Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Quote of the Day
Anybody who believes that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach flunked geography. ~Robert Byrne, quoted in 1,911 Best Things Anybody Ever Said, 1988
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Give Your Knitting a Little Discipline!
Thought this site was cool. Jennifer Stafford is the creator of a popular websiste called www.domiknitrix.com. There you can find goth influenced, sexy patterns with no-nonsense instructions. Break away from the ho-hum with projects like the Winged Heart Bralet, the Devil Hat, the Big Bad Wolf Pullover and the Biteme/Spank Me Valentine Candy Pillows, and infuse your knitting with some renegade spirit.Tuesday, January 23, 2007
US Funds Abstinence Training for Adults
by Janice Erlbaum
Would you horndogs stop having sex already?
The US government is expected to spend close to $50 million in 2007 on state-run abstinence-only "birth-control programs" aimed at people as old as 29. These programs, which are supposed to reduce the number of unwanted pregnancies by preaching abstinence, make no mention of birth-control devices or methods or how they work; instead, they teach participants that no sex is safe sex and that people should not have sex before marriage. Previously, states were given grants to fund abstinence-only programs (which do little to reduce unwanted pregnancies, compared to comprehensive programs featuring real information about birth control) for kids age 12 though 19, but the Department of Health and Human Resources has now revised its guidlines to include adults in their 20s. Advocates of women's health are appalled at our government's intrusive, moralistic approach to adult sexuality: when 90 percent of adults aged 20-29 are having sex, you're not going to decrease the number of unwanted pregnancies by telling them to stop. And the other 10 percent are doing just fine not getting laid all on their own, without the government's help.
Would you horndogs stop having sex already?
The US government is expected to spend close to $50 million in 2007 on state-run abstinence-only "birth-control programs" aimed at people as old as 29. These programs, which are supposed to reduce the number of unwanted pregnancies by preaching abstinence, make no mention of birth-control devices or methods or how they work; instead, they teach participants that no sex is safe sex and that people should not have sex before marriage. Previously, states were given grants to fund abstinence-only programs (which do little to reduce unwanted pregnancies, compared to comprehensive programs featuring real information about birth control) for kids age 12 though 19, but the Department of Health and Human Resources has now revised its guidlines to include adults in their 20s. Advocates of women's health are appalled at our government's intrusive, moralistic approach to adult sexuality: when 90 percent of adults aged 20-29 are having sex, you're not going to decrease the number of unwanted pregnancies by telling them to stop. And the other 10 percent are doing just fine not getting laid all on their own, without the government's help.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Naughty Words
Dr. Johnson silenced two spinsters who complimented him for the omision of
"naughty words" in his dictionary with the comment: "What! my dears! then you have been looking for them." - Taken from The Literary Life and other Curiosities
"naughty words" in his dictionary with the comment: "What! my dears! then you have been looking for them." - Taken from The Literary Life and other Curiosities
Saturday, January 20, 2007
New "Source" of Inpiration
So, I am trying something new. There was a posting at the Erotic Readers & Writers Association website for writers for a customized erotica website called Custom Erotica Source. Shawn and I have often talked putting something together like this, but of course never have. I think it is an awesome idea.I e-mailed them and was given a sample assignment to show them what I can put together in a week. I love the setting and hope that I am able to give them something they want. This could be a fun way to earn some extra cash. Wish me luck!
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Quote of the Day
"Fifty percent of women in this country are not having orgasms. If that were true for the male population, it would be declared a national emergency." - Margo St. James
Saturday, January 13, 2007
"Lipstick..." Update
Guess what came in the mail today? Payment for my contribution to the Lipstick on Her Collar anthology. Maybe this means my story, "Reap What you Sew," will be going into print soon. My story was chosen the summer before last, before I created my writing blog.
When writing this little number I was pictureing the showroom I used to work at in NY. Having designed bathing suits there it wasn't a long stretch to picture lingerie being created. We also had an amazing seamstress named Magdalina, but she was a very sweet older lady. She would probably be shocked by this...lol...
Let me know what you think!
Reap What You Sew [1986 words] (FF, oral)
Copyright © 2005 by Crystal Barela
This story contains sexually explicit scenes.
I looked down at the sewing machine in front of me, adjusted the silk and lace under the needle and hit the presser foot. The whiz of the sewing machine echoed in the near empty room. Machines sat to my sides, in front and behind. A rainbow of delicate fabrics and ribbons were tucked in the drawers beneath my sewing table. Loose colorful threads dangled form their holders.
The delicate scent of roses preceded Sharon, along with the click-clack of her heels.
I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and glimpsed her walking past me from the corner of my eye. Her heels were high, too high to walk the paved streets of Manhattan, but she wore them everyday. No shorter than three inches in height, seamed stockings a favorite of hers.
Sharon looked the designer. One day the clean lines of Klein skimmed her curves, the next day the sumptuous fabrics of Gautier. A little flash and a lot of style could have been her motto.
It was after hours and Sharon had asked me to finish this bit of lace in front of me. A personal project. Not a difficult job, I turned out three dozen of these a day. When I was done it would be a delicate black lace demi-bra. The matching low-riding thong and garter belt were finished, also black, with contrasting cherry red stitching.
“Mags?”
I looked up from my needle. My name was Magdalina. She was the only one who called me Mags.
Sharon stood in her office doorway, white silk blouse unbuttoned and pulled from her black pencil skirt. I swallowed hard. She wasn’t wearing a bra and the gentle shadow of her cleavage winked at me when she put her hands on her hips.
“Yes, Ms. Sharon?”
