Category / Sex

by Edward Champion

In Short, God Dictates That Marital Conflicts Are Best Resolved by Fucking Your Spouse’s Brains Out

Mr. Jared Wilson may be my sworn rival, but this link of his is too unintentionally hilarious to pass up. Under “2. A Sexually fulfilled husband is a scriptural mandate.” (directed to women):

If the marriage is a satisfied one, both parties will see the other’s side. The man may realize his wife needs her sleep and, because of his love for her, lets her get that sleep. Or the wife may sacrificially decide that giving her body with joy to her husband is more important than those few minutes of slumber.

Some of these interludes, although they may start off rocky, can end up being great. But in so many marriages, when a spouse gets turned down, the seeds of bitterness are planted to the point where, later that day, the wife asks the husband to go to the grocery store and he says, “No, I can’t.”

“Why not? You’re just watching the game.”

“I’m busy.”

“You don’t look busy.”

“I don’t care what I look like, I’m busy.”

What’s going on here?

It’s a delayed reaction. Admittedly, while it’s a cheap shot, it happens all the time. The husband thinks, If she turns me down, I’ll turn her down.

And there’s this advice directed to men:

Good sex is an all-day affair. You can’t treat your wife like a servant and expect her to be eager to sleep with you at night. Your wife’s sexual responsiveness will be determined by how willingly you help out with the dishes, the kids’ homework, or that leaky faucet that drips.

This is difficult for many men to understand, in large part because we remove sex from every other part of our life. We think sex fixes things on its own—but it doesn’t do that for a woman. The context, the history, the current level of emotional closeness—all that directly affects your wife’s desire and enjoyment of sexual relations. A good lover works just as hard outside the bedroom as he does inside it.

…

Husbands, do you want a wife who has less stress, who’s more appreciative and respectful of you? Learn what pleases her sexually.

Who knew that Eisenhower-era views of marriage and sexual “empowerment” could all be tied together in one happy bow of naive resolution? Whacked out, to say the least.

by Edward Champion

Stop the Illegal Marriages in Texas!

The people of Texas have spoken. They have passed Proposition 2, which states:

This state or a political subdivision of this state may not create or recognize any legal status identical or similar to marriage.

The time has come for Texas to form the Marriage Police to enforce this law. We need to see special forces units bursting into homes and tearing husbands and wives apart. All marriages must be annulled! No more marriages can happen! This is the will of the Texas people and the letter of the law.

Since sodomy was legislated as a misdemeanor (until State v. Morales, 869 S.W. 2d 941 overturned it), and there is a spirit among Texas voters to legislate against any unsual sort of sex outside of marriage, and since, after passing Proposition 2, there is likely a considerable sum of illegal marriages now being practiced among some 20 million Texans, we must therefore conclude that sex within marriage is the only acceptable form that Texas supports. Of course, since Texas can no longer “create or recognize any legal status identical to marriage,” the time has come to arrest any Texan copulating with someone they may identify as “spouse.” There shall no longer be any marriages in Texas and there shall no longer be any fornication outside of marriage. Which means, in short, that there can no longer be any fornication at all!

I trust the majority of the Texas people, who have always been a pigheaded and law-abiding sort, to enforce this law fully, starting of course with George and Laura Bush, who were married on November 5, 1977 at the Glass Chapel of First United Methodist Church in Midland, Texas. Give this “First Lady” her marching orders right now, George. Your Texas marriage is no longer recognized and you are, as a result, living in sin. In the White House no less! Or marry her in another state, if you truly want to preserve the legal status of your marriage.

by Edward Champion

‘Tis the Season for Filmcrit Compilations

While the blogosphere din has been abuzz about Ron Hogan’s forthcoming The Stewardess is Landing the Plane! and John Scalzi’s The Rough Guide to Sci-Fi Movies, there’s another film criticism volume making the rounds that’s worth your while. Jami Bernard’s The X List: Movies That Turn Us On (Da Capo Press) would seem, from an aperçu, to be one of those collections that commingles two fantastic topics of interest: sex and movies. But within its pages, one finds not only reevaluations of reviled movies (J. Hoberman, for example, recontextualizing Basic Instinct as a study of pathology rather than a homophobic onslaught, Peter Travers defending Ken Russell’s vulgarity in the vastly underrated Crimes of Passion), but a loving tribute to teat provocateur Russ Meyer from Roger Ebert, David Sterritt remarking upon how Gaspar Noe’s Irreversible can be seen as a culturally galvanizing film, and David Edelstein ferreting out the sexual politics of the Hammer classic Horror of Dracula.

