news you can use

I brought this to The Husband's attention. If he gets me knocked up, I expect him to pull his weight.

This reminds me of a fetish I read about online recently: men who get off on suckling from their nursing wives' breasts, sometimes even while they simultaneously feed their newborns. That's just a little too weird for me. James pulled a face when I told him that, so I think I'm safe.

bad taste

I recently finished one of the worst novels I've ever read. I'm not going to mention the writer or the book, because I don't want this post to be about that person.

The book sold very well and the author in question has written some bestsellers. When reading Amazon and GoodReads.com reviews of the work (and I use that term lightly), mostly written by ordinary people, I see opinions divide largely into two camps: (a) the writer is brilliant and the book is great or (b) the writer is a talentless hack and the book is wretched. Given a sizable group are in the latter camp, it's reassuring to see at least I'm not alone in my opinion.

I was talking to The Husband about this, still mystified that people could think such wretched crap was fantastic. He had an interesting take.

More people have poor taste than good taste, he said. They come to their opinions quickly and without any thought, like a small child. That's why there's fast food. And moronic reality television shows. And people who follow Paris Hilton.

More people will enjoy crack than Proust's novels, he said. Ergo, just because something is popular doesn't mean it's inherently good or worthwhile.

"Too many people just love bad shit because they don't know any better," he concluded.

It may be an old saying, but it's still true: "there's no accounting for bad taste."

the bed we loved in

I just love this:

The bed we loved in was a spinning world
of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftops, seas
where we would dive for pearls. My lover's words
were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses
on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme
to his, now echo, assonance; his touch
a verb dancing in the centre of a noun.
Some nights, I dreamed he'd written me, the bed
a page beneath his writer's hands. Romance
and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste.
In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on,
dribbling their prose. My living laughing love --
I hold him in the casket of my widow's head
as he held me upon that next best bed.

The poem's title is "Anne Hathaway," and it's by Carol Ann Duffy from her collection The World's Wife.

It was inspired by Shakespeare's will, where he bequeathed "item I gyve unto my wife my second best bed." That's charming; who got the best one? Was Will stepping out on Anne?

Talk about humiliating her for all time by telling posterity someone else got the really good bed. But then, I doubt Anne would want that one, considering he may have used it with another woman.

the man who always said no

I have a good friend in California who I'll call Adam. I've never written about him before here. (He has reminded me of this several times.)

I met Adam at a neighbor's party not long after moving to Los Angeles. Most of the people were congregated in the house, but I found him outside alone, enjoying the night sky. The lighting was rather low on the deck where he sat, but I could see he was extremely good looking, one of the handsomest men I had ever seen.

The whorish wench who controls many of my waking thoughts immediately went into action: hot guy, striking blue eyes, sexy voice, very nice physique, well dressed, cultured, no ring on left hand, alone outside without a girlfriend. I was not seeing anyone in particular at the time and decided in the span of, oh say fourteen seconds, I would get him into bed, the sooner the better.

As we talked -- he had quickly complimented me on how nice I looked -- I also learned he was a very smart, witty, and sensitive guy. I deftly found out he wasn't seeing anyone and went into full Defcon Seduction Mode.

We talked for several hours outside on the deck, and notwithstanding the fact I was ready to shag him, he turned out to be one of the most interesting people I had ever met. I assumed, wrongly, he was a model or actor because he was so good looking; he turned out to be a scientist who had turned down repeated offers to be photographed.

I had walked to the party, so he escorted me home and I invited him in. I fixed something to eat, and we sat for another hour or so and talked. I had made several subtle overtures by this point that I was his for the taking, but each time he deftly parried the topic onto another subject.

At about two in the morning, he said he had to go. I countered that he was welcome to stay the night, but he said he had things to do early in the morning and had to hit the road. He kissed me sweetly at the door and invited me to an event the following week. Fortunately, it was a night I wasn't working, so I said yes.

I saw him again and we had a good time. Then another time. And then another time. Each time I had a lot of fun and, without coming right out and saying it, I made it known I could be shagged without resistance. Each time he seemed not to notice. I was sure he wasn't gay, both because I hadn't picked up any signals and he also spoke of an ex-wife plus other women he had dated.