She shook her head at me, smiling.
“Always so formal, Mags,” she walked toward me a natural sway to her hips. Her blonde hair skimmed her collar bones. “How long have we known each other? Four years?”
Four years, five months, two days, eight hours and a handful of minutes. But who’s counting? It had been winter and she had been late. Sharon had walked into the office unbelting an amazing white lamb’s wool trench, her calves encased in red leg-hugging leather that had looked as soft as butter; the heels topped four inches.
Underneath had been more winter white; a cashmere dress with a loosely clasped rhinestone belt floating on her hips. The hem just skimmed her knees. The only skin visible was her face, set on a pedestal of white.
“Nearly done?”
I focused on the project in front of me.
Sharon came up behind me and leaned over my shoulder, fingering the delicate material between her manicured fingers, the bright red polish setting off the lace.
The heat of her body pressed against my back. Her soft hair kissed my bare arm.
“Beautiful work.” She whispered her breath wetting my ear. I shivered, shifting the chair away from her, the screech of the legs against the floor echoed in the room.
“Thank you, Ms. Sharon.”
She stood, placing her hands on my shoulders.
“You really are the best seamstress we have, Mags.” She massaged my shoulders, thumbs brushing my neck. “Every stitch perfect.”
I trembled. “Thank you.”
“Are you a perfectionist in all that you do?”
I ignored her question and pressed my foot against the pedal. Sharon squeezed my shoulders lightly and then took the garter and panties and returned to her office. She looked over her shoulder in the doorway, letting her shirt fall down her back to her elbows.
“Bring the bra in when you finish.”
I nodded, trying to keep my eyes on my work.
Three more minutes and I would be done. Away from Sharon’s heels. Free of her perfume. Not near the lace that would be cupping her breasts and pussy as my hands ached to.
I would take the subway home to my little apartment in Brooklyn and sit in front of my air conditioner. I’d get out my Rabbit and take care of the heat Sharon created. A little time with the intense buzz of those little ears would banish this need.
I pulled the bra from under the foot of the machine. I snipped the loose threads with my scissors and held it in front of me. Sharon was right. Perfect.
I turned off my machine, straightened my sewing table and returned the thread to the shelves before heading to her office.
Sharon’s back was to me, her weight on one leg as she examined the design illustrations on the wall in front of her. She had removed her blouse and skirt. The thong and garter I had sewn licked her curves.
My mouth watered.
Her stockings were neatly in place, exposing a stretch of creamy thigh and ass.
I cleared my throat. Her shoulder blades shifted, muscles moving delicately beneath her skin.
Sharon smiled over her shoulder, adjusting the glasses perched on the end of her nose.
“Mags,” her smile grew wider. She came toward me, removing her specs. “That was quick.”
My eyes focused on her breasts. No bra necessary. Round, full, succulent. Nipples, pale blushing shadows, hardening at my stare. Or from the air-conditioning. I shook my head, fighting my desire.
“Thank you,” Sharon said. She stood closer than I would have liked. My skin flushed by her nearness. She took the bra from my hand and leaned into me, her lips grazing my cheek. “You’re an artist.”
I turned my head, my lips brushing hers.
My coverall’s met her breasts and a blush traveled up her chest to her cheeks.
She hesitated.
I didn’t.
My tongue traced her glossy pout.
Sharon’s tongue answered tentatively.
That was all the permission I needed.
I pressed her back against her desk, design markers rolling onto the floor as my tongue plundered her mouth. She moaned, her arms circling my neck and pulling the rubber band from my hair. My pony-tail slipped free and my black hair fell around our shoulders.
My fingers glided beneath the flimsy bit of silk covering her pussy and slid through her smooth folds. Wetness clung to my fingers, spreading the ache in my cunt. She gasped my name. I massaged her mound, my thumb circling her clit.
Sharon’s neck tasted like talcum. I kissed my way down to her breasts. Under my tongue, her nipples were hard little buttons. I sucked her into my mouth, her moans milking my pussy.
My panties were soaked.
Sharon’s hands fumbled with the hooks on my overalls, and the denim bunched up between us. My finger inched inside, then two, pushing along her silky walls. She bucked against my calloused hands.
Papers flew from her desk.
I kicked off my sneakers and climbed up with her in nothing but my white wife beater.
“Mags?” she gasped. I took a seat on her knee, rubbing my cunt against the smooth silk stocking.
“Ms. Sharon?”
“What are you doing?” Her thigh moved under me and I began to ride, keeping time with my hand in her cunt.
“Fucking you.”
Sharon laughed and I leaned in close to her wet box. I blew against her clit. Her wet pearl grew bold, peaking out from behind its curtain. I licked and it danced, taking hold of my tongue in an unfamiliar beat. My taste buds popped.
Sweet, bitter, tart, salty.
Her fingers slid through my hair, her pretty nails skimming my scalp in a tingling caress.
I found her spot. Sharon’s fingers yanked my tresses, knotting in my hair.
My thumb met my fingers. I serviced her hot cunt, sliding deeper with each flick of my tongue. Her moans were crazy love sounds, begging me to stop, pleading with me to take her. Her pussy grabbed the widest part of my hand protesting for a moment, before sighing around my palm.
Embracing my wrist.
I froze, my lips holding her clit between them.
Our eyes met.
Sharon’s hips moved.
My fingers separated.
Her eyes closed.
I began to work, the job I had wanted since I had first seen Sharon in her Prada suit and Jimmy Choo pumps. My tongue nipped and tucked between her folds, smoothing the goose bumps that rose beneath my taste buds. Stroking, lapping. I measured the length of her slit with my hand, draping the curves and angles of her pussy. Her cunt squeezed my fingers, tested my fit, pulled me deeper, bruising my knuckles.