Aside from the considerable space devoted to Salon contributors, I’m rather astonished that no one in this collection has seen fit to comment upon Betty Blue, Kiss of the Spider Woman or even the sexual dynamic between Sigourney Weaver and Ben Kingsley in the frequently overlooked Death and the Maiden. But Bernard has done a commendable job of collecting enough thought-provoking essays (including several by the always thoughtful Jonathan Rosenbaum) which suggest that titilation isn’t always the primary concern when it comes to cinematic eroticism and that sex, often perceived as the tawdry entry point, is often an effective method to draw larger conclusions about humanity at large.

The book also alerted me to something I didn’t know: apparently, there’s an uncensored version of Baby Facemaking the rounds which once played the Castro Theatre (and that I unfortunately missed). Thankfully, Warner may be releasing this newly discovered print as part of a major Pre-Code Hollywood DVD box set next year.

by Edward Champion

Strange

by Edward Champion

A Short List of Words That Inexplicably Turn Me On

From today’s edition of TMI Linguistics:

  • librarian
  • sizzle
  • crackle
  • Molly (and yet, strangely enough, I’ve never dated a Molly; likely because I’m terrified that the frequent use of this word in my presence (“Can I get you something, Molly?”) might cause me to move too fast)
  • Almost any word with two Ls, except “Lolita” and “flagellation.”
  • muffle (but not “muffin,” which sounds vaguely pederastic)
  • pink slip (Fortunately, I’ve never been handed one. Or else the prospect of termination would become strangely alluring.)
  • recherche
  • splendiferous
  • lap
  • stipple
  • comfort (in both noun and verb form; it is often confusing when women in particular refer to “comfort food,” as I suspect that these folks may have some interesting fetish that I’d like to find out about)
  • wrinkle (only in verb form and in a highly specific context)

[SIDE NOTE: Would it be too much to ask for them to come up with a sexy word for intricate and orante? “Baroque” sounds like someone has just replaced the washcloth with a Brillo Pad without your knowledge and “rococo” reminds me of a certain cereal I didn’t care for as a child (that had an obnoxious bird mascot nonetheless).]

by Edward Champion

Cronenberg Has Seen “Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life” One Too Many Times

Contact Music: “Eccentric film-maker DAVID CRONENBERG shocked his cast and crew on the set of new movie A HISTORY OF VIOLENCE, by publicly performing sex scenes with his wife. The director hoped his explicit displays of affection with his wife would help stars VIGGO MORTENSEN and MARIA BELLO, who play man and wife in the film, feel more comfortable during their sex scenes together. But, instead, the Cronenbergs just left everyone on the set stunned.” (via Jeff)

by Edward Champion

“Where Are the Litblog Groupies?”

The last time I went to the bookstore, I produced my business card to the sexy and bespectacled young lady behind the counter shortly after informing her that she had the most beautiful tits that I had ever seen. I was, of course, tactful about this. I did not, for example, use the word “beautiful.”

I told her that I was Edward Champion and that I ran one of the greatest literary blogs the Internet had ever seen since September 30, 2005. She asked me what century I thought I was in. I answered, “The 21st.” She then told me that I was a hundred years behind the times, knocked the wind out of me with a hard and painful chop to the jaw, and had several impecunious teenagers (scrawny young men whom she referred to as “co-workers”) using their diminuitive muscles to throw me out of the bookstore. There were five attempts to push me through the door, but all tries proved useless until the last one, when these two gaunt co-workers threw me onto the sidewalk without losing their breath. One whapped me with the latest issue of Marie Claire the entire time to keep me appropriately stunned. His ruse worked. I was then photographed by the young lady and added to a “Megan’s Law”-style database of men who hit upon attractive bookstore clerks.

As any of my readers know, I got into the litblog business for the chicks. My love of literature, if any, was tertiary at best. Like other people, I expected this young lady to allow me to feel her up or offer a Linda Lovelace impression simply because I was entitled to it. Was this really a mistake? I was a litblogger, dammit! Where other people earned their way into bed through an osciallating combination of charisma, caring and alcohol, was not I, as a litblogger, deservedly on the fast track system by default?

Didn’t my obsession with literature entitle to me to complimentary rolls in the hay? Women I didn’t have to pay for? At the very least, she might sell her story to The Sun and find out if litbloggers were, as the rumors suggested, worse in the sack than some of our most shameless septuagenarian whoremongers, who also doubled as men of letters and were eventually published by the Library of America shortly after their penises dessicated into an unusable state and they eventually met their maker.

