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This is from 1910 and the French translates to "Martyrs' Street." Can't make out the signature. Perhaps one of the wise people who visit can identify the artist.
So what do you think?
Will says the guy probably grabbed her ass and that's why she's slapping him.
I say she probably always treats him like that.
Your opinion, Dr. Freud?
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Two funky old book covers and a men's magazine....showing us yet once more what our poor, pre-Internet forbears had to turn to for their kinky jollies.
For example, a lot of people had to satisfy their fascination with whips and bondage by reading pseudo-scientific books. You could tell yourself you were simply a student of human behavior instead of admitting that you were a perv starved for a little kinky stimulation.
Or you could read sensational novels whose covers were probably the most sensational part of the book.
And then there was the faithful standby -- the men's adventure magazine -- that offered tales of scintillatingly sordid worlds.
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Well, awwwwwwwwwww. What an incredibly beautiful little creature. And you can tell the cat knows. The facial expression is all "Yes, I know I reign supreme!"
Blade Runner, a 1.5 years old Russian Blue cat who was presented as winner of Best in Show, looks out at the crowd at the CFA-Iams Cat Championship in New York October 19, 2008. Link
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Last but certainly not least, another random find on a spanking theme. Obviously pretty contemporary. I don't have a name for the artist or know what this is from, so please chime in if you do.
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From a comic book series I've never heard of. Do you know it? Any idea when it was published? Looks like it's from the 70s or 80s to me.
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Can we all agree this is wrong? Particularly if Popeye just ate some spinach?
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From 1911, this adorable brat weighs the consequences of greed. Personally, I think her greed will win.
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This card, ca. 1910-1915, offers an ironic comment on a brutal and realistic punishment spanking.
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Here's a twisted little window into some 1940s-style family values.
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Have you been naughty?
Going to share some random finds on the theme of spanking this evening, starting with this still from a movie (anyone know the title?) in which Kirk Douglas gives Laraine Day an on-screen spanking. He looks like an old hand at it.
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Part 1: I Didn't Know Jack
In 1970, the summer I turned fifteen, I had an affair with a thirty-four year old man. His name was Jack and he said he was an out-of-work actor. I used to pass Jack's house on my way home from the subway station. I spent a lot of time on the subway in my youth, putting as much distance as I could between myself and my parents every chance I could. Being a solitary spirit, with neglectful parents, those chances abounded, and I spent long hours alone every day I wasn't in school, roving the streets of Brooklyn and Manhattan in search of adventure.
Jack rented a basement flat in a corner house with a backyard that faced onto the street. He often sat outside, reading and and looking like a page out of GQ for Hippies: tall and slim, a mane of silky blond hair that gleamed in the sun, great jeans, great skin, great smile, and cornflower blue eyes that twinkled. He was all long legs and lean edges, and spent a lot of time in bare feet. At first, we smiled, then waved, and within weeks, I was stopping at his place and hanging out in the sun with him. Then he began inviting me into his tiny studio apartment. Neat and tidy, it was nearly half filled with a huge water bed, which did double duty as conversation seating.
I was thrilled to be dating an adult. I'd never been terribly interested in boys my own age, always getting crushes on boys 5 and 6 years older than me. By 15, I'd already had a string of short-lived affairs, a written list of ex-boyfriends, and genuine hands-on experience that made me the go-to-girl for all my girlfriends' sex questions and confessions. I'd had: intercourse (once) and oral sex (numerous times), and all manner of necking and groping with boys whose names and faces have long since vanished from memory.
But Jack was a grown-up, a free spirit with his own apartment. 1970 was the post-Woodstock height of hippie consciousness, when being unemployed was not a failure but a sign of independence and, to us hippie types, almost a badge of honor. Unlike the grey businessmen and factory workers who trudged home from work at night, Jack always looked relaxed, happy, and tan. He was spontaneous and playful and very affectionate too.
We never had intercourse and I'm not even sure we had oral sex. Mostly we made out and fondled. More than anything, he wanted to talk. He thought I was intelligent and special, solicited my thoughts and opinions on everything, and gave me a kind of warm parental attention I wasn't getting at home..
I can't remember what we talked about but I do remember that it was better when he didn't talk. He said things that didn't make complete sense and told stories that didn't quite add up. The way he treated me confused me most of all. I was more than prepared to be a friend-with-benefits but he talked about our future together. I knew better than to introduce him to any of my friends but he wanted me to meet his. As young as I was, I had no illusions that there was something very odd about a 34 year old and a 14 year old being together. I just always liked odd and weird and strange, and didn't fear it the way other girls do at that age. Plus he was a total babe. With his own apartment and that most treasured of hippie symbols, a VW van. That's all it took to impress me at that age.