Wet my panties.
Sharon’s voice rang off the ceiling of the office, nearly setting me off. I pulled my hand from her and slid her wet juices through the hairs of my sex, my eyes squeezing shut.
“No!” she sat up, wrapping an arms around me. Her lips captured mine as her hand interlaced with my fingers between our bodies.
“Show me,” she whispered.
I put her hand under mine and played her fingers like I did a needle and thread, pushing and flowing together. Slipping and sliding in our juices. My abs clenched and I began to rock on our hands, our thumbs circling my clit one way then the next.
Dark red kisses were falling on my cheeks and eyelids, nibbling my chin and neck. Her tongue flicked my ear and told me how hot I was.
I was her Mags.
Sexy.
Talented.
Sharon’s artist, her little perfectionist.
My come flooded my pussy, our hands, her desk.
Sharon groaned, locking lips.
We wrapped our legs around each other, cunt meeting bush. Tongue sucking tongue.
Her hands slid up my tank, palms circling my hard knotted nipples; aching for her teeth. Sharon pushed the white cotton up around my armpits and her head dropped to my breasts. She pinched my nubbins between her pearly white teeth. My hips ground into hers, heat building again. Her hand cradled my pussy, rubbing in slow smooth circles; nails catching on the curly hairs sending pings of desire to my center.
Her blue eyes caught my brown. With a gentle hand, she pushed me back onto the desk and nibbled down my body. She nuzzled my ribs and sampled my navel. My giggles filled the office as she played, kissing her way over my belly and rubbing her cheeks against my bush.
Laughter was replaced by moans when her tongue slipped from between her lips and began to lap at my clit like a kitty at her saucer. She kept her tongue wide and flat, hitting every knit in my fabric. I could hardly breathe.
“Is this right?” she whispered, picking up tempo. “Or how about this?” Her fingers sank into me, twisting so that her hand could hit my g-spot. My eyes crossed.
The phone rang.
Like a pro, she replaced her tongue with her thumb and picked up the receiver with her free hand. She never lost the beat.
“Hello?”
My eyes focused on her face. Sharon’s lipstick was smeared across her cheeks, her lips and nose glossy with my juices.
“I’m so sorry.”
Her voice was rusty with desire.
“I won’t be able to come.”
Sex hair. A fuzzy ball at the back of her head.
“No, I’ll call you.”
She thrummed my clit.
I bit my lip.
The heat overwhelmed me.
Thighs clenched.
I cried out her name.
Sharon dropped the phone and crawled up my body, breasts meeting breasts. Our lips melded as my body arched off the desk, lifting her as I came. We collapsed against the teak, polished with our sweat.
We lay, catching our breath, her head in the crook of my arm; Sharon’s stocking clad thigh across my bare ones.
“Ms. Sharon?”
Our temples met.
“Mags?”
I reached for her hand and brought it to my lips.
“Ever take the subway to Brooklyn?”
“No.” She slid her hand along my cheek, turning my face to hers. “But I’ll take a taxi.”
When writing this little number I was pictureing the showroom I used to work at in NY. Having designed bathing suits there it wasn't a long stretch to picture lingerie being created. We also had an amazing seamstress named Magdalina, but she was a very sweet older lady. She would probably be shocked by this...lol...
Let me know what you think!
Reap What You Sew [1986 words] (FF, oral)
Copyright © 2005 by Crystal Barela
This story contains sexually explicit scenes.
I looked down at the sewing machine in front of me, adjusted the silk and lace under the needle and hit the presser foot. The whiz of the sewing machine echoed in the near empty room. Machines sat to my sides, in front and behind. A rainbow of delicate fabrics and ribbons were tucked in the drawers beneath my sewing table. Loose colorful threads dangled form their holders.
The delicate scent of roses preceded Sharon, along with the click-clack of her heels.
I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and glimpsed her walking past me from the corner of my eye. Her heels were high, too high to walk the paved streets of Manhattan, but she wore them everyday. No shorter than three inches in height, seamed stockings a favorite of hers.
Sharon looked the designer. One day the clean lines of Klein skimmed her curves, the next day the sumptuous fabrics of Gautier. A little flash and a lot of style could have been her motto.
It was after hours and Sharon had asked me to finish this bit of lace in front of me. A personal project. Not a difficult job, I turned out three dozen of these a day. When I was done it would be a delicate black lace demi-bra. The matching low-riding thong and garter belt were finished, also black, with contrasting cherry red stitching.
“Mags?”
I looked up from my needle. My name was Magdalina. She was the only one who called me Mags.
Sharon stood in her office doorway, white silk blouse unbuttoned and pulled from her black pencil skirt. I swallowed hard. She wasn’t wearing a bra and the gentle shadow of her cleavage winked at me when she put her hands on her hips.
“Yes, Ms. Sharon?”
She shook her head at me, smiling.
“Always so formal, Mags,” she walked toward me a natural sway to her hips. Her blonde hair skimmed her collar bones. “How long have we known each other? Four years?”
Four years, five months, two days, eight hours and a handful of minutes. But who’s counting? It had been winter and she had been late. Sharon had walked into the office unbelting an amazing white lamb’s wool trench, her calves encased in red leg-hugging leather that had looked as soft as butter; the heels topped four inches.
Underneath had been more winter white; a cashmere dress with a loosely clasped rhinestone belt floating on her hips. The hem just skimmed her knees. The only skin visible was her face, set on a pedestal of white.