Finally, when I couldn't stand it any longer, I pretty much grabbed the proverbial bull by the horns and broached the sex subject. I said something like I had thrown out some hints, but he didn't seem to notice.

He replied something like, "oh, I noticed all right, the several dozen times you tried. I imagined at some point soon you'd soon throw off your clothes and attack me."

I must have seemed hurt, so he apologized and said it wasn't me. In fact, the issue was him -- he was finally facing something that he had not really confronted before in his life, which was that he was, in fact, gay.

Notwithstanding that he had been intimate with a number of women, including his ex-wife, sex had never rung his chimes. So to go to bed with me would not do it for him. He was tired of playing the charade.

He hoped, however, that we could remain friends and do things together. He really liked women, he explained, but just didn't want to sleep with them. I was somewhat crushed but, at the same time, I realized I liked him too. The sex thing was just me being insecure, my ego saying, "every man wants you, so why doesn't this guy?"

Adam became -- and still is -- a very good friend. He helped me grow many ways as a person and has been a very wise consigliere when I've needed one.

I'm pretty sure, if I had managed somehow to seduce him before his revelation, it would have been a disappointing one-night stand and I probably would not have returned his calls. I've written before about how I rejected men after their test drive in bed, and now in hindsight I can see how that could be a mistake. I made a very valuable friend by failing to seduce him.

My husband, however, is glad for this. He's still firmly convinced that karma or fate or destiny or whatever brought us together, so I had to reject other men before finding him. I'm glad, nonetheless, that one time I failed, I also succeeded magnificently, too.

easy rider hnt

We were babysitting one of my husband's nieces recently, and she thought it was hysterical to see big auntie riding around in her little precycle. Because it's impossible not to shoot the beaver while riding one of these things, an inadvertent Half-Nekkid Thursday shot resulted.

man heels

The fashion industry is hoping high heels for men will catch on. They've even taken to calling them "man heels" (which sounds like a gathering of lobbyists and politicians to me).

I don't think I'll be seeing my 6'2", 260-pound husband in these anytime soon. I do wonder, however, how long it will take the guy on the left to break his pelvis. Look closely -- they have no heels and are, in fact, balanced on the toes. The perfect thing to wear while running after a cab on a rainy day.

Japan

The Husband and I talked about perhaps visiting the States this fall, specifically California. I miss the Golden State, and he's spent very little time there.

More recently, however, we've been thinking instead of visiting Japan. He has been to the Land of the Rising Sun a few times, but it's been more than a decade. I've never been there.

I recently enjoyed two novels set in Japan (The Great Fire and Rain Fall) which reawakened my interest in visiting. He's game, too, because he didn't have much time to see the country when he was there because he was on active duty then.

So now I'm on something of a Japanese research kick. I met quite a few Japanese men when I worked in clubs, but they were always so scrupulously polite and reserved, I learned very little about them.

poultry sex

Another celebrity has blessed us with his wisdom.

Nicolas Cage recently told a British tabloid that he will only eat meat from animals if he likes the way they screw. So pigs are out while fish and chickens are in.

If you know anything about the sex life of poultry or fish, however, you know it's not particularly glamorous.

A rooster chases around a hen, then essentially rapes her by standing on her back and rubbing his anus against her anus for a few seconds. Unlike we humans, chickens don't have a penis or vagina but instead an all-in-one cloaca used for both pooping and sex.

I happen to know this from watching my grandfather's chickens when I was a child.

Most fish don't even have sex; the female lays eggs and the male comes along later and squirts semen on them.

Actually, of the three critters, pig sex is the closest to human sex. It includes foreplay, is doggy-style, and can last for as long as thirty minutes.

Sorry Nick. I'd much rather have some hot porker love than a quicky cluck, thank you.

fallen princesses

Fallen Princesses is an intriguing series by Vancouver photographer Dina Goldstein. She depicts a possible realistic, rather than idealistic, view of the "ever after" coda to many popular fairy tale myths.

One scenario shows Prince Charming loafing in front of the telly while poor Snow White must tend to four infants. Another features a fast-food addicted Red Riding Hood when she's not so little. And there's Cinderella drowning her sorrows with a double scotch in a boozers bar.