He once drove me into Manhattan on an official date, to eat vegetarian food at Brownie's. It was all firsts for me: the first time I went with a man to a Manhattan restaurant, the first time a man paid for my meal, the first time I was alone in a vehicle with a man I was not related to, the first time I had a vegetarian meal. That first truly-adult-style date was a heady thrilling experience. Throughout, he treated me exactly as if I was a grown woman. He even introduced me to some waiters he knew as his girlfriend. They seemed shocked but he didn't seem to notice. I, however, did. And that was the rub. When he would speak of a future together, or say passionate things, I would challenge him or giggle in incredulity. I was never the kind of girl who dreamed of marriage or wanted to plan my future. I could never imagine being faithful to one man. As a hippie chick, I was free with my body, but really never with my emotions. Neither did I believe that a relationship between a 14 year old and a 34 year old could go anywhere other than where it had already been.
Jack was surprised and bemused by my self-containment. It enchanted him all the more, though I sensed it also made him anxious. We were floating on his water bed once when he told me "You're the most cynical woman I know." I remember feeling shocked: not because he thought I was cynical but because he thought I was a woman. I knew better than that. From my adolescent POV, you had to be at least 17 to be a woman.
Though he made me uneasy at moments, he was attentive and caring and sweet, and praised me lavishly. He was unpretentious and very easy-going. He gave me small but always thoughtful gifts, sometimes a book, once a really cool Native American armband. I was the more sexually aggressive one. He would likely have been content to talk and cuddle.
Still, I couldn't get rid of that nagging feeling that something wasn't quite right. The turning point occurred during a meal he prepared for me. He had invited me numerous times to come for dinner. As a bachelor, he said, he wanted an excuse to cook a nice meal. I reluctantly agreed. By then, I was pulling back. He was too intense and, frankly, too immature for me. Still, I hoped to remain friends because he was one of the nicest people I knew.
I can't recall what else he served but he brought out a very delicious-looking baked squash, insisting I take the first taste bite. I obliged and immediately felt ill. I can't describe the taste but it was so horrible, I felt poisoned. A pounding, unbearably painful migraine struck me. It was all I could do to hastily apologize and drag myself out of there, hurrying home in an agony, and straight to bed where I stayed for three days until the pain finally lifted.
Since I was prone to migraines throughout childhood and adolescence, and similarly had lifelong food sensitivities, I chalked it up to an ill-timed and desperately embarrassing allergic reaction. I was guilty and embarrassed for ruining his evening and insulting his hospitality. He came to visit me at some point while I was bed-ridden, and I apologized, but after that, I avoided his house and him. Within a few months, he moved, and I never saw him again.
About twelve years later, I was shopping with my boyfriend-du-jour at a grocery store a couple of miles from where I'd lived with my parents. As I examined cereal boxes, I spotted a really strange-looking man coming down the aisle towards me. Yes, of course, it was Jack. Only it wasn't Jack: not the Jack I'd known. He was still tall and lean and blonde, but he had done something ghastly to his hair. No longer silky straight, it had been permed and dyed and looked more like a fright wig than human hair. His face had aged and was no longer tan, but pasty and pale. He was muttering to himself and his eyes were vacant. He looked haunted. Paranoid. His gait was stiff. He looked, I realized, insane. I considered running to another aisle but curiosity kept me in place, wondering what he'd say when he got close enough to recognize me. He walked past me blindly, twitching and talking to himself. If he even noticed me, he didn't recognize me. Though I'd grown up, I hadn't changed nearly as much as Jack had.
In retrospect, all these years later, I guess the narrative there is pretty clear: child predator loses mind. A million tiny pieces fall into place. The place he rented was a block from an elementary school and directly across from the neighborhood playground. His chair was adroitly positioned to view the hordes of children who passed daily. He was the archetypal loner, a handsome drifter, probably from another state, who had drifted into Brooklyn, previous addresses unknown and unmentioned, no visible family relations, no steady job. I knew he saw himself as far younger than his age. I also knew he'd formed a close paternal relationship with his landlord's two very young daughters. He often played catch with them in the evenings before their father got home from work. Those girls and I seemed to be the only friends he had. And, in retrospect, I guess that all his romantic and inappropriate talk were not just him feeding me lines, as I thought at the time. More likely, he thought he'd found the child bride of his dreams in the half-woman, half-child I was at fourteen.