“Nearly done?”
I focused on the project in front of me.
Sharon came up behind me and leaned over my shoulder, fingering the delicate material between her manicured fingers, the bright red polish setting off the lace.
The heat of her body pressed against my back. Her soft hair kissed my bare arm.
“Beautiful work.” She whispered her breath wetting my ear. I shivered, shifting the chair away from her, the screech of the legs against the floor echoed in the room.
“Thank you, Ms. Sharon.”
She stood, placing her hands on my shoulders.
“You really are the best seamstress we have, Mags.” She massaged my shoulders, thumbs brushing my neck. “Every stitch perfect.”
I trembled. “Thank you.”
“Are you a perfectionist in all that you do?”
I ignored her question and pressed my foot against the pedal. Sharon squeezed my shoulders lightly and then took the garter and panties and returned to her office. She looked over her shoulder in the doorway, letting her shirt fall down her back to her elbows.
“Bring the bra in when you finish.”
I nodded, trying to keep my eyes on my work.
Three more minutes and I would be done. Away from Sharon’s heels. Free of her perfume. Not near the lace that would be cupping her breasts and pussy as my hands ached to.
I would take the subway home to my little apartment in Brooklyn and sit in front of my air conditioner. I’d get out my Rabbit and take care of the heat Sharon created. A little time with the intense buzz of those little ears would banish this need.
I pulled the bra from under the foot of the machine. I snipped the loose threads with my scissors and held it in front of me. Sharon was right. Perfect.
I turned off my machine, straightened my sewing table and returned the thread to the shelves before heading to her office.
Sharon’s back was to me, her weight on one leg as she examined the design illustrations on the wall in front of her. She had removed her blouse and skirt. The thong and garter I had sewn licked her curves.
My mouth watered.
Her stockings were neatly in place, exposing a stretch of creamy thigh and ass.
I cleared my throat. Her shoulder blades shifted, muscles moving delicately beneath her skin.
Sharon smiled over her shoulder, adjusting the glasses perched on the end of her nose.
“Mags,” her smile grew wider. She came toward me, removing her specs. “That was quick.”
My eyes focused on her breasts. No bra necessary. Round, full, succulent. Nipples, pale blushing shadows, hardening at my stare. Or from the air-conditioning. I shook my head, fighting my desire.
“Thank you,” Sharon said. She stood closer than I would have liked. My skin flushed by her nearness. She took the bra from my hand and leaned into me, her lips grazing my cheek. “You’re an artist.”
I turned my head, my lips brushing hers.
My coverall’s met her breasts and a blush traveled up her chest to her cheeks.
She hesitated.
I didn’t.
My tongue traced her glossy pout.
Sharon’s tongue answered tentatively.
That was all the permission I needed.
I pressed her back against her desk, design markers rolling onto the floor as my tongue plundered her mouth. She moaned, her arms circling my neck and pulling the rubber band from my hair. My pony-tail slipped free and my black hair fell around our shoulders.
My fingers glided beneath the flimsy bit of silk covering her pussy and slid through her smooth folds. Wetness clung to my fingers, spreading the ache in my cunt. She gasped my name. I massaged her mound, my thumb circling her clit.
Sharon’s neck tasted like talcum. I kissed my way down to her breasts. Under my tongue, her nipples were hard little buttons. I sucked her into my mouth, her moans milking my pussy.
My panties were soaked.
Sharon’s hands fumbled with the hooks on my overalls, and the denim bunched up between us. My finger inched inside, then two, pushing along her silky walls. She bucked against my calloused hands.
Papers flew from her desk.
I kicked off my sneakers and climbed up with her in nothing but my white wife beater.
“Mags?” she gasped. I took a seat on her knee, rubbing my cunt against the smooth silk stocking.
“Ms. Sharon?”
“What are you doing?” Her thigh moved under me and I began to ride, keeping time with my hand in her cunt.
“Fucking you.”
Sharon laughed and I leaned in close to her wet box. I blew against her clit. Her wet pearl grew bold, peaking out from behind its curtain. I licked and it danced, taking hold of my tongue in an unfamiliar beat. My taste buds popped.
Sweet, bitter, tart, salty.
Her fingers slid through my hair, her pretty nails skimming my scalp in a tingling caress.
I found her spot. Sharon’s fingers yanked my tresses, knotting in my hair.
My thumb met my fingers. I serviced her hot cunt, sliding deeper with each flick of my tongue. Her moans were crazy love sounds, begging me to stop, pleading with me to take her. Her pussy grabbed the widest part of my hand protesting for a moment, before sighing around my palm.
Embracing my wrist.
I froze, my lips holding her clit between them.
Our eyes met.
Sharon’s hips moved.
My fingers separated.
Her eyes closed.
I began to work, the job I had wanted since I had first seen Sharon in her Prada suit and Jimmy Choo pumps. My tongue nipped and tucked between her folds, smoothing the goose bumps that rose beneath my taste buds. Stroking, lapping. I measured the length of her slit with my hand, draping the curves and angles of her pussy. Her cunt squeezed my fingers, tested my fit, pulled me deeper, bruising my knuckles.
Wet my panties.
Sharon’s voice rang off the ceiling of the office, nearly setting me off. I pulled my hand from her and slid her wet juices through the hairs of my sex, my eyes squeezing shut.
“No!” she sat up, wrapping an arms around me. Her lips captured mine as her hand interlaced with my fingers between our bodies.
“Show me,” she whispered.