Be sure to check out the whole series at her website devoted to the project.

butter up

The Husband was looking at a muscle magazine the other day and showed some of the pictures to me. I commented about how absurd many of the competitive bodybuilders looked with their buttered-on fake tans. Apparently a complete lack of any realistic approximation to an actual tan is not a liability in competition. A quick search on the internet turned up some choice examples of this practice.

I can't imagine too many straight men ask their straight friends to rub their hands all over their naked butts. All bets are off, however, when your buddy needs the equivalent of liquid shoe polish smeared on his bare ass.



The rules of this strange practice apparently dictate that you don't put the glop on your head or face. We're not supposed to notice his head looks like it's been grafted on another guy's body? And thanks for showing us your junk hasn't been painted, either.



This group obviously doesn't go in for any of that suspect male-male touching business. Maybe he can help paint the kitchen when he's finished.

military-specification fuck

This is from a novel I'm currently reading:

I have finally let us go to bed together, and am glad I did and also glad I held off for so long. We have been at it all night, something I’ve never done before, not that I was at the time any kind of expert in the love arts, although he, as I have just learned, is. I am twenty-one, and it is my first serious, industrial-strength, heavy-duty, military-specification fuck. He is five years younger than my father, but I have almost stopped thinking about this. We are on his bed, sticky and exhausted, staring up at the high cream ceiling, with a flap of sheet over us, the French windows are open and that Paris scent is coming through, sharp and tickling to the nose. Marcel whispers in my ear and runs his hand down my body and places it on my sopping what I have just learned to call le con.

I had goosebumps when I reached the end of the paragraph. The writer succinctly captures how one good romp with the right man can be a defining moment in a woman's life.

What might surprise you is that the novelist is male and was 63 years old at the time he wrote this book. He's Michael Gruber, and the novel is Tropic of Night.

Needless to say, I was already really enjoying it before I hit the passage quoted above. I'm savoring the novel like a fine dessert -- the writing is so good I'm reading and re-reading as I go along to prolong the experience. I've never read anything by this author before but that will soon change.

I'm always amazed when a male writer can so distinctly understand what makes women tick. I have to wonder what Mr. Gruber is like as a seducer. If he can perform like this with the typewriter, you have to think he's pretty damn terrific at the love arts, too.

deja vu hnt

The HNT global theme this week, in celebration of the holiday's anniversary, is to recreate your original image.

But wait, isn't this just my original HNT?

Or maybe it's not.

Three things are different. Can you spot what all of them are?

politics as usual

So I'm reading all the news back home about how the political griddle is being shaken over the fire, incumbents are doomed, people are storming Washington, and on and on.

I vote absentee in California because it's super-easy if you're out of the country -- they even thoughtfully mail the voting materials to Australia (no wonder the state is broke). So I'm looking at my sample ballot -- the primaries aren't until early June -- and one thing is immediately obvious in all but the biggest elections.

Most everyone is running unopposed.

Yes, the big races are getting lots of attention and tons of money -- a well-funded and connected "outsider" may oust an equally funded and connected "insider." But further down the ladder -- which often is the training ground for bigger races in the future -- it's same-old same-old.

I mentioned this to my brother in an email, and he said in my Midwest home state, at the local level, it's much the same.

People, you can't upset the apple cart if only a few apples at the top of the heap are changed.

Merrill Markoe is smarter than Einstein

Are you a Merrill Markoe fan, too? I think she's both hysterically funny and brilliant. She's included in a recent Vanity Fair article about David Letterman's zipper and extortion troubles.

She writes about when she discovered Letterman was stepping out on his wife: "As you can imagine this is a very emotional moment for me because Dave promised me many times that I was the only woman he would ever cheat on."

On the fact that she was involved with Letterman at the same time he was sleeping with his future wife Regina, "We were together for 10 years, though I know that it’s a vague definition of the word ‘together,’ since he was apparently with Regina for the last two of those years, and to my knowledge none of us were involved in a polygamous cult."

