo"), and the bass flash everyone was doing 15 years back, funk-inspired finger and thumb popping, he'd describe as "whackity-spankity".
The phrases are still in my head; several of us still say "yeah, yeah, widdly-woo" about over-blown guitar solos. But I also still say "whackity-spankity" all the time, not always remembering what the origin of the phrase was.
Anyway, the point of this was that I just changed my sitemeter settings and I'm seeing a lot more of the google search based hits on this site. The funny thing is how many I get from the words spanking and spanking art.
And I'm not even a big spanko.
Truly funny. I feel like I should be writing about spanking to try and live up to this, so people who cruise by here looking for spank-porn don't walk away disappointed.
Not that I'm adverse to dealing a good, sound spanking. C'mon over and I'll show you. I love it when my hand stings too much to go on any more. But you know, that's just not high on my particular list of fetishes and perversions.
Bet you dollars to fucking donuts though, this entry gets me another several dozens hits from google searches.
I wish I could find a tape, or a torrent, or a script, or something, for the criminally overlooked show Cupid's Valentine's Day episode.
The show itself was brilliant, and hardly anyone watched it.
But this episode managed to verbalize something; the difference between the storybook, candy-hearts and hallmark cards valentine's day and a true celebration of physical, carnal love. This show captured that thought with humor and intensity.
Because the hallmark cards are a load of crap. Another holiday based on purchased sentiment and trite, meaningless exchanges of printed paper.
Love is physical. Love is carnal. Love is sweaty, and red-faced. Love hurts. Love is about bodies and sensuality and pleasure and caring. It's about passion and desire. It's about fucking, and making love, and kissing, and biting.
A day that celebrates love without sexuality is meaningless and empty.
Forget St Valentine, some pointless martyr of dubious authenticity. This day, any day that claims to celebrate love, should celebrate Cupid, Eros, Aphrodite, Venus, a hundred others. It should celebrate the real love, the physical love, the outward manifestation of the gut-wrenching intensity within.
Love isn't lacy and pretty. Love isn't tidy and easy and neat. Love isn't contained on a candy heart or a paper envelope.
Love bleeds. Love aches. Love is a knife, not a feather, a bruise, not a red crayon.
Love is what moves us and drives us, sustains us. What brings us together, drives us apart. People kill for love, die for love.
Celebrate this carnal, physical, real love. This day, or any other, choose your own. But chaste kisses and paper do not celebrate the love I'm talking about.
Now, with all that said, let me further note that for two weeks I've thought this Valentine's was a tuesday. I of course then planned to do my shopping for pointless cards and candy hearts on monday, being that spontaneous, last-minute kind of guy. So of course, I'm late as usual.
Ah well. Better late than never. Even for vapid, pointless gestures.
Ok, here's my list of Celebrities I'd Fuck
In no particular order (because, you know, how can you choose?), and off the top of my head (ten more will jump on this list in my head as soon as I click 'publish'):
Salma Hayek, Lindsay Lohan, Monica Bellucci, Cynthia Ettinger (Rita Sue on Carnivale), Alison Hannigan (This one time, in band camp. Need I say any more?), Chloe Sevigny, Christina Aguilera (I pretend to be sorry for this one), Heather Locklear (I've actually met her and you know, she's still fucking yummy), Queen Latifah, Emily Browning, Keira Knightley.
Even though I can't quite order them all, Hayek, Lohan and Browning are pretty much in a dead heat for first. Actually, why not all at once? Hmmm...
Your Turn, Kids!
(Yeah I know that's eleven. I just remembered Keira. I love her...)
Tim Goodman of SFGate talks about his "Top 10 Celebrity (Can't Print This Word) List". By which he means, of course, Top 10 Celebrity FUCK List. Tim, if you can't say it...
A lot of the article above is about Jennifer Garner, who I have to say does very little for me aside from a casual I'd hit it. She's ok. Cute, but not particularly memorable for me. But I figured, if Goodman's coming out with his top ten, there's a good blog game.
Here's Tim Goodman's list:
1. Audrey Tautou. 2. Halle Berry. 3. Salma Hayek. 4. Any actress or anchor on Telemundo. 5. Joan Chen 6. Scarlett Johansson. 7. Jennifer Garner. 8. Evangeline Lilly. 9. Alicia Keys. 10. Sophie Okonedo.