I put her hand under mine and played her fingers like I did a needle and thread, pushing and flowing together. Slipping and sliding in our juices. My abs clenched and I began to rock on our hands, our thumbs circling my clit one way then the next.
Dark red kisses were falling on my cheeks and eyelids, nibbling my chin and neck. Her tongue flicked my ear and told me how hot I was.
I was her Mags.
Sexy.
Talented.
Sharon’s artist, her little perfectionist.
My come flooded my pussy, our hands, her desk.
Sharon groaned, locking lips.
We wrapped our legs around each other, cunt meeting bush. Tongue sucking tongue.
Her hands slid up my tank, palms circling my hard knotted nipples; aching for her teeth. Sharon pushed the white cotton up around my armpits and her head dropped to my breasts. She pinched my nubbins between her pearly white teeth. My hips ground into hers, heat building again. Her hand cradled my pussy, rubbing in slow smooth circles; nails catching on the curly hairs sending pings of desire to my center.
Her blue eyes caught my brown. With a gentle hand, she pushed me back onto the desk and nibbled down my body. She nuzzled my ribs and sampled my navel. My giggles filled the office as she played, kissing her way over my belly and rubbing her cheeks against my bush.
Laughter was replaced by moans when her tongue slipped from between her lips and began to lap at my clit like a kitty at her saucer. She kept her tongue wide and flat, hitting every knit in my fabric. I could hardly breathe.
“Is this right?” she whispered, picking up tempo. “Or how about this?” Her fingers sank into me, twisting so that her hand could hit my g-spot. My eyes crossed.
The phone rang.
Like a pro, she replaced her tongue with her thumb and picked up the receiver with her free hand. She never lost the beat.
“Hello?”
My eyes focused on her face. Sharon’s lipstick was smeared across her cheeks, her lips and nose glossy with my juices.
“I’m so sorry.”
Her voice was rusty with desire.
“I won’t be able to come.”
Sex hair. A fuzzy ball at the back of her head.
“No, I’ll call you.”
She thrummed my clit.
I bit my lip.
The heat overwhelmed me.
Thighs clenched.
I cried out her name.
Sharon dropped the phone and crawled up my body, breasts meeting breasts. Our lips melded as my body arched off the desk, lifting her as I came. We collapsed against the teak, polished with our sweat.
We lay, catching our breath, her head in the crook of my arm; Sharon’s stocking clad thigh across my bare ones.
“Ms. Sharon?”
Our temples met.
“Mags?”
I reached for her hand and brought it to my lips.
“Ever take the subway to Brooklyn?”
“No.” She slid her hand along my cheek, turning my face to hers. “But I’ll take a taxi.”
Thursday, January 11, 2007
www.rotten.com
I love this site and I stole the information and photos below on the topic of the penis cake from rotten.com. There are more pics on the site that are very intersting.
I'm Bill Kurtis. For centuries, men and women have searched for innovative ways to stuff their mouths with enormous dicks. Whether single or looking, straight or gay, happily married or fading quietly into the background of an interminable bachelorette party, never forget that Valentine's Day looms somewhere in your immediate future. This year, instead of disposable diamonds, sappy love poems or a forgettable second honeymoon, take a cue from the Rotten Library and lovingly craft for your significant other something they can really choke down good and proper.
"Erotic" cakes have an uncertain history, since a cake can only be defined abstractly: an amalgam of doughy, tactile ingredients smooshed together and solidified to some degree -- without necessarily being placed against fire or inside a wood burning stove. In ancient times, cakes were rolled or hand-pressed into patties which more closely resembled bread, optionally sweetened with raisins, nuts, or honey. Whether or not turn-of-the-century pattycakes will ever qualify as "erotic" is a source of endless rivalry among today's leading anthropologists. One point of scholarly agreement is that based on cave paintings and crude etchings, boobs and boners sure looked weird back then.
Even the English word "cake" is an unfortunate generational deritvative of the Norse word kaka, making a scholarly review of penis cakes all the more childish. The ancient Greeks called their cakes plakous, meaning flat -- but the word later evolved to evoke images of the placenta, introducing concepts which could not be any less erotic and therefore beyond the scope of this tutorial. Soap cakes and urinal cakes certainly fit the Oxford English dictionary's limited description. They're typically flat, and they have been glimpsed in or around the company of penises -- although their level of eroticism remains steadfastly relative to personal preference.
The earliest cakely prototypes -- erotic or otherwise -- first popped up in 17th century Europe, after technological advancements in ovens and tin tray molds caught up to the availability of flour and refined sugar. The erotic titty cakes and big-balled popovers we've come to know and love emerged over time from flattened cookies and shortbreads.
Eventually, sweeter icings evolved from simple fruit garnishes and glazes: sticky, boiled compositions of sugar and egg whites. Several generations of erotic chefs would live and die before refined white flour and baking powder replaced yeast, making cakes ten times more delicious and paving the way for more edible pastries truly worth knob-gobbling.
"You Design It, We'll Bake It" is the company motto of the world-famous Kopps Bakery, where all the cakes are hand-carved and never made from a mold. Kopps has been in business since 1961, and now boasts over 350 stores around the globe. Their press release claims they can create "any design you can imagine, from a couple making love to a hand-carved male organ or a female torso with edible panties and bra". The names of individual pastries in their bachelorette catalogue reads like a laundry list of rejected Hustler magazine copy: Dick Laying on Her Breasts, Ride 'Em Cowgirl on a Big Dick, Male Organ in Butt, Long Thin Johnson in Big Black Ass (made to order) -- and the enigmatic Busted-Up Dick Cake That Had Cum for the Last Time. Take at look at the artful, precision handiwork Kopps can deliver in just under an hour:
Christ on the cross, maybe they do need a mold. Somebody get these folks a muffin tin. Their online order form is similarly cluttered: just millimeters away from the link to order a Big Daddy Dick Cum Cake, one can accidentally click the Sesame Street Elmo cake. Watch those butterfingers, mom.