When asked how Letterman kept his affair with Regina secret, she said: "Dave has several homes. He has a television show in production and many meetings to attend, some of which require travel. Add to that the fact that he actually has numbers of clinically diagnosed crazy people stalking him, and you’ve got the makings of a package full of enough wool to make mittens, sweaters, scarves, and matching blindfolds for as many people as you have on your gift-giving list.

"To make things more convenient, during the last few years of our relationship I was spending time in L.A., trying to start projects of my own, and was naïve enough not to be especially paranoid, because not only did he and I continue to work together but I, like Tiger Woods’s wife, was under the impression that my flawless Scandinavian supermodel good looks were enough to keep a man at home."

The woman is a true genius. It helps if you can hear her voice saying this when you read it. I don't actually mean hear hear, like one of the women stalking Letterman. I think you know what I mean. You do, don't you? (Right, I think so?)

Here is one of her videos she made with her dogs:

hooters

In my exotic dancer and stripper days, I worked with more than a few women who had implants, but nothing quite this ridiculous.

The first club where I danced when I was eighteen was something of a starting ground for youngsters and the last stop for women in their forties and even fifties. In the latter group, some had worked since they were eighteen or even younger, because club owners were lax back in the day about verifying ages.

That was when I received my first lessons about the world of implants. Much of what I learned just by observing and keeping my mouth shut.

I was quickly convinced I would never get implants, notwithstanding I was pressured to get them by the club manager. He even offered to advance me the money. I've written here before about how my earnings were impaired by my refusal to be artificially enhanced.

I could understand why a woman stacked like I am might want to help mother nature a bit. There are ways to make a smaller busted women seem a little larger without seeming obvious, if you're willing to spend the money.

I could never understand, however, why women went absurdly overboard and implanted themselves with the equivalent of basketballs. Are you really that eager to be turned into a completely objectified sex object? If you strip or dance naked, you can put that on the shelf at the end of your shift and go home. If you've made yourself into a freak, that follows you everywhere.

More mystifying are the men who find this alluring, and believe me, there are plenty of guys out there who don't seem to understand the idea of "too big." The monstrously implanted women never get derogatory catcalls in a strip club, but smaller titted women do all the time. I speak from experience. The basic rule of adult performers it that tits get tips.

How does a man have sex with a woman like this? It can't really be a good lay because her movement is limited in many fundamental ways.

they come in blueberry, too

When I first saw this picture on the internet, I thought someone had made it up as a joke. I was wrong. Apparently these are quite popular in the States. I never heard of them when I lived there. Then again, I didn't buy much packaged food.

In all candor, these sound disgusting to me. There are no shortage of people online extolling their virtue, however. There are Facebook fan pages, testimonial videos on YouTube, you name it.

I love the little promotional tag line on the manufacturer's webpage: "Feeling the glow yet?" That same slogan might be used if you accidentally ingested nuclear waste.

power

I found the photo on the internet, but the caption and poster are my creations.

This might make for an interesting political movement. All the escorts and put-upon congressional staffers in Washington secretly agree that, on a certain date, whatever politician they happen to be blowing is injured in a little "accident" like this.

How would CNN cover the news that several hundred Congressmen and Senators, all on the same day, were rushed to the hospital with mysterious ailments?

conversation piece

This has been in my pictures folder forever, so I don't remember where I originally found it. The style suggests a date from the early 20th century, but then again a clever modern illustrator may simply have copied an old-fashioned mode of artwork. It certainly is a curiosity. I wish I knew more about its origins and creator.

backseat hnt

"Mummie, what is that man doing to that lady in there? How come she's making that funny noise?"

"Crikey, Harold, get Brian in the van, quick. My God, in a public carpark! Can't those people wait until they get home?"

Sorry, madam, but sometimes you just cannot. But, really, shouldn't little Brian be home in bed? It's after two in the morning.

introspective or narcissistic

To begin, a quote from French philosopher Gaston Bachelard: "One must always maintain one’s connection to the past and yet ceaselessly pull away from it."

I bring this up in light of a comment someone made the other day here: "You look back a lot (much more than one would expect for someone your age), usually with you as the center. Re-read some of your prior postings, this is not the first sign that you should spend some time on Dr. Freud’s couch."

I was not offended by this remark and, instead, laughed aloud.