And, who knows. Maybe it wasn't an allergic reaction to squash after all. Although I avoided them for a few years after that, I've never met a squash I hated since. Maybe Jack had tried to poison me when he saw that he was losing me. The man I saw in the supermarket seemed capable of doing something that insane.
Coming next: Part 2: Alien Pods
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Here's a neat curiosity: a puzzle game in which you remove the lady's breast balls. Ummm...so where is the male version?
What's especially intriguing to me is that this is a tiny thing, less than 3 inches tall. Wonder if it originally came with a little tool to remove the balls. (Or perhaps you just used the tip of your tongue? -- kidding!)
For sale on eBay, of course, of course.
Pluck-Em Puzzle RISQUE NOVELTY, S.S. Adams 1930's-40's. 2.75" tall plastic torso, two steel balls, steel retaining strap... object, of course, was to remove the balls from their, uh, "receptacles."
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Speaking of strange vintage nudes, I found this vanilla 50s or 60s cheesecake a couple of weeks ago but something about it was weird enough to make me snag it. Is it my imagination or does it look like the head was cut and pasted on that body? Can't tell if it's a pre-PhotoShop type montage or just some really sloppy studio retouching. That floaty head gives me the fantads.
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That would be the year 1890, not the number of cuties....Just can't get enough strange vintage nudes.
(Anyone have an idea what game they're playing with those sticks and hoops? Is that ring-toss?)
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SWEET brass cigarette lighter, almost a century old. Wonder if she spent any time in the trenches, cheering up the lucky soldier who once owned her.
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There's fan-fic...and then there is FAN-FIC. This one's from The Sensuous Vulcan, published in 1977, and selling right now on eBay, where you can see more pix.
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Lately, with the election and the economy drowning out news of the war, it seems like Americans are forgetting that every day, our young soldiers are fighting and dying overseas. Someone just posted this on one of my pet lists and I'm kinda puddled up. Soldier just back from a 14 month tour in Iraq.
Can there be any doubt that dogs know love -- and know how to show it?
I pray for all our soldiers to be reunited with their loved ones.
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As illustrated by this vintage card:
As interpreted by Marlene Dietrich:
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As I was browsing eBay for life-size figures, I came across this demented little wall plaque. A ballerina, I guess, from the 50s or 60s.
No doubt, an homage to the ballerina's dazzling flexibility, maybe once part of a set. Still it puzzled me that the artist chose to freeze her in this lewd barre position. Add a camel toe, and it's porn. I was still musing about this about an hour later, when I switched gears to browse for vintage smut.
Then I found this.
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You probably know the term, pervertible -- a common or readily available (vanilla) object that -- sometimes with jiggering sometimes without-- may be used for SM play. For example, kitchen spatulas for spanking, clothespins for nipple play.
But lately I've noticed more and more life-size figures for sale on eBay. Hmmm.
I'm not saying most of the people who buy the figures below are necessarily perverts who plan to incorporate these figure into their sex lives. On the other hand...gee, I wonder. In a world where a Real Doll will cost $5-10k to produce, and inflatable dolls are the butt of so many jokes (and, anyway, they're inflatable and never look even remotely real), what exactly ARE people doing with these life-size mannequins? Dressing up show-rooms? Surely. Adding some fun to restaurant decor? Probably. Using them as Halloween props? Maybe.
Or..... could it be... ummmmm..... Oh, yeah. Definitely. I mean, there are a lot of very lonely people out there. So, for example, let's say you have a fetish for gigantic tits. Not just big ones but big firm ones. Perhaps on bald girls. And you just haven't yet met the lady who can give you the affection you crave PLUS a shaved head and titanic tatas. This flirt might fill your bill.
And, remember, no racism here. You could opt instead for a scary black sister instead.
Of course, not everyone has a tit fetish. Some of us have other types of fetishes. Including, apparently, a fetish to be whipped by Demi Moore.
Or maybe your fantasies are more of the exotic role-play kind. Dressing up is so much fun! And if you have an amputee fetish, the right hook on this gal could be just what you're looking for. This beauty is six feet of potential fun (and if you own a seafood restaurant, you can turn her out during the day to lure customers! Bonus!)