And watch those copyrights: a triple-tiered vanilla angel food cake fashioned after your ex-boyfriend's cock sock will be easier to market and sell than anything you've constructed with a Mickey Mouse mold or Spongecake Squarepan. Respected baking supply companies like Sugarcraft of Hamilton, Ohio specialize in the art of food decoration. They go out of their way to distance themselves from clients who sell unauthorized cakes made from molds of copyrighted characters like Winnie the Pooh, Barney, Dora the Explorer and others. In dessert factories, the mantra is still "don't mess with the mouse". Copyright police who show up to harass your small-scale bakery are happy to set you up with a $10,000 fine.
Because of zoning regulations, chef Paul Condra's Erotic Bakery in Seattle, Washington is the only full-time penis cake manufacturer in the Pacific Northwest. Working with a two-man crew, Conda serves close to 150 customers each day. "We're very streamlined and efficient. The gummy boobs and gummy penises are very popular," Condra told the University of Washington Daily. Since 1986, Condra's penis cakes have remained the Erotic Bakery's best-selling items -- so popular, in fact, that the Erotic Bakery has branched out into a line of paper goods: plates and napkins covered with penises, penis-shaped straws and dry pasta fashioned after big bent boners.
Other hazards you might encounter as a baker of erotic cakes are nuisances constructed by cranky, uptight citizenry. In 2005, a Belgian woman sued the owner of a private pastry boutique who dared to peddle erotic marzipan figures for Valentine's Day. The woman claimed the cakes depicted sexual positions, and argued that they shouldn't be publicly displayed in the baker's shop window. The chef, identified by the Het Laatste news service only as Baker Van Buggenhout (say it out loud if you wish) insisted that it was all in fun -- and that the figures didn't even show sexual organs.
"People laugh when they see them," the baker stated calmly, neither bugged out nor on the verge of bugging out. "They buy them to give to their wives or girlfriends." The elderly complainant who lived near the bakery shop window insisted that by putting the erotic morsels on display, the baker was effectively exposing children to pornography.
Meanwhile, have you seen what passes for window displays in Amsterdam? Hint: big floppy half-naked prostitutes underneath red light bulbs, none of which are made of fresh marzipan. And as for you footloose and fancy-free gay dads, Kopps Bakery more or less has you covered with treats like the Gay Bed Cake and the infamous Marzipan Men To Lick Cake. This treat features two cuddly Ken doll look-a-likes, determined dongs pointing north, cavorting in the yin-yang position. In addition to misshapen lumps of frosting, Kopps' Erotic Bakery created the world's largest chocolate cream pie for the Rosie O'Donnell show: over six feet in diameter and 800 pounds. Then in 1998, they created the world's largest Pop Tart, showcased in Madison Square Garden -- 25 feet by 35 feet, weight over 1500 pounds.
If your modeling skills are less than stellar -- or the idea of squeezing dough into crude shapes which only vaguely resemble testicles, penis cake pans might be the way to go. Suitable for shaping cookies, brownies, or Jell-O, the majority of consumer peckerware and booby molding cups are dishwasher safe and non-tarnishing. Naturally, they're available in a variety of "big boy" shapes, sizes and circumcisions -- and quite perfect for raucous bachelorette parties or nudging that long-awaited sexual harassment suit up into second gear. For those even less talented in the cooking department, curiously-shaped cake toppers are an elegant afterthought. These are miniature, edible accoutrements, typically made of marzipan or a gelatinous gummy bear substance, widely available in novelty shops. Cake toppers can be squiggled and bent to represent numerical shapes (Congrats On Your 40th) or fashioned from fine beeswax into proper candles, affectionately referred to as dicks with wicks.
I'm Bill Kurtis. For centuries, men and women have searched for innovative ways to stuff their mouths with enormous dicks. Whether single or looking, straight or gay, happily married or fading quietly into the background of an interminable bachelorette party, never forget that Valentine's Day looms somewhere in your immediate future. This year, instead of disposable diamonds, sappy love poems or a forgettable second honeymoon, take a cue from the Rotten Library and lovingly craft for your significant other something they can really choke down good and proper."Erotic" cakes have an uncertain history, since a cake can only be defined abstractly: an amalgam of doughy, tactile ingredients smooshed together and solidified to some degree -- without necessarily being placed against fire or inside a wood burning stove. In ancient times, cakes were rolled or hand-pressed into patties which more closely resembled bread, optionally sweetened with raisins, nuts, or honey. Whether or not turn-of-the-century pattycakes will ever qualify as "erotic" is a source of endless rivalry among today's leading anthropologists. One point of scholarly agreement is that based on cave paintings and crude etchings, boobs and boners sure looked weird back then.
Even the English word "cake" is an unfortunate generational deritvative of the Norse word kaka, making a scholarly review of penis cakes all the more childish. The ancient Greeks called their cakes plakous, meaning flat -- but the word later evolved to evoke images of the placenta, introducing concepts which could not be any less erotic and therefore beyond the scope of this tutorial. Soap cakes and urinal cakes certainly fit the Oxford English dictionary's limited description. They're typically flat, and they have been glimpsed in or around the company of penises -- although their level of eroticism remains steadfastly relative to personal preference.
