Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Category Archives: Sex
Christmas is coming
Little rubber hats off to YesButNoButYes for finding this Ann Summers lingerie ad. (Borderline safe for work; not safe for anyone who gets her panties in a wad whenever the Christmas spirit is, um, sullied.)
Y’all make the funniest faces.
D.
Professionally bad sex
Remember our Le Bad Sex competition? It was inspired by Guardian Unlimited Books’ Bad Sex in Fiction Award. Props to The Word Munger for feeding me this link to a Guardian Unlimited article providing full text of the firmest contenders.
(Sarah beat me to it, but since one or two of you don’t read the Smart Bitches, and since the above link is — apologies, Sarah, but it must be said — far more graphic, I decided to run with it.)
What is it about sex that drives such respected authors as John Updike, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and Salman Rushdie to the absolute pits of literary whiffydom? Read the Guardian Unlimited article and savor the rank odor of truly bad writing. Sorry, Daisy, I know your piece won my contest, but it shouldn’t have. It was far too well written.
Take one of the shorter entries:
The Olive Readers by Christine Aziz (Macmillan)
We made our way to the summerhouse and hid in its shadows. We lay on the cool floor and I twined my legs around Homer’s body, gripping him like a hunter hanging on to its prey. He made love to me with his fingers and I came in the palm of his hand. He stroked my breasts and neck. “Don’t wash it away” he said. “I want to be able to smell you tonight.”
Like a hunter hanging on to its prey? And what’s with the funky punctuation (“Don’t wash it away” he said.)? My high school AP English teachers would have red-lined me to hell and back.
As for content — eeew. You wouldn’t repeat this to your best friend, would you? For most people, this would qualify as too much information. If you wouldn’t tell it to your best friend, why would you share it with your readers?
Ah. I almost forgot the sole commandment of Serious Fiction: give us a glimpse of Truth. This also explains the following line from Marlon Brando and Donald Cammell’s Fan Tan:
It is the one drawback of fellatio as conscientious as hers that it eliminates the chance for small talk and poetry alike.
Guys: next time you’re gettin’ some and your gal is reciting “The Red Wheelbarrow,” tell her she’s not being conscientious enough. See how far you get.
D.
A boner for Kate
This one’s just for you, Kate.
From Pharyngula, we have a report on the genetic basis for the lack of a penile bone (baculum) in most male mammals.
Fun and interesting penis facts:
- Most men don’t need that bone!
- It is possible to fracture a penis. Top gals, the weight limit is 120 lbs. (I just made that up.)
- Cat penises are barbed. Rrrrooowwrrr!
- Foreskins secrete a neuropeptide which prevents complex synaptic connections in the brain necessary for any thought more complex than, Grog want woman. (Yup, I just made that one up, too.)
- My nurse just told me she knew an anesthesiologist who claimed “his penis looked like Yul Bryner in a turtleneck.”
Open thread to discuss your fun and interesting penis facts.
D.
Undersexed men of the world, unite
You have nothing to lose but your woodies.
Overheard at The Washington Note (who says Mr. Clemons only cares about politics?): this international sex survey by the good folks at Durex. A few moist facts for your Sunday brunch:
The French claim to have the most sex (on average, 137 times per year), while the Japanese are having the least (46). Yet, knowing the Japanese national propensity for overdoing it, each of those 46 episodes no doubt involved multiple partners, mirrored ceilings, and toys so high-tech the rest of us can only watch Futurama and dream.
The British spend the most time on foreplay (22.5 minutes). Thais spend the least (11.5 minutes). Americans match the international average (19.7 minutes). And I ask: why so little time on foreplay? Even the 16- to 20-year-old cohort spent, on average, a measly 21.6 minutes on foreplay. What’s wrong with kids today?
Italians are the most orgasmic (61%), Chinese the least (19%). Hope that’s not genetic.
17% of men claim to have faked an orgasm. Huh?
The Chinese have had the most sexual partners (19.3), Vietnamese the least (2.5), with the great melting pot, the American satan, once again matching the international average (10.3).
Macedonians lead the world in spankings (42%), followed closely by the US of A (41%).