Now, let's say you are one of those people who can't get enough Harlequin romance in your life. You're not the type who is going to buy a life-size female figure for your bedroom. Heavens no. But be honest: wouldn't he look cute hanging from your ceiling?
Or maybe you're a traditionalist who still thinks that John Wayne was all man, all the time. Sure, life-size figures of the Duke must be a dime-a-dozen...but does your John have a basket like this? It's so big it's stretching the fabric of his jeans in all directions. Ask yourself why the artist decided to accentuate the positive...was it really to fit him in a Texas steak house decor or am I sensing a little love affair between the artist and the late great Wayne's masculine charms?
Finally, I think of this one as the pedophile special. More precisely, who but a pedophile would ever keep this in their bathroom (it's a toilet paper holder)! Sure to traumatize your children, and delight the senses of people who ought to be in jail...I bring you...
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Thanks to my childhood buddie Gwen for sending this.
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The below arrived from a friend. I didn't fact check, but the principle is clear enough. . .
What if John McCain were a former president of the Harvard Law Review?
What if Barack Obama finished fifth from the bottom of his graduating class?
What if McCain were still married to the first woman he said 'I do' to?
What if Obama were the candidate who left his first wife after she no longer measured up to his standards?
What if Michelle Obama were a wife who not only became addicted to pain killers, but acquired them illegally through her charitable organization?
What if Cindy McCain graduated from Harvard?
What if Obama were a member of the Keating-5?
What if McCain were a charismatic, eloquent speaker?
If these questions reflected reality, do you really believe the election numbers would be as close as they are?
This is what racism does. It covers up, rationalizes and minimizes positive qualities in one candidate and emphasizes negative qualities in another when there is a color difference.
PS: What if Barack Obama had an unwed, pregnant teenage daughter....
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Thanks to Quill for pointing me to this sobering story in Salon about sex writers losing their gigs as print and Internet media scramble to stay in business. Lots of speculation on why it is, including one interviewee's theory that a lot of the sex writing wasn't that good in the first place. Mmmm....mebbe that applies to some blogs but most of the people listed in the article were pretty tight writers with interesting points of view.
I tend to agree with an interviewee who commented that massive media lay-offs have put thousands of journalists out of work, and the sex-column casualties are just part of the bigger crisis. I'll also add that seniority matters at a lot of places, with "last in, first out" policies pretty standard. And unless anyone can prove that their sex column sells ads/subscriptions, the bean-counters will look at them as an expense (and possibly an indulgence). Meanwhile, let's face it: the topic is sex. Sex writing, by its nature, is a lot more likely to generate complaints from readers than articles, say, about travel or food; it's a lot less likely to draw advertisers than "safer" topics; and some advertisers won't buy space if/when they think the sex writer is too explicit. Bean counters factor all that in.
The bottom line is writers have never been able to count on job security unless they (a) become iconic "name" figures with huge followings or (b) syndicate their work themselves -- and usually both. And even then, there are more unemployed and under-employed popular, hard-working, respected journalists out there right now than you can shake a pen at. The ones who still have their jobs are biting their nails, waiting for the next wave of firings. A writing gig is just that: a gig. One day it ends. Still I'm sorry that that day has come for so many talented writers, and all at the same time.
Lately, I’ve been gripped by blog-buzz about sex writers being laid (har) off. Two weeks ago, the Village Voice let go Tristan Taormino, the porn director, editor and author of the 9-year-old column “Pucker Up.” Just last week, Gawker laid off 19 people, including Fleshbot editor Jonno and Melissa Gira Grant, author of Valleywag’s “Sex Trade” column. Also axed: Audacia Ray’s columns “History of Sex” for Eden Fantasys and “Fashion Police” for Fleshbot, as well as her Village Voice Naked City blog. Playboy Radio also cut from its daily news segment Regina Lynn, formerly of Wired’s “Sex Drive” column (which she chose to leave).
“Sometimes people become sex writers because they screw a lot”
There are others, but the point is: These are scary times for sex writers.
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Listening to some 1940s-1950s standards today, and Billie Holiday's a staple on those playlists. Know this one?
I'm A Fool to Want You
I'm a fool to want you.
I'm a fool to want you.
To want a love that can't be true.
A love that's there for others too.
I'm a fool to hold you.
Such a fool to hold you.
To seek a kiss not mine alone.
To share a kiss the devil has known.
Time and time again.
I said I'd leave you.
Time and time again.
