That’s Some Sick Shit, Gregg!Thanks.
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That’s Some Sick Shit, Gregg!
Thanks.
Category: sex
Who doesn’t like panties?
I just have to put in a quick plug (a-hem) for Brett and Hiromi’s Panties Panties Panties…. They also have some absolutely lovely panty fetish pictures.
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.
Fuck Me So Hard It Hurts
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.
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.
I do love the pulps
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 women in torn clothing. I guess we add this to the Sick and Wrong Art category.
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.
A little tail
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!
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!
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, […]
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.
A festival of Yoni
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.
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.
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 […]
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 […]
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.
Hit It List
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 […]
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…)