How powerful is sex? Thousands of Kenyan women are hoping it's powerful enough to end the political unrest in their country.
Kenyan women's group vows weeklong sex strike to try to force politicians to end squabbles
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Cosmo Makes us Smarter Sexers
And you thought Cosmo's Sex Surveys were only good for improving your moves in the bedroom...Turns out, they could be making you smarter about sex overall. A recent study featured in the Journal of Sex Research found that magazine use is associated with positive sexual health outcomes among young people (at least the almost 600 grad students who particpated in the study.) Magazine reading and involvement was linked to young people's sexual health knowledge, self-efficacy, intentions, and contraception use.
Monday, April 27, 2009
The Color Purple: Another Adventure in Sexy Print versus Racy Cinema
I’m soon to see the Broadway production of The Color Purple, an award winning piece of literature, a wonderful movie and what I’m guessing to be an equally good theater production.
However, the relationship between the main female characters, Celie and Shug, is overtly sexual in the book and incredibly understated in the movie. I expect the play will be inspired by the book and will therefore be blatant about their relationship.
Which brings us to another round of: “Which is Sexier: Written Word or Cinematic Imagery?” Unlike the Bridges of Madison County example previously examined in this blog, I don’t have a movie to compare. Still, I believe the experiment is valid. That said, here are excerpts from Alice Walker’s The Color Purple. Let’s see how the on-stage lovers stack up.
I start to cry too. I cry and cry and cry.
Don’t cry, Celie, Shug say. Don’t cry. She start kissing the water as it come down side my face.
My mama die, I tell Shug. My sister Nettie run away. Mr. ___ come git me to take care his rotten children. He never ast me nothing bout myself. He clam on top of me and fuck and fuck, even when my head bandaged. Nobody ever love me, I say.
She say, I love you, Miss Celie. And then she haul off and kiss me on the mouth.
Um, she say, like she surprise. I kiss her back, say um, too. Us kiss and kiss till us can’t hardly kiss no more. Then us touch each other.
I don’t know nothing bout it, I say to Shug.
I don’t know much, she say.
Then I feels something real soft and wet on my breast, feel like one of my little lost babies mouth.
Way after while, I act like a little lost baby too.
....
Grady and Mr. ___ come staggering in round daybreak. Me and Shug sound asleep. Her back to me, my arms round her waist. What it like? Little like sleeping with mama, only can’t hardly remember ever sleeping with her. Little like sleeping with Nettie, only sleeping with Nettie never felt this good. It warm and cushiony, and I feel Shug’s bit tits sorta flop over my arms like suds. It feel like heaven is what it feel like, not like sleeping with Mr. ___ at all.
….
Us sleep like sisters, me and Shug. Much as I still want to be with her, much as I love to look, my titties stay soft, my little button never rise. Now I know I’m dead. But she say, Naw, just being mad, grief, wanting to kill somebody will make you feel this way. Nothing to worry about. Titties gonna perk up, button gonna rise again.
I loves to hug up, period, she say. Snuggle. Don’t need nothing else right now.
Yeah, I say. Hugging is good. All of it’s good.
However, the relationship between the main female characters, Celie and Shug, is overtly sexual in the book and incredibly understated in the movie. I expect the play will be inspired by the book and will therefore be blatant about their relationship.
Which brings us to another round of: “Which is Sexier: Written Word or Cinematic Imagery?” Unlike the Bridges of Madison County example previously examined in this blog, I don’t have a movie to compare. Still, I believe the experiment is valid. That said, here are excerpts from Alice Walker’s The Color Purple. Let’s see how the on-stage lovers stack up.
I start to cry too. I cry and cry and cry.
Don’t cry, Celie, Shug say. Don’t cry. She start kissing the water as it come down side my face.
My mama die, I tell Shug. My sister Nettie run away. Mr. ___ come git me to take care his rotten children. He never ast me nothing bout myself. He clam on top of me and fuck and fuck, even when my head bandaged. Nobody ever love me, I say.
She say, I love you, Miss Celie. And then she haul off and kiss me on the mouth.