Say what you like about being a litblogger and a cad, it leads to a wide spectrum of silly things to write about. Now, whenever I write a blog post, however much I might be looking forward to exposing some literary news development, once I see the “Publish” button in my blog software template, all I can think about is the one time I sat at my computer and jerked myself off silly, simply because I was bored and had run out of books to read.

I had apparently spent the night alone: I had apparently stripped down to my socks and sprayed aerosol cheese over the whole of my body. I then called a friend and asked if he knew anyone could lick the cheese off, ideally wearing a Wonder Woman costume. The friend then told me that I was a sick reprobate and refused to speak with me again — even after I sent him complimentary tickets to a ball game, as well as a 312-page letter of apology.

Maybe in America, the litbloggers with sexier names than mine, Gwenda Bond, Mark Sarvas, Maud Newton, are rock’n’ roll enough to spend better evenings than this. They are probably more focused and they have probably never touched aerosol cheese in their lives.

Have I gone too far?

by Edward Champion

The Christian Science Monitor: A History of E****** — First Draft

Some scholars have suggested that it all began with a 1749 novel written by John Cleland. The novel’s title was composed of two words: The first being a slightly naughty term for one’s, uh — how shall we put it? That thing you sit on. The second being more acceptable for the Christian ear: namely, “Hill.” However, this hill must be clearly distinguished from the immoral “thrills” one might find on another “Hill” immortalized in rock and roll music. Or perhaps not. It’s clear that the parallels here are inevitable. I must warn you, dear reader, that should you spend at least five minutes contemplating this issue, you may find yourself spending most of the weekend praying to God for forgiveness.

This book, written by Cleland when he was in debtor’s prison, was the first e***** novel. It depicts a certain young woman’s initiation into things we really can’t talk about in this publication. Let’s just say that Ms. Hill, the eponymous character, wasn’t exactly spending all of her spare time cross-stitching.

One might argue whether these unspeakable actions should even be put to pen. The risk of offending so many people clearly outweighs the value of rationally discussing what some have argued to be an everyday and harmless issue.

And yet, almost cavalierly, the writers couldn’t refrain from writing. There were volumes penned by Frank Harris in which this ineffable subject was broached. D.H. Lawrence, thought to be innocent enough with his classic story “The Rocking Horse Winner,” demonstrated his true colors and ineluctable perversion with “Lady Chatterley’s L****,” causing at least four septuagenarians to have cardiac arrests before they had finished reading the first chapter. And then there was that Henry Miller guy who wrote about what shall henceforth be referred to in this essay as It, banging out descriptive passage after descriptive passage of It It It with all the gusto of a man who hadn’t discovered the advantages of tight breeches…

[Whoops! Did I just write that? Editor, please strike.]

…with all the gusto of a man who hadn’t discovered the advantages of, uh, abstienence.

Soon, e****** became a cottage industry. Together with its less steamier cousin, the H******** romance, everyday readers became drawn to cheaply produced paperbacks that not only featured vivid descriptions of It, but dared to suggest It with muscular, long-haired hunks [Editor: Is that too much?] rescuing ripe beauties clad in diaphonous clothing [Oh come on, Editor, you asked me to write about it!].

by DrMabuse

Insomnia

by DrMabuse

Formula for Dependable Novel: Gangbangs by Chapter Five

The incomparable Ms. Breslin, who has been posting portions of her novel, Porn Happy, over the past few months, has channeled her inner Gerard Jones and chronicled the history of getting this puppy published. Among some of the changes:

Last weekend, I reorganized the first fifty pages–again. I reorchestrated it such that the gangbang scene is now the, shall we say, climax of the first fifty pages, and, frankly, that seems, well, far more fitting.

We’re waiting to see what’s on page 69.

by DrMabuse

Coffee-Deprived Roundup

by DrMabuse

The Erotomaniac

Somewhere between Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past and Fanny Hill is My Secret Life, an eleven volume, one million word memoir written by “Walter.” The entire text has been placed online and is searchable. Other interesting facts: The books were owned by Aleister Crowley, Harold Lloyd, and Josef von Sternberg. “Walter” was, in all likelihood, Henry Spencer Ashbee, who collected thousands of books in a London bachelor pad and left 1,600 volumes of erotica to the British Museum. On the sex and reading front, Ashbee seems to have found the best of both worlds. From Vol. 9, Chapter XIII:

We used at times to lay in bed reading baudy books. Then I would gamahuche her, and she liked the lingual exercise continued almost directly after her spend. A few minutes’ repose only and I’d fuck her, then we’d go on reading. Sometimes she’d read until suddenly she’d frig herself, laying back, grasping my prick hard with one hand, even hurting it sometimes, with eyes closed, more frequently looking me full in the face eyes wide open, with a wonderful voluptuous expression, till her breath shortened, her lovely thighs and belly quivered, then her eye lids drooped till her body was quite tranquil. � Then with the remark, � “We are beasts,” � our reading was resumed.

