when did sex become a controlled substance – first try

I wrote this (though I never quite finished it) back in mid ’08 when David Duchovny started mumbling nonsense about Sex Addiction. It sort of stopped feeling timely, so I didn’t quite put the finish on it.

But recently I ran across this on ErosBlog:

I’ve long been hostile to the idea of “sex addiction” because it strikes me as nonsense on its face. Sex is a core biological imperative, like breathing or excreting, making a “sex addiction” as nonsensical as a “crapping addiction”.

(read the whole thing here)

That led me to this piece by Annie Sprinkle.

— insert quote here—-


Obviously, it was Tiger Woods getting caught with his hand in the coockie jar (or actually, in may cookie jars) that brought this back to the public eye. And typically, the media reaction was to once again start discussing a ‘disease’ when none exists.

I figured, then, that I might as well trot this back out and finish it, in hopes that enough smacks-to-the-head will eventually dislodge the idea of sex addiction from popular consciousness.

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Categories: sex

Le Chagrin

I just ran across what I find to be a stunning collection of artistic erotic images (pretty porn), on a Tumblr blog called “Le Chagrin”.

This site is decidedly NSFW, so don’t click if your boss is standing behind you – http://chagrin.tumblr.com/

What I like about this site – aside from just pure hotness – is that it’s a completely non-themed collection defined by one thing; beauty. Every single picture I’ve seen is artistically gorgeous. But it doesn’t suffer from the tendency some ‘artistic’ erotica sites have, of mistaking demure and soft-core for artistic; many of these pictures are profoundly hard-core (there’s plenty of fucking, plenty of pegging, plenty of cock-sucking and come). But there’s also a lot of romantic imagery; that’s one of the things I love. There are photos of couples kissing, embracing, and even sleeping.

There are images where the erotic content is implied, and many where it’s front and center. The selections below are chosen because they’re all work safe, but trust me, the first page you hit from the link above is a profoundly hot pegging image, so don’t be fooled by these.

(Thanks to the beautiful and talented Monica for sending me a link to this site)

Guess Her Muff

I absolutely love this blog: “guess her muff”.

I love it because it’s a game, AND becauseit’s (good quality) porn (pictures of lovely real naked girls, not posed pros).

I also love it because it’s exactly the sort of game I play. I look at women in various circumstances (at work, at school-related parent meetings, at various social gatherings) and wonder, what’s she look like naked. I wonder, does she shave? If so, how? Does she wax? Does she use a razor in the shower? Does she leave a landing strip, or is she sweetly, wetly bare (which is not just a preference of mine, but in truth a fetish; it’s been so since long before porn adopted it as a standard).

This site has kept me entertained, and distracted, for two days now. Were I keeping score, my score would be lousy, almost always guessing wrong.

The site itself is work-safe, but beware the ‘See the Answer’ links. They’re not just naked, some of them are profoundly pornographic (buttsechs!). So open with care. And prepare to be distracted.

The warrior with his weapons taken away

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.

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Whackity Spankity

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.

Cupid’s Day

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 love expressed in hallmark cards is 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.