Um, she say, like she surprise. I kiss her back, say um, too. Us kiss and kiss till us can’t hardly kiss no more. Then us touch each other.
I don’t know nothing bout it, I say to Shug.
I don’t know much, she say.
Then I feels something real soft and wet on my breast, feel like one of my little lost babies mouth.
Way after while, I act like a little lost baby too.
....
Grady and Mr. ___ come staggering in round daybreak. Me and Shug sound asleep. Her back to me, my arms round her waist. What it like? Little like sleeping with mama, only can’t hardly remember ever sleeping with her. Little like sleeping with Nettie, only sleeping with Nettie never felt this good. It warm and cushiony, and I feel Shug’s bit tits sorta flop over my arms like suds. It feel like heaven is what it feel like, not like sleeping with Mr. ___ at all.
….
Us sleep like sisters, me and Shug. Much as I still want to be with her, much as I love to look, my titties stay soft, my little button never rise. Now I know I’m dead. But she say, Naw, just being mad, grief, wanting to kill somebody will make you feel this way. Nothing to worry about. Titties gonna perk up, button gonna rise again.
I loves to hug up, period, she say. Snuggle. Don’t need nothing else right now.
Yeah, I say. Hugging is good. All of it’s good.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Threesome Thursday
So, today is Wednesday, not Thursday, but I like the alliteration and I expect I won't get a chance to post tomorrow. That said: Cheers to Threesome Thursday.
A sexy little piece for your pleasure:
Masterpiece
An entertaining commercial by Durex:
A sexy little piece for your pleasure:
Masterpiece
An entertaining commercial by Durex:
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Psychology: An old piece about judging based on sexual preference
I wrote this a couple years ago. I always wanted to submit it somewhere, but never found the right outlet. So, here I share it. I based it upon the idea that some people are based simply on their sexuality. What a world this would be if we were all judged based on what happens behind our closed doors...
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
I palmed the warm cup of bitter coffee and introduced myself to the random sample of middle-America that sat in the plastic folding chairs.
“My name is Dr. Hillary Reynolds from the Jackson Institute of Psychology and Developed Sciences and I’d like to thank you all for participating in today’s study. The first portion of this study will include a written questionnaire asking you personal questions, most of which are sexual in nature. Please be prepared to answer these fully and honestly. I must assure you, beyond the use within this study, your answers will be kept confidential. The second part of the study involves a one-on-one consultation and classification session with me. A short debriefing session will follow. Participation in this study is completely voluntary. Individuals wishing not to partake in this study may leave now. Those willing to participate should sign the consent form and wait for further instructions.” I turned on my heel and marched out of the room, disposing of the nauseating coffee in the trash bin on my way out. What a waste of meter money.
My research partner and I had designed the questionnaire to reveal an individual’s most intimate and sordid sexual experiences, expose deed-rooted perversions, desires and beliefs. How many times a day do you masturbate? Have you ever fantasized or participated in bestiality? When was the last time you had an orgasm? Even I cringed during the practice sessions upon reaching question forty-seven: Please describe in detail the shape and size of your genitalia.
I left the task of distributing the questionnaires to the psychology students who were assisting me in this session. In my opinion, they were too wet behind the ears and hadn’t worked hard enough to earn status as true researchers. I didn’t mind so much when they got the hard glares from participants who had finalized the name, age and race section of the questionnaire and entered much more personal territory.
I observed from behind a two-way mirror, ignoring the irony of my voyeurism, as the participants completed their questionnaires. After watching forty-five minutes of pencil gripping, nervous blushing and page guarding, I retired to my office and awaited my first consultation.
After what seemed like an eternity, a plump and slightly balding man shuffled through my door. He was clad in a pair of faded jean shorts that hung well below his knees, a wrinkled NASCAR T-shirt and an expression that spoke partly of boredom and mostly of impatience. He smelled of engine grease and Dial soap and his file informed me he was 38 years old and named Eddie.
Eddie plopped into the overstuffed, mahogany-colored leather chair and waited for my instructions. Considering I had many more participants to classify and my slight headache was threatening to advance into a migraine, I got to the point.