The earliest cakely prototypes -- erotic or otherwise -- first popped up in 17th century Europe, after technological advancements in ovens and tin tray molds caught up to the availability of flour and refined sugar. The erotic titty cakes and big-balled popovers we've come to know and love emerged over time from flattened cookies and shortbreads.
Eventually, sweeter icings evolved from simple fruit garnishes and glazes: sticky, boiled compositions of sugar and egg whites. Several generations of erotic chefs would live and die before refined white flour and baking powder replaced yeast, making cakes ten times more delicious and paving the way for more edible pastries truly worth knob-gobbling.
"You Design It, We'll Bake It" is the company motto of the world-famous Kopps Bakery, where all the cakes are hand-carved and never made from a mold. Kopps has been in business since 1961, and now boasts over 350 stores around the globe. Their press release claims they can create "any design you can imagine, from a couple making love to a hand-carved male organ or a female torso with edible panties and bra". The names of individual pastries in their bachelorette catalogue reads like a laundry list of rejected Hustler magazine copy: Dick Laying on Her Breasts, Ride 'Em Cowgirl on a Big Dick, Male Organ in Butt, Long Thin Johnson in Big Black Ass (made to order) -- and the enigmatic Busted-Up Dick Cake That Had Cum for the Last Time. Take at look at the artful, precision handiwork Kopps can deliver in just under an hour:
Christ on the cross, maybe they do need a mold. Somebody get these folks a muffin tin. Their online order form is similarly cluttered: just millimeters away from the link to order a Big Daddy Dick Cum Cake, one can accidentally click the Sesame Street Elmo cake. Watch those butterfingers, mom.
And watch those copyrights: a triple-tiered vanilla angel food cake fashioned after your ex-boyfriend's cock sock will be easier to market and sell than anything you've constructed with a Mickey Mouse mold or Spongecake Squarepan. Respected baking supply companies like Sugarcraft of Hamilton, Ohio specialize in the art of food decoration. They go out of their way to distance themselves from clients who sell unauthorized cakes made from molds of copyrighted characters like Winnie the Pooh, Barney, Dora the Explorer and others. In dessert factories, the mantra is still "don't mess with the mouse". Copyright police who show up to harass your small-scale bakery are happy to set you up with a $10,000 fine.
Because of zoning regulations, chef Paul Condra's Erotic Bakery in Seattle, Washington is the only full-time penis cake manufacturer in the Pacific Northwest. Working with a two-man crew, Conda serves close to 150 customers each day. "We're very streamlined and efficient. The gummy boobs and gummy penises are very popular," Condra told the University of Washington Daily. Since 1986, Condra's penis cakes have remained the Erotic Bakery's best-selling items -- so popular, in fact, that the Erotic Bakery has branched out into a line of paper goods: plates and napkins covered with penises, penis-shaped straws and dry pasta fashioned after big bent boners.
Other hazards you might encounter as a baker of erotic cakes are nuisances constructed by cranky, uptight citizenry. In 2005, a Belgian woman sued the owner of a private pastry boutique who dared to peddle erotic marzipan figures for Valentine's Day. The woman claimed the cakes depicted sexual positions, and argued that they shouldn't be publicly displayed in the baker's shop window. The chef, identified by the Het Laatste news service only as Baker Van Buggenhout (say it out loud if you wish) insisted that it was all in fun -- and that the figures didn't even show sexual organs.
"People laugh when they see them," the baker stated calmly, neither bugged out nor on the verge of bugging out. "They buy them to give to their wives or girlfriends." The elderly complainant who lived near the bakery shop window insisted that by putting the erotic morsels on display, the baker was effectively exposing children to pornography.
Meanwhile, have you seen what passes for window displays in Amsterdam? Hint: big floppy half-naked prostitutes underneath red light bulbs, none of which are made of fresh marzipan. And as for you footloose and fancy-free gay dads, Kopps Bakery more or less has you covered with treats like the Gay Bed Cake and the infamous Marzipan Men To Lick Cake. This treat features two cuddly Ken doll look-a-likes, determined dongs pointing north, cavorting in the yin-yang position. In addition to misshapen lumps of frosting, Kopps' Erotic Bakery created the world's largest chocolate cream pie for the Rosie O'Donnell show: over six feet in diameter and 800 pounds. Then in 1998, they created the world's largest Pop Tart, showcased in Madison Square Garden -- 25 feet by 35 feet, weight over 1500 pounds.
If your modeling skills are less than stellar -- or the idea of squeezing dough into crude shapes which only vaguely resemble testicles, penis cake pans might be the way to go. Suitable for shaping cookies, brownies, or Jell-O, the majority of consumer peckerware and booby molding cups are dishwasher safe and non-tarnishing. Naturally, they're available in a variety of "big boy" shapes, sizes and circumcisions -- and quite perfect for raucous bachelorette parties or nudging that long-awaited sexual harassment suit up into second gear. For those even less talented in the cooking department, curiously-shaped cake toppers are an elegant afterthought. These are miniature, edible accoutrements, typically made of marzipan or a gelatinous gummy bear substance, widely available in novelty shops. Cake toppers can be squiggled and bent to represent numerical shapes (Congrats On Your 40th) or fashioned from fine beeswax into proper candles, affectionately referred to as dicks with wicks.The inscriptions which traditionally accompany personalized erotic cakes -- penis and otherwise -- range from lukewarm and uninspired to dull-as-an-office-party. According to Masturbakers, a custom cake and pastry manufacturer in New York, there are eight particularly popular pieces of copy which never go out of style. In no particular order, consider communicating your appreciation with clever quippery like Tits Your Birthday, Breast Wishes, Make A Wish And Blow, This Butt's For You, To Have And To Hold, The Breast Is Yet To Cum, and of course the old chestnuts A Hard Man Is Good To Find and Have Your Cake And Eat It Too.