Now I'm gonna have to think about this a bit. Hayek is on my list, darn tootin', but I'm not sure any of those other names are (To be honest, I don't even know who two of those names are).
I'm limiting this to people you'd do now. No going back to the 60's to do Ursula Andress; as much as that thought makes me (literally) start to salivate, I'm sticking with people you'd hit today given carte blanche.
And to make it interesting, you don't have to limit this to people of legal age. Let's see who's not afraid.
Ok? Go. Points if you have more than one gender on your list.
My list to be posted shortly.
Ok, so this image is from Eros Blog.
But the question is, does it creep you out?
I think it's hot. Very hot. The scariness of the big hairy spider enhances the loveliness of the breast. I look at that and I want to brush the spider aside and start to lick and suck and bite. Move it, Hairy, that's mine!
Yet most of the commenters on Eros seem to have another opinion. Click the photo to see that full size -- whattaya think?
I just have to draw attention to Doxy's breasts.
Ok, not her actual breasts.
But these:
About which a man can only say yum or possibly, Wubba-Wubba.
And then there's this:
I never before thought you could put the words Pussy and Bug together and have it turn out yummy.
I wish Dox would update more often. Her blog is always a delight.
This is focused on adult blogging, but a lot of the advice is really good for any blogger.
From SpankBoss at SpankingBlog, a page of Blogging Tips:
DO: Do blog every day. This doesn't mean you can't miss a day. It just means that, week in and week out, your visitors should find something new every time they come to your site -- so they'll make it part of their daily routine.Don't: Don't fall into the trap of thinking traffic doesn't matter. It does. Remember, you are building a personal brand, even if you never hope to make a dime from it. That means you want readers, and you want exposure. Again, why bother to blog if nobody reads? It's a lot of time and energy; for most people, the rewards for that include positive feedback from as many real people as possible. Also, if you are blogging about adult topics, the traffic you'll earn has a substantial economic value, because you could sell ads whether you choose to, or not. Eventually, people will start offering you money for your blog and your domain name. There are also practical benefits to having lots of traffic. If you link someone, and their server stats go through the roof, they are more inclined to link back to you.
Etc, etc.
Take a look. Some of the advice is great, particularly about things like having a blog roll, linking to other blogs, and commenting on other blogs. This is what brings traffic to your site. Worth a look for any blogger, but warning: it's a sex blog and not really work safe.
(Thanks to Bacchus at ErosBlog for the link)
Wow.
All I can say is, I want some of this (Thanks to Alexa):
I have a such lust on for Chloe Sevigny and seeing her giving head, it's, ah, stimulating.
(If Alexa winds up slashdotted by traffic from that clip and takes it down, I'll try to find another source for it, it's worth the seeing)
Let's talk, shall we, about shaving. Starting with the face and head, and then working down.
Ami, the fake-breasted lesbian femme-fatal of Survivor Vanuatu, bare-ass naked. I guess these are from Playboy but I don't know.
About all I can say is -- she looks as fake in these photos as her breasts look now. She's a cutie now, but in this pics, she looks like a cartoon character, and not in a good way.
Fake tits. Who thinks that's a good idea?
I just wanted to put in a plug for one of my favorite dirty little blogs, Jennifer's Spanking Art, "Young ladies firmly corrected, domestic discipline."
Yummy.
I'm not always a huge fan of Mark Morford's column on SFGate. He's a good writer and has stuff to say but his gimicky style sometimes obscures the weight of what he's saying.
However, this column on how the next sexual revolution is imminent is a thing of beauty.
Here's my suggestion: let them have it.Just do it. Let the sexually bitter and morally frantic conservative groups now dictating governmental policy and FCC agendas and paranoid media attitudes have their time, their brief cultural burp, their little speed bump on the great and beckoning highway that will still lead us all, inexorably, irreversibly, though often agonizingly, toward grinning open-thighed progress.
Because here's the fabulous thing: no matter what these faux-Christian groups do, no matter how hard they oppress and protest and clamp down, this is a road that leads, despite all dour headlines and sour prognostications otherwise, toward spiritual illumination, toward awareness, toward sexual openness and same-sex marriage and revelatory sodomy and free vibrators for teenage girls and lesbians kissing open mouthed in the streets. In Kentucky. In the daytime. On Sunday.