I’ll let you folks search for more tidbits. I’ve already tried trotting out the stats for Karen, but the wife? Meh. She’s unimpressed by their statistical techniques. (Actually, what she said was, “Everyone lies on those things.”)
D.
I’ll take a winged Eros, please
You think I’m lazy? Me, lazy? We did this last night:
The Piledriver from Sexual Positions Free.Com
. . . and we used real wooden mannequins.
Somehow, sex looks more fun when genitalia-free mannequins get it on. Rent the uncut version of Team America and tell me I’m wrong.
D.
Ubersexual — so that’s what I am!
Thanks to Beth for pointing me towards Sandy Oakes’s Romancing the Blog post, Ubersexuals. At last, I find someone who understands my true nature.
Let’s see how I stack up. According to Marsha Saltzman’s book The Future of Men, the Ubersexual
- “embraces his masculine qualities (the M-ness factor) which includes confidence, leadership, passion and compassion.” Yup, that’s me, all the way. Just ask Karen.
- “is passionate about causes and principles.” Check.
- “treats and respects women as equals, but considers other men his best friends.” But my wife is my best friend. Does that make me (gasp!) a metrosexual? Am I less uber for my choice in friends?
- “is sensual and not self-conscious.” Sensual, yes, but . . . does worrying about my belly blubber count as self-consciousness?
- “knows ‘the difference between right and wrong and will make the right decision regardless of what others around him may think.'” Check.
By my conservative estimate, this makes me at least 70% ubersexual. That’s good enough to overturn a Presidential veto — ubersexual it is! Yippee. This sounds like a good (albeit vaguely Third Reichich) thing.
One problem: I don’t like being on top. Does that make me an untersexual?
D.
Sex, more sex, and a new meme
Ever since we moved, we’re on dial-up modem. Karen hasn’t called to set up the cable modem. There’s no upside to dial-up modems but there are numerous downsides. For example, to watch my virtual girlfriend fulfill every possible command would, at the present download speed, take 53.3 hours. I’m not that desperate. (more…)
Coitus interruptus
Have any of you ever been in the thick of it with your spouse when all of a sudden the cat started myowrowling outside the window, and you tried to ignore it, but then your son came tap-tapping at the bedroom door, complaining, “I can’t get to sleep with the cat making that racket!” And after putting on your clothes and getting your son back to bed, you let the cat back in, figuring she needed something to eat, but she only wanted to get back outside again, and then she waited just long enough for you and your spouse to get hot and heavy again before myowrowling a second time, so you let her in and figured, “Oh, to hell with it, let her watch,” even though she wouldn’t stop complaining, but still you managed to get the job done (thinking, This is not what I had in mind when I imagined a threesome), and afterwards put the cat out again, only to have her snap up in her jaws the dead mouse which is what she wanted to show you all along, and then she brought it into your bedroom and proceeded to crunch her way through it on your carpet, because, damn it, she wanted an audience, too?
Not that any of this happened. I’m just asking.
D.
And the winner is . . .
One long-ass paragraph:
After waxing the racing stripes on my woody, she buffed my chassis with hands as smooth as a chamois. I compensated by adjusting her headlights and performing a tune-up, revving her engine until it purred. Her wheels flanking my underbody, I inserted my dipstick to make sure she was sufficiently lubed, then scoped out her spark plugs with my diagnostic tool. She lost all cruise control then, begging for more torque and increased acceleration, pushing me beyond the speed limit with a flagrant disregard for improved gas mileage. No problem with my 6-speed manual transmission. I greased her rear spoiler before she clamped her fenders around my exhaust outlet. I almost lost it while tailgating her, but managed to keep my tire properly inflated. I shifted into gear, applying my hydraulic clutch, which sent her anti-lock braking system into overdrive. Traction control became difficult with all the skidding and fishtailing. Then our radiators started to steam so we flipped on the defoggers. When her bucket seat lurched, I ratcheted her safety belt as my rod pistoned her battery. I thrust into fourth gear with a powerful gas emission, blew my horn, and burned rubber across the finish line.
Daisy, I’ll be emailing you just as soon as I figure out how to do a Barnes & Noble gift certificate. Thanks to all for playing!
D.