“Hello, Eddie. I see here from the questionnaire you completed today that you frequently experience moments of premature ejaculation,” I say reading from my paperwork.
The statement hung in the air. He must have thought that when I said confidential it would be kept between him and the page. A furrow appeared in Eddie’s brow as I spoke and his nostrils flared. His entire body tensed; his sharp edges created a stark contrast against the softened corners of the leather lounger. His response reminded me of the charging bulls in Pamplona, equal amounts of rage and strength used to mask extreme panic.
Eddie still did not speak, so I continued. “For the purposes of this study, you are classified as a quick finisher. It is obvious that you posses little to no impulse control. Therefore, all of your credit cards and current and future accounts with loan offices and banks will be terminated. Although you are of legal age, you will no longer be allowed to consume alcohol or gamble.”
Breaking heavily, Eddie sat without speaking for a moment as the meaning of my words took root. “That’s what you have to tell me?” he asked, the furor in his brow traveling down the plane of his face to form a sneer.
I nodded.
Gripping the arms of the chair, Eddie launched himself upward and stood rigid before me. “Yeah right, lady,” he said. “Go to Hell.” With that, Eddie exited the room.
I turned and spoke to the video camera careening over my left shoulder used to record each session. “One classification down, fifteen more to go.”
The next participant was a woman in her early forties named Rose. From the looks of her, Rose was the reason her daughter was the top cookie seller in her Girl Scout troop, and not because they had a lot of friends.
“Hello, Rose. I see from the questionnaire you completed today that you struggle with self-esteem issues, especially regarding your weight. Because of this, you find yourself unable to participate in sexual acts comfortably and have the extreme need to fornicate with the lights off,” I summarized.
Rose shifted nervously and avoided eye contact.
“Rose, for the purposes of this study, you are classified as a worth worrier. It is obvious that your self-esteem issues have a strong impact on the decisions you make. Because of these issues, you are considered a threat to yourself. You will not return home once you leave this building. You will be escorted directly to the psychiatric ward of your local hospital where you will be prescribed anti-depressants and put on strict suicide watch.”
Rose was incredulous. “What? How can you do that? How can you make decisions for me based on one aspect of my life? Especially about part of my private life, which is none of your business?”
As Rose exited my office, I almost felt bad for her. Almost.
One by one, they entered my room and received their classification. The prostitute, the one-night-stander, the cheater, the pornography addict, the virgin, the born-again virgin, the womanizer who continually eyed my legs and the weekend semi-sadist who I informed would be forced to quit her job as a school teacher because in her private life she associated her role as authoritarian with sexual pleasure.
Their responses ranged from embarrassment, to anger, to disgust, to disbelief. The debriefing sessions that followed served to calm these heightened emotions and the participants left happily armed with the monetary compensation they were promised and the knowledge that beyond the study, I had no powers to control their lives.
The study session was coming to an end when the last participant entered my room for his individual session.
“Hello, Daniel. I see here from the questionnaire you completed today that you are a homosexual.” I said.
Daniel sat quietly.
I continued. “I must tell you, Daniel, because you do not choose to copulate with women, you will be denied the right to legally marry your partner. It goes without saying that you cannot biologically have children. Your ability to adopt children will be inhibited, if not denied. You will be ridiculed and a large number of heterosexual men and women will find you and your lifestyle to be disgusting and worthy of reproach. Although you maintain the right to freedom of religion, you will most likely not be accepted by standard religions.”
Daniel responded flatly. “I know.”
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
I palmed the warm cup of bitter coffee and introduced myself to the random sample of middle-America that sat in the plastic folding chairs.
“My name is Dr. Hillary Reynolds from the Jackson Institute of Psychology and Developed Sciences and I’d like to thank you all for participating in today’s study. The first portion of this study will include a written questionnaire asking you personal questions, most of which are sexual in nature. Please be prepared to answer these fully and honestly. I must assure you, beyond the use within this study, your answers will be kept confidential. The second part of the study involves a one-on-one consultation and classification session with me. A short debriefing session will follow. Participation in this study is completely voluntary. Individuals wishing not to partake in this study may leave now. Those willing to participate should sign the consent form and wait for further instructions.” I turned on my heel and marched out of the room, disposing of the nauseating coffee in the trash bin on my way out. What a waste of meter money.