Masturbakers' cakes are reasonably priced: an extra large John Holmes cake will run you about $100. A large Pussy cake, meanwhile, goes for $65. The Tommy Lee, with optional tuxedo, will feed anywhere from ten to twelve children for a modest $45. All the way across the country -- for $1,800 -- costume and prop supplier Tim Vittetoe Originals in Washington state can manufacture a pop-out stripper cake four feet in diameter, perfect for stage shows or special events, and capable of supporting overweight strippers weighing up to and including three hundred pounds! Gross.
When Adam Roberts of Amateur Gourmet chose to immortalize floppy, disgusting boobs in dessert form, he took a cue from the Janet Jackson Super Bowl incident. Roberts found the perfect recipe for cappuccino cupcakes with cocoa-tinted white chocolate and sour cream frosting. The hard part was making the boobs just the right shade of brown, to match Ms. Jackson's skin tone. After several experiments, he ended up sifting together powdered sugar with "a cautious amount" of cocoa. A single Hershey's Kiss served as the nipple, piping white icing in a spider web lattice to simulate the nipple jewelry. "The likeness was uncanny," Roberts reported. So delighted was Adam with his erotic accomplishment that he now sells T-shirts celebrating his Jackson cupcakes.
And let's never forget the dutiful service record of Patrick Stewart (a.k.a. Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Starship Enterprise) who served as a guest host on Saturday Night Live in February of 1993. One of the characters he chose to portray was a baker of erotic cakes, fixated on one subject in particular. Let's ripple-dissolve to the fading sound of angels strumming on flashback harps and remember that classic sketch together.
Young Man: Yeah, my friend's having a bachelor party, and I thought it might be kind of fun if I got him an erotic cake.
Picard: Well, you've come to the right place. I have the perfect sexy cake for a bachelor party. [opens box]
Young Man: Looks like a woman going to the bathroom.
Picard: Yeah! It's very sexy.
Young Man: What else do you have?
Picard: Well, why don't we take a look at our catalogue? Here's a woman squatting behind some bushes. The leaves are made of spun sugar. And here's a lady using a little marzipan port-o-potty.
Young Man: So, all your cakes are women going to the bathroom?
Picard: Yeah. What's your point?
Young Man: Well, don't you have anything else?
Picard: Maybe you don't understand - this is an erotic bakery.
Young Man: I'm sorry, I just don't find this very erotic.
Picard: A woman going to the bathroom, you don't find it erotic?
Young Man: Not really.
Picard: Well then, what pray tell would you suggest we do put on our erotic cakes?
Young Man: I don't know. People having sex. Female and male genitalia. You know, something like that.
Picard: Well, if that's what you're after, I suggest you try Hostess or Sara Lee!
Young Man: Can't you just make a cake with a couple on it having sex?
Picard: All right, look. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll make a cake with a woman and a man going to the bathroom. And that way you'll be happy and your friends will be happy.
Young Man: I don't think my friends would like that either.
Picard: Well, I would certainly like to meet these friends of yours sometime.
Young Man: Look, could we just have a cake with sex and no going to the bathroom?
Picard: May I remind you that you're going to have to eat this cake?
Today of course, dirty pictures from your computer -- even in GIF or JPEG format -- can easily be transferred photo realistically to a cake right in your own home, without the hassle of nosy third-party erotic vendors or copyright enforcement police. Feel free to do it yourself: the CopyKake company in Torrence, California sells edible inks offering outstanding color reproduction with a minimum of "head clogging," a common printing problem which sounds conspicuously like the inspiration for an erotic cake in and of itself.
Intentional or otherwise, CopyKake's groundbreaking line of computerized cake decorating products have helped bring erotic pastries into the twenty-first century. Sadly, the majority of customers who purchase edible inks have yet to adequately exploit the technology for the purposes of erotica.
Printers compatible with the Canon brand of bubble jets can be loaded with edible ink cartridges -- cyan, magenta, yellow and black. The unused inks have a shelf life of six months, if properly refrigerated. Thermal reversibility allows for an optimum ratio of colored inks to bond with the icing. Pornography can be printed with these edible inks onto frosting sheets: light, edible papers made of corn starch and sugar. The sheets, freshly inked, are peeled from their backings and laid atop a refrigerated cake flat-frosted with butter cream or non-dairy topping. In fifteen minutes, your hand-made erotic cake will be more than ready to sproing on a loved one -- just in time for Valentine's Day.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
The Law and the Lady
In the past editors often arbitrarily cut "erotic" passages from novel manuscripts, even if the aurthor's contract specified that his book was to be published verbatim from his manuscript. This happened to Wilkie Collins, whose The Law and the Lady (1875) was so bowdlerized. The edited version of the passage in question read: "He caught my hand in his and covered it with kisses. In the indignition of the moment I cried out for help." The "objectionable" original version read: "He caught my hand in his and covered it with kisses. He twisted himself suddenly in the chair, and wound his arm around my waist. In the terror and indignation of the moment, seriously struggling with him, I cried out for help."
- Taken from The Literary Life and Other Curiosities by Robert Hendrickson
- Taken from The Literary Life and Other Curiosities by Robert Hendrickson
Monday, January 08, 2007
Quote of the Day
"I was really into bestiality, sadomasochism, and necrophilia, but then I realized I was just beating a dead horse."
- unkown
- unkown
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