I went away.
But then would come the time
When I would leave you.
And once again, these words
I'll have to say.....
I'm a fool to want you.
Pity me, I need you.
I know it's wrong,
it must be wrong.
But right or wrong,
I can't get along
without you.
I can't get along without you.
Few random thoughts.....
When written it was specifically about the woes of being in love with a philanderer. Partners of cheaters may still identify. Also interestingly applicable today to disenchanted polyamorourists and people worried about their dom/me adding a third to their relationship.
And what about the addictive behavior, the low self-esteem, not to mention the codependancy of this person who can't stop coming back to someone who hurts her? All contemporary concepts. Back then, emotional suffering was considered par for the course of love and such behaviors were considered normal extremes for people in love. Even romanticized. These days, we'd send this person to therapist or a 12-Step Program and go tsk, tsk, tsk.
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Prepare for an hormonal event, folks.
Few months back, yet another reader (did I ever mention how much I love you, my beloved readers? I do! I do!), suggested I look at the sadomasochistic work of the widely-respected Italian comic artist Milo Manara. I did --and wow! He is a madcap genius in his form, inspired by sources as sublime as Gustav Klimt, as classic as the tale of Gulliver, and as trash-pop-art as Coppertone ads. Now it's your turn to soak up Manara's sexy goodness.
(And, if so inspired, to pick up books by Milo Manara
So on to this color-drenched comic art adventure. Definitely NSFW. I'll start with the Klimt-ish one, Gulliver in Lilliput and the Coppertone spoof, in that order.
Finally, a sweet and simple little sketch which nonetheless makes quite an impact....
to brighten up your nights. And remember: an orgasm (or two or three) a day keeps depression at bay!
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Another reader answered one of my "Found" requests with the name of artist Dušan POLAKOVIČ, who makes some of the most exquisite -- and exquisitely strange and surrealistic -- bookplates I've ever seen. Very hard to find them but I managed to locate several. (There are a few thumbnails here I've jiggled with Photoshop, in hopes of improving their clarity, but no telling how it may show up on your monitor.)
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I haven't been able to devote the time needed to build up back to my weekly erotic art shows -- but I do have some erotic art in my files, and today, spontaneously, decided to go ahead and share the aesthetic pleasures with you.
First, a couple of images plus a link to an amazing, possibly definitive, store of work by artist Ellen von Unwerth. I'd published a photo by her some months back, asking if anyone knew the artist, and a reader (thank you thank you) provided the artist's name and a link.
The following two pieces are from a series titled Revenge. It's a very sex SM story told through deliciously erotic photos. You will need to set aside some time to follow the complete series, but here are two scrumptious morsels of what you'll find when you do.
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No, no, not a cock ring. A penis ring -- with a lovely engraved phallus, selling right now on eBay, with only 2 days to go. If it was in my size, you'd have to fight me for it.
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I generally avoid spending much time on hate-mongers who make ludicrous claims about BDSM and other kinks because I don't like even to dignify their vicious crazy spew by drawing attention to it. There are not a lot of them out there, actually, but the few who rant are heard by millions of others who may be influenced to one degree or another by their ugly lies. Media Matters recently blogged about one of those crazies who's made his career on screaming hate: Michael Savage. I think of him as the "Bad Savage" (as opposed to Dan Savage, the "Good Savage"). MM looks at Bad Savage's claim that leather people and, specifically, Folsom, are responsible for the downfall of the country and the rise of Fascism.
Ummm...WTF?! How do nuts like these even GET radio shows? His historical facts are distorted beyond all reckoning, and his claims qualify as hate speech -- which, I believe, is ILLEGAL! Why is this nut allowed to use public air-waves to spread hate-speech? He, and his radio station, deserve a walloping fine for this bs.
Summary: Discussing the Folsom Street Fair, a leather-themed adult-entertainment event in San Francisco, Michael Savage declared: "This country today is far beyond the excesses of the Weimar Republic that led to Adolf Hitler. God forbid that should ever happen here. But the German people, who were not all Nazis prior to Hitler's arrival on the scene, were shocked by the degenerates of Berlin. They were sickened by the perverts, sickened by the artistes, they were sickened by the leather fetishists, they were sickened by the degeneracy, and they couldn't handle it."
Ah yes, he must be referring to that apocryphal book by Hitler titled, "My Gay Old Time in the Beergarden with Leather Daddy and how it made me want to Exterminate Jews."
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