OK, OK, if you pressed me I suppose I might concede that it's, uh, "barely" possible she's out on the street in that outfit for some purpose other than hitchhiking. But I'd much prefer to think she just needs to get to Omaha in a hurry.

"In a lot of these freshmen entries, they have all kinds of rules. I don't like rules. So we are only going to have one. Don't be a dick."

By popular demand, and thanks to the smart folks at Haloscan, I've decided to install a commenting facility here at ErosBlog. However, I'd like to ask you all to remember Josh's rule. I work at keeping the tone here relentlessly sex-positive and unwaveringly non-judgmental. I may slip up, but that's the goal. I welcome your comments, but I'm simply not interested in creating a forum for haters, condemnators, repressive creeps, and the like. Lively debate, at times, is to be expected. But nastiness and anti-sex messages (and personal attacks of any sort, on anyone) will probably be deleted summarily. Be nice and play nice, please?

Thank you.

"Every time I fly and am forced to remove my shoes, I'm grateful Richard Reid is not known as the Underwear Bomber.

— Douglas Manuel, quoted in USA Today, 13 March 2003

Something about the head scarf and veil makes this image more interesting than pure nudity would be.

Thanks to Naked Protesters for the picture.

FALLON: Is it hard to get into the Paris Hilton?
PARIS: Actually, it's a very exclusive hotel, no matter what you've heard.
FALLON: I hear the Paris Hilton is very beautiful.
PARIS: I'm glad you've heard that.
FALLON: Do they allow double occupancy at the Paris Hilton?
PARIS: No.
FALLON: Is the Paris Hilton roomy?
PARIS: It might be for you, but most people find it very comfortable.
FALLON: I'm a VIP. I may need to go in the back entrance.
PARIS: It doesn't matter who you are. It's not gonna happen.

Thanks to Blogtied for the picture.

Everyone gets lucky once, even me.

Even me; the unluckiest girl ever in love. Even I can get lucky. After a string of heartbreaks that managed to make my hairdresser scream, I finally got my lucky break. My lucky break was named LushBoy.

Well, of course that's not his real name, but protecting the innocent and all that. For you see, innocence plays a real part in precisely why I am just so damn lucky. Lucky, lucky, lucky me!

I pride myself on my lack of innocence, or, more specifically, my knowingness. Oh yes, I am very knowing. For as long as I can remember, the lure of sex has been irresistible to me. My deepest memories of childhood are rooted in it, thick with it, dripping with it. I was born adrift on a sea of sex. Dreaming in my drunken boat of sex. I have been studying it all my life.

From my first crayon scrawls of "boobies" and "pee-pees" and huge, round bums, to the dizzy adventures in summertime bushes with the local boy who initiated me into the ways of nudity at the tender age of six. Did I know that the pitter patter in my unopened rosebud was arousal? No, of course not. But my instincts ruled me then as much as they do now, and I knew somehow that this feverish, throbbing hunger and the sight of flesh were inextricably linked. So, naturally I continued my experiments as often as possible.

As I see it, my main responsibility is to write as accurately and honestly as possible. I always picture the person involved reading the post and try to gauge if there is anything she could possibly take issue with.

But of course, it's about way more than accuracy. [...]

As a male sex blogger, I feel I have a duty to women to do them right. To give them my best writing, to extract the most beautiful or the most telling image from a situation, to pay tribute to them with elevated [or debased] language.

There are far more ways to make an event "unique and special" than by keeping it private.

Here's how it went down, since I know you ladies need the details about this sort of thing. And besides, it's pretty cool:

On Friday, Jonny presented me with a saucy new ensemble from Wet Seal (the man has some seriously excellent taste) and told me I should wear it for a "surprise date" on Saturday. But of course! I adore surprises.

So I donned the beaded top, miniskirt and pink fishnet tights on Saturday evening (Jonny wore an extremely hot new outfit as well) and we headed out. It turned out he had made reservations at our favorite sushi restaurant. We ordered cocktails and nigiri and commenced a fabulous meal. After finishing, we decided we were still hungry and ordered a second round of sushi.

So you can imagine my shock when the waitress arrived with a tray not bearing spicy tuna rolls, but a white ring box. "Here's your special roll," she said, barely able to contain her glee. Jonny dropped to his knee as I began bawling my fool eyes out in front of many gawking diners, and popped the question.