Related: Odd Books, “a home for the oddball and offbeat in literature,” which includes pages devoted to Frank Harris (another womanizer whose five-volume MY Life and Loves was published with several photographs), forgotten romantic writer Amanda McKittrick Ros (acclaimed by the likes of Twain, Lawrence, Huxley and Powell) and big-time crank Webster Edgerly, whose strange notions on health may have inspired to T.C. Boyle. Edgerly went by the psuedonym of “Dr. Everett Ralston.” By a twist of fate, today (January 4) is Ralston Day!

by DrMabuse

Harbingers of Horrific Plans

Bad reviews? Shoddy placement? Nope. Bruce Stockler says the biggest obstacle to publicizing a book is obituaries

The University of Michigan has launched a 20,000 volume digital collection. It uses a system similar to Amazon’s Search Inside the Book feature (minus the page limitation) and you can search through the entire collection for a specific word or phrase. But, unfortunately, there isn’t an author search. Some of the gems I’ve found include Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s Rienzi, The Last of the Roman Tribunes (with such sterling prose as “Rienzi made no reply; he did not heed or hear him — dark and stern thoughts, thoughts in which were the germ of a mighty revolution, were at his heart.”), Seward Hilter’s Sex Ethics and the Kinsey Reports (“The females of the lower educational levels, Kinsey notes, had more often been afraid that masturbation would mean physical harm and also that it was abnormal and unnatural. We should note, however, that the women of the lower educational levels tend to marry at earlier ages, and that more of them might masturbate eventually if they postponed marriage to later ages.” Oh really?), the complete works of Coleridge, Guizot’s The History of Civilization, and some Thackeray.

De Niro and Scorsese are set to write a joint memoir. The director and star report that they have a unique writing approach. Before they begin each chapter, the two of them duke it out over who gets to sit in front of the computer. So far, Scorsese reports that he’s only lost one ear and three fingers.

Slightly old news, but the FBI reports to be on the lookout for almanac carriers. Anyone carrying an Information Please may very well be plotting terrorist activities, especially if the books are “annotated in suspicious ways.”

by DrMabuse

Can They Sink Any Lower?

Melissa Panarello’s One Hundred Strokes of the Hairbrush Before Going to Sleep, the latest “sexually frank memoir,” is different from the usual memoirs, but only in the sense that Larry Clark’s Kids is an artier, more teen-centric approach to the oeuvre of Zalman King. As the Times reports (user: dr_mabuse, pw: mabuse), “The title of the book refers to a kind of purging ritual that the book’s narrator, also named Melissa, performs after she is prodded by one of her sexual partners into having sex with him and four other men at the same time. That happens on her 16th birthday.”

Indeed. Personally, I’m waiting for Three Thousand Ice Cream Cones Against His Left Testicle Before the Horse Sodomized My Sister, the frank memoir written by an eight year old incest survivor who, like Panarello, smokes cigars, but only Cubans.

Meanwhile, the real criminals can be found in Iowa, where a woman has pled not guilty to stealing 450 library books. If she’s guilty, the funny thing here is the lack of subtlety. 117 hardcover cookbooks disappeared gradually over a short period. If you’re going to do something as ignoble as steal from the library, shouldn’t you broaden your interests just a tad?

by DrMabuse

When Bad Writers Reveal Loneliness

Some brief thoughts on Aniruddha Bahal’s bad sex writing.

This year’s Bad Sex Prize goes to Aniruddha Bahal for his novel Bunker 13. The winning line: “Her breasts are placards for the endomorphically endowed.”

Discounting celebrities that go out of their way to sign bosoms (a phenomenon I’ve never understood), I’ve never thought of breasts as placards. Placards, by their very definition, are flat. “Endormophically endowed,” which would imply a surfeit of silicone or softness, contradicts that.

But that’s just the tip of the iceberg: “You see a designer pussy. Hair razored and ordered in the shape of a swastika. The Aryan denominator… “