How is reflecting on one's past a troubling sign that one should consult an analyst? (This is a blog, after all, the domain of the digital navel gazer.)

I have to wonder if the commenter -- who only signed the remark "GP" -- has spent any time on a shrink's couch. Much of what you do in analysis is looking back. Once you've completed therapy, you don't stop looking back; instead, you're armed with tools of self-analysis, which includes constantly re-evaluating yourself and your history.

Both of my parents are psychiatrists as is my beloved brother. One of my grandparents was a psychiatrist. I've spent countless hours in therapy. I've done the dance.

In all candor, I think many people my age don't look back enough. I am, after all, from the Narcissistic Generation, a label many have given to today's twentysomethings.

Many of my peers fail to see how they impact others by ignoring their past failures. If you hurt someone in the past by your behavior and fail to reflect on your history, you'll probably hurt people again and again. You have to look back to see what you've stepped on.

If you've read this blog with any regularity, you've probably realized I have some aspirations to write fiction. Writing requires looking back. You write what you know. What is at the heart of Look Homeward, Angel or The Catcher in the Rye or any number of novels?

The answer: the writer is constantly looking back over his or her shoulder.

You are who you are because of who you were. Listen to Gaston; he knows what he's talking about. Don't dwell on the past, but don't ignore it, either. Mistakes are lessons life gives you along your journey.

hnt before the internet

Art photography meant to viewed humorously takes on a new meaning in the world of blogging. This circa 1980 image was made by famous photographer Jean-François Jonvelle long before computers were found in billions of homes, so the cheeky title of "HNT Before the Internet" is mine.

I was alerted to this by reading High on Sex, a great blog you should visit if you aren't yet a regular and where you'll find more Jonvelle links.

erogenous pinch

Writing yesterday's post made me think about male nipples.

When I was around eighteen or nineteen, probably because I had read about it somewhere, in the midst of sex, I got the idea to pinch my partner at the time's nipples suddenly and without warning. I thought it was a wildly erotic thing to do.

He, however, did not. In fact, he sort of went apeshit. He thought it was disgusting and weird. He also complained -- the big baby -- that it hurt.

I have learned since then that more men dislike nipple play than those who do. They're perfectly content to fiddle with a woman's tits like they're trying to dial the farthest reaches of Siberia on a shortwave radio, but their nippies are strictly off limits.

Some men, however, love it, particularly when you pinch hard. They don't even mind when you do it at non-sexual times or out in public. Biting, too, turns them on, but that's probably not something to do on the street.

I imagine I have something of a nipple fetish. I think it's hot when you can see a guy's nipples through his shirt, particularly when he has a nice build and muscular chest. Some men, however, get nipple implants, but I think that's just gross.

The Husband was sort of indifferent to nipple mischief; however, I've brought him around with time, and now he likes it. For my part, I love it when my nippies are tweaked and tugged, as long as it doesn't get too painful.

tittoo

This strikes me as oddly hermaphroditical. I think he wants to convey that he's hip and a free sexual spirit, but dude, you've just turned your chest into a partial pair of girl tits.

dancers among us

These are only a few of the images from a fantastic series called "Dancers Among Us" by New York photographer Jordan Matter. You can see many more images from this stunning collection on his website.

Matter writes about the series: "I began to photograph these dancers as everyday people. In the photographs they are away from the stage, yet they cannot leave dance behind."

The dancers photographed are from the Paul Taylor and Martha Graham dance companies.

not knocked up

Our first month of sex without birth control has passed, and I am not pregnant. I guess I was being overly optimistic.

We certainly haven't lacked for trying. The Husband is also one of the most copious ejaculators I've known in the Biblical sense, so he's more than doing his part.

Being off the pill has made me even hornier than usual. He's been doing a lot of dives recently, so when I head out to pick him up, I have to make sure I don't get too distracted while driving, thinking about what will be happening soon.

I need a bumpersticker that reads "honk if your panties are wet, too." I Googled that phrase, BTW, and this is what turned up -- since when did romance novels turn into porn?