His gist is basically that today's turn toward sexual repression is simply another of the usual waves of puritanism that preceds another major shift towards openness and freedom, akin to that of the 1950's. And you know, I'm ready to agree with him. Our current government is going to make things worse for us in a lot of ways in the short term, but it's hard to find a much better bad example than the Bush/Rove machine; we just have to give them enough rope, and eventually they'll wind up in rope bondage to their own backwards ideas.
Go read Morford's column above.
My dear sweet Doxy has put up her Bad Santa entry, An XXXmas Karol
Typically, she kicked my ass and wrote a much better story. But I'm still ahead of her in Fantasy Football.
Blah Blah, Disclaimer, incest, etc. You know the drill. It's dirty as hell. Read it only if you're one of us, not if you're one of them.
There's something compelling about the idea of sex-for-hire.
Let me back up a bit and put in a little context.
You'd think I'd be the kind of guy who'd spent a lotta time in strip clubs. Hell, I am the kinda guy who'd spend a lotta time in strip clubs. But I have not. I don't even know why; god knows I love strippers. I can't think of anything not to like about the idea of a strip club.
Yet, I've been to very few. It's a head scratcher.
So Saturday, for a combined birthday, we wound up finishing the evening at a strip club. There's more to the story earlier, and possibly later, but I'll stick with this for now. I'll talk about Teatro ZinZanni in a different entry.
So, at this strip club, a number of lap dances were bought, some by me, some for me. And lots and lots of lap dances, and a lot of 'private parties' were offered as well. Evidently I was something of a stripper magnet in my leather utilikilt, shaved head, boots and tattoos. Well, that, and while I might be scary in a good way, at least to these ladies, I wasn't creepy.
Vikki has a list of Ten Things about a Shaved Pussy
All I got to say there is amen but I think I could add a few more. Like how yummy a shaved girl's panties smell when I take them off her. Like how they slide against her pussy when she gets wet. Like how much easier it makes sliding in for a second or third go-round.
Amen.
Hey, now that it's officially no longer too early for christmas to -- uh -- come, let me post another plug.
If you have not read it yet, take a gander at The Man with The Bag, my Bad Santa story.
(Yeah, it's non-consent erotica, read at your own risk)
Feedback. It's what I'm all about. And not just the kind you get when you play your guitar in front of your amp.
My friend Circe has another Bad Santa story, and I am hearing a few more erotic christmas tales are in the offing; I'm all for putting the XXX in xmas.
Also of note -- this sunday, 11/28, is the yearly lament of my birth. Go out and fuck somone in my honor, and make it hurt because that's what I'd do if I were there.
And if you wanna send me something (other than you, in a pink ribbon and nothing else), there's a wish-list link cleverly hidden on the side-bar. But better, give your money to charity.
Now it's time for another bourbon egg-nog. Only hold the egg-nog.
This could also have been titled 'these are a few of my favorite things'.
Things for which I give purely lascivious thanks:
Women who shave.
Women who love me.
Women who are not afraid to talk about it.
I'm thankful for every woman out there who takes off her clothes and lets someone take pictures, that I and others like me might enjoy such beauty.
I'm thankful for masturbation. It's sex with someone I love.
I'm thankful for the taste of pussy, the feel of breasts in my hand, the curve of a beautiful ass against me.
I am thankful for the beauty of a woman's orgasm.
I'm thankful for love, for romance, for unexpected connections with people far and wide.
I'm thankful for friendship and for people who listen when I need to talk.
I'm thankful for the words "I love you".
I'm thankful that people read this shit.
This holiday is a trite, silly thing, but under it lies rites of the equinox, harvest festivals, libations to the gods. Today it's about pilgrims in absurd hats (puritans -- not people who should be celebrated, but instead reviled); it's about turkey and cranberries, and stuffing.
So I do not, as a rule, give thanks this day. I see no gods, revere no higher power. What I have, I worked for, made, or was lucky to find. But sometimes, some ways, the universe provides; against great odds, things line up and go your way. That is what I am thankful for; the small bounties, the little things that make my life oh-so-much better.
It's been an interesting year. Outside, in the great big world, there are bad things happening. Government, war, hate, stupidity. A moral crusade, in which I am most certainly the enemy, though my enemies don't yet know it. But here -- in the small places, the little space that is my life, it's been a year of great bounty. Truly, I am thankful.
Via BoingBoing
"An online gallery of work from photographer Elyse Butler, documenting backstage life in Porn Valley."
Great series. I want a lot more. These are not pornographic though there's some nudity. But it's an artistic set of shots.
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