My research partner and I had designed the questionnaire to reveal an individual’s most intimate and sordid sexual experiences, expose deed-rooted perversions, desires and beliefs. How many times a day do you masturbate? Have you ever fantasized or participated in bestiality? When was the last time you had an orgasm? Even I cringed during the practice sessions upon reaching question forty-seven: Please describe in detail the shape and size of your genitalia.
I left the task of distributing the questionnaires to the psychology students who were assisting me in this session. In my opinion, they were too wet behind the ears and hadn’t worked hard enough to earn status as true researchers. I didn’t mind so much when they got the hard glares from participants who had finalized the name, age and race section of the questionnaire and entered much more personal territory.
I observed from behind a two-way mirror, ignoring the irony of my voyeurism, as the participants completed their questionnaires. After watching forty-five minutes of pencil gripping, nervous blushing and page guarding, I retired to my office and awaited my first consultation.
After what seemed like an eternity, a plump and slightly balding man shuffled through my door. He was clad in a pair of faded jean shorts that hung well below his knees, a wrinkled NASCAR T-shirt and an expression that spoke partly of boredom and mostly of impatience. He smelled of engine grease and Dial soap and his file informed me he was 38 years old and named Eddie.
Eddie plopped into the overstuffed, mahogany-colored leather chair and waited for my instructions. Considering I had many more participants to classify and my slight headache was threatening to advance into a migraine, I got to the point.
“Hello, Eddie. I see here from the questionnaire you completed today that you frequently experience moments of premature ejaculation,” I say reading from my paperwork.
The statement hung in the air. He must have thought that when I said confidential it would be kept between him and the page. A furrow appeared in Eddie’s brow as I spoke and his nostrils flared. His entire body tensed; his sharp edges created a stark contrast against the softened corners of the leather lounger. His response reminded me of the charging bulls in Pamplona, equal amounts of rage and strength used to mask extreme panic.
Eddie still did not speak, so I continued. “For the purposes of this study, you are classified as a quick finisher. It is obvious that you posses little to no impulse control. Therefore, all of your credit cards and current and future accounts with loan offices and banks will be terminated. Although you are of legal age, you will no longer be allowed to consume alcohol or gamble.”
Breaking heavily, Eddie sat without speaking for a moment as the meaning of my words took root. “That’s what you have to tell me?” he asked, the furor in his brow traveling down the plane of his face to form a sneer.
I nodded.
Gripping the arms of the chair, Eddie launched himself upward and stood rigid before me. “Yeah right, lady,” he said. “Go to Hell.” With that, Eddie exited the room.
I turned and spoke to the video camera careening over my left shoulder used to record each session. “One classification down, fifteen more to go.”
The next participant was a woman in her early forties named Rose. From the looks of her, Rose was the reason her daughter was the top cookie seller in her Girl Scout troop, and not because they had a lot of friends.
“Hello, Rose. I see from the questionnaire you completed today that you struggle with self-esteem issues, especially regarding your weight. Because of this, you find yourself unable to participate in sexual acts comfortably and have the extreme need to fornicate with the lights off,” I summarized.
Rose shifted nervously and avoided eye contact.
“Rose, for the purposes of this study, you are classified as a worth worrier. It is obvious that your self-esteem issues have a strong impact on the decisions you make. Because of these issues, you are considered a threat to yourself. You will not return home once you leave this building. You will be escorted directly to the psychiatric ward of your local hospital where you will be prescribed anti-depressants and put on strict suicide watch.”
Rose was incredulous. “What? How can you do that? How can you make decisions for me based on one aspect of my life? Especially about part of my private life, which is none of your business?”
As Rose exited my office, I almost felt bad for her. Almost.
One by one, they entered my room and received their classification. The prostitute, the one-night-stander, the cheater, the pornography addict, the virgin, the born-again virgin, the womanizer who continually eyed my legs and the weekend semi-sadist who I informed would be forced to quit her job as a school teacher because in her private life she associated her role as authoritarian with sexual pleasure.