The Husband's boat was late returning a few days ago, and I practically raped him on the dock. I'm writing this right now while he's out in the water, and I'm finding it hard not thinking about anything other than fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

I've heard from plenty of friends and family that it can take quite a while to get pregnant, even when you work relentlessly at it. I think about the various girls I've known who ended up having "whoops" issues. I guess that's Mother Nature being ironic: when you don't want to get pregnant, you will. When you do want to, you won't.

At least we're really having a great time trying.

big thong hnt

Here's a question for Half-Nekkid Thursday: does this thong make my butt look too big?

Maybe I've been eating too much protein.

he's baaaaack

In late 2008, I wrote here about pornstar Christian and his intriguing blog, which he mothballed for a while. Now he's back with a vengeance, once again blogging about the life of a male adult performer. He's also doing quite a lot of directing now, too.

Christian provides a fascinating peek behind the scenes. I know he has his share of critics and "anti-fans," but he's clearly a great deal more intelligent than many males in that business, even if his proofreading skills leave a bit to be desired. Be forewarned, his site is definitely NSFW and features plenty of hardcore outtakes, plus the ubiquitous food photos.

telephone

Just in case you haven't seen this already, this parody of Lady Gaga's "Telephone" was made by 82nd Airborne Division soldiers serving in Afghanistan. I like this one so much better than hers. You can read more about the soldiers here and here.

I think these guys are so incredibly sweet. This made me smile but gave me a lump in my throat, too.

dangerous games

I was chatting with a friend the other day about how people often know they're heading down a dangerous road with the opposite sex but don't stop themselves. Infidelity is a prime example. You know it's dangerous, but you play the game anyway.

I think this may be an instinct we pick up early and learn to ignore almost as early. At least that was the case with me.

When I was growing up, every few years during the summer, I would stay several months with my grandparents in Pennsylvania. My grandfather was a medical doctor and lived on what is sometimes called a "gentleman's farm" in the rolling countryside.

Starting when I visited at about age six, I played regularly with two neighbor boys my own age. They were also cousins of some sort and spent much of their time together year-round, although they lived in separate houses. One had a white-collar father and lived in a nice, larger house. The other had a blue-collar father and lived in an average, smaller house.

We were inseparable during my visits and, up until the last summer I saw them, our respective genders had little effect on our friendship. I was something of a tomboy as a girl and spent much of my youth outdoors playing one game or another.

The last summer I visited my grandparents, I was fourteen and soon to turn fifteen, as were the two cousins. I had not seen them since several summers earlier.

Needless to say, the white-collar cousin was, developmentally, a late bloomer -- fourteen going on twelve. The blue-collar cousin was fourteen going on seventeen. I was already sexually experienced at that point. He was quite the young hunk.

I remember how I sensed immediately when I saw the cousins again that I would end up screwing the blue-collar boy and, at some point, his cousin would find out. That, in turn, would lead to tension.

Needless to say, that's exactly what happened. It wasn't a train-wreck, but it wasn't pretty, either. The cousins were already drifting apart, gravitating into different peer circles. Sex only hastened that.

I often wonder whether the two cousins have stayed in touch. Whether or not they do, I wonder if they ever think about that summer and the girl who, in some way, came between them. I wonder, in particular, if the white-collar cousin has ever had any lingering animosity toward women because of what happened that year.

awakening

I think this photograph is intriguing. I found it on a Russian art photography website, and Google translator didn't make much sense of the accompanying narrative.

The expression on her face is enigmatic. Is this the first time she's seen a man undressed and touched him this way? Or is she instead quite experienced and the seducer, admiring what she has conquered?

Is she a naif or a rake?

(Clicking on the photo will reveal a much larger version.)

whim of a lifetime

I wonder, when she got these tattoos, was she a hundred-pound waif who pranced around the community pool in a backless one-piece? Did she ever imagine that one day she'd be a woman so corpulent she would have to wear surgical scrubs, because they'd be the only things that would fit? That one day she would be so obese that she would have to ride around in a disabled cart at the supermarket?

I'm not making fun of her. I find this so incredibly sad. I told my husband if I ever get like this, just to shoot me. He responded that I would not be allowed to get like this. The feminist in me got a little huffy at that, but then it's good to know he's watching out for me. At the same time, this is a good reminder that tattoos are forever.