I had a surprise planned too: See, we'd been talking about getting engaged a lot recently, and I had a hunch a proposal was forthcoming. So several days earlier (as it turns out, the exact day Jonny had purchased the ring), I had secretly had the word "yes" tattooed on the inside of my wrist. I'd hidden it with an AC/DC wristband and hoped my surprise wouldn't be blown.

And it wasn't; I whipped off the wristband and flashed Jonny my wrist. "Yes!" Onlookers applauded, and my feet haven't touched the ground since.

I wanted my answer to last forever, and now it will. (In fact, it's healing nicely.)

My ex-wife called today to see if I was coming to my daughters' birthday party. I didn't go. I worked. I selected pictures for nine more websites and wrote the copy for them. I did take time off long enough to fuck the slave. As usual, she walked around afterwards, saying "I got fucked today." Wondering whether such a response is really warranted, I did a search on this blog to see when she got laid last. I guess she may have just cause to think of it as something special.

She says she's still laughing. I figure she's madly trying all 9999 combinations, in order. We'll see if she remembers to humor me by asking for the combination on Christmas day.

Accordingly, I am indebted to the strong-minded submissive Invidia, writing at The Collar Purple, for her recent pair of essays "What Submission Is" (scroll down to 12.04.03 entry) and "What Submission Is Not" (12.07.03 entry). The "Is" essay is a simple but powerful catalog of benefits and advantages a submissive (well, Invidia, anyway) enjoys as a consequence of her submission, while the "Is Not" essay covers just about everything that tends to make the hairs rise on the nape of my neck when I'm reading blogs by submissives. As Invidia herself points out, she's not trying to define submission for anyone but herself, nor would I be impressed if she had done.

So what's the ultimate reason for bring this up, if it's all good and what's wrong for Invidia may be perfectly fine for someone else, and so forth? Well, it's because in reading so many sex blogs, I see a lot of people (men and women alike) who are talking about exploring dominance and submission but who are put off by some of the common practices Invidia includes in her "Is Not" essay. Perhaps, then, there is value in sharing her "you don't have to treat your submissive like a Houseplant of Gor to play this game; the perfect submissive does not need to be three feet tall with a flat head to put drinks on" message with a broader audience.

This picture, and the last one which I forgot to credit at the time, I found at Good Shit. Thanks, Fred!

Meanwhile, let's all try not to think too hard about why sex blogging is supposed to be "indecent".

Ya gotta love those curves!

Anyway, the sister in-law thing ... its Partner M's sister and her husband. She accidentally found his stash of "penis pills" -- that's what she called them -- and threw a bitch-fit about it. According to her, things had been getting pretty sad in the bedroom dept but then all of a sudden he becomes a new man. Regular sex, no problems getting it up and keeping it up -- great stuff, right? She gets suspicious that there's another woman and starts noseying around and finds his bottle of Viagra. As soon as hubby gets home she goes off on him, yelling about how nasty and sick he is and all kinds of mean shit. She said she thought he'd apologize.

But he didn't. (Heh.) He said he was tired of wondering whether he'd be able to have sex with her and when he started reading about Viagra he thought it would work for him. So he went to the doctor and after some tests the doc gave him the Rx. He didn't tell her because he was embarrassed about needing the pills -- he just thought she'd be happy that they could do it again and told her to fuck herself if she didn't like what he was doing to be able to fuck her himself. (What a great line!)

So, they're barely talking now....

Mucho thanks to the friend who sent me the link.

I went upstairs and started to tidy up my room. I was sorting my laundry when I found the bra you'd been asking about. Yes, I still have it. So you want it back, do you?

I raised the bra to my mouth and and took a bit of the shiny black material in my teeth. I imagined biting through to the hard, sensitive nipple on the other side.

The smell of your breasts was still powerful on the garment....

Virginia needs a new law that complies with a recent U.S. Supreme Court ruling that struck down anti-sodomy statues, but the state should keep its existing sodomy ban as a nonworking, unconstitutional relic, the state Crime Commission said yesterday.

Removing the state's more than two-century-old law could doom pending court cases involving people charged or convicted under current Virginia law, members of the commission said.

Thanks to Free-Market.Net's Freedom News for the link.

Update: Thanks also to the alert reader who pointed out that I said Washington Post where I meant Washington Times. Fixed now.

I sat here staring at her before telling Mac to come look. W/we watched her together for a little while, enjoying the sway of her breasts and the swing of her hips and the softness she conveyed.

What an instrument!