Their responses ranged from embarrassment, to anger, to disgust, to disbelief. The debriefing sessions that followed served to calm these heightened emotions and the participants left happily armed with the monetary compensation they were promised and the knowledge that beyond the study, I had no powers to control their lives.
The study session was coming to an end when the last participant entered my room for his individual session.
“Hello, Daniel. I see here from the questionnaire you completed today that you are a homosexual.” I said.
Daniel sat quietly.
I continued. “I must tell you, Daniel, because you do not choose to copulate with women, you will be denied the right to legally marry your partner. It goes without saying that you cannot biologically have children. Your ability to adopt children will be inhibited, if not denied. You will be ridiculed and a large number of heterosexual men and women will find you and your lifestyle to be disgusting and worthy of reproach. Although you maintain the right to freedom of religion, you will most likely not be accepted by standard religions.”
Daniel responded flatly. “I know.”
Friday, April 17, 2009
Another Hooray for Sexy, Ambiguous Language!
“So all that’s left for me to see are ‘tulips’ on the mound.” Clever.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
The Elements of Style? Big Johnson T-Shirts
One of my favorite things about being a writer, especially one who writes about sex, is being able to play around with language and its meaning. I'm especially moved by ambiguous language. Words and phrases that make you think naughty things, but make you wonder at the same time. One of the greatest (and tackiest) examples of this are those Big Johnson T-shirts that were popular about 15 years ago (and still are in parts of the south). Although I'm not promoting these as fashionable, I can appreciate the clever use of language.
Here are some of my favorites. I had no idea there were so many! See more here.
Here are some of my favorites. I had no idea there were so many! See more here.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Dirty Jobs? More like Dirty Minds
Ever seen the show “Dirty Jobs”? It’s the “program on the Discovery Channel in which host Mike Rowe is shown performing difficult, strange, disgusting, and/or messy occupational duties alongside the typical employees.”
I’m guessing their target audience is mostly male, but they weren’t stupid when they chose to cast a good looking host who often finds ways to get shirtless as he gets down and dirty. To this, may we say, “Thank you, Discovery talent scout.”
Discovery has gotten wise to our fantasizing ways and is providing us with some “suggestive” clips of Mike in action. Nicely edited, Discovery. Check out Mike’s O-face at second 46.
You want dirty, Mike? I’ll show you dirty…
I’m guessing their target audience is mostly male, but they weren’t stupid when they chose to cast a good looking host who often finds ways to get shirtless as he gets down and dirty. To this, may we say, “Thank you, Discovery talent scout.”
Discovery has gotten wise to our fantasizing ways and is providing us with some “suggestive” clips of Mike in action. Nicely edited, Discovery. Check out Mike’s O-face at second 46.
You want dirty, Mike? I’ll show you dirty…
Sunday, April 12, 2009
(Updated) Outrageous!! Amazon de-ranks so-called adult books
UPDATE: "This is an embarrassing and ham-fisted cataloguing error for a company that prides itself on offering complete selection," according to Amazon.com spokeswoman Patty Smith.
Amazon has started a new policy that de-ranks their books based on adult content. Regardless of a book’s popularity, if it is considered “adult” it will not show up on their best sellers list. It may also be removed from Amazon’s search results. Not only will this impact erotica anthologies (hello, the reason I even started writing!) it also impacts non-erotica books including “American Psycho” and “Running with Scissors.”
Read more via LA Times
Get active! Protest!
Amazon has started a new policy that de-ranks their books based on adult content. Regardless of a book’s popularity, if it is considered “adult” it will not show up on their best sellers list. It may also be removed from Amazon’s search results. Not only will this impact erotica anthologies (hello, the reason I even started writing!) it also impacts non-erotica books including “American Psycho” and “Running with Scissors.”
Read more via LA Times
Get active! Protest!
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Sex for the Eyes: Simon Dominic w/Painterly Arts
The majority of Simon’s work is science-fiction based, not erotica, but I really like this piece. Simon Dominic/Painterly Arts
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