(Another entry, another podcast! Recorded all in one take without any kind of planning, so the voices you hear are ‘off the cuff’ — I’m particularly proud of my attempt at a crazed feminist. Hopefully there are no repeat or missing paragraphs. It sounds a little bit nasal and wet in places, but hey, I can’t and don’t want to fix that: excess saliva has always served me well in the past.)

Once upon a time there were was a seedy, fleet-footed fellow that only moved under the cover of darkness. Only after the sun had descended and the campus took on the dusky, dark-blue hues of night would he emerge in his long coat and broad-rimmed hat. His black leather boots moved with surprising grace, the slight squeak of foot against foot the only noise betraying his location.

He skirts the meeting point, watching his target nervously hop from foot to foot and light a third cigarette, its burning tip faintly outlining his hooded face. Eventually he approaches, sidling up next to the smoker. He grunts a quiet greeting.

‘Got the money?’

‘You got all the stuff I want?’

‘Of course.’

‘Even the ebony-and-ivory one?’

‘Does the Porn King ever fail to deliver?’

…

At university I ruled the roost. I was invited to all the parties and chicks clung to every limb. I was that guy on the white leather sofa, splayed out languidly like a snow angel, girls curled up in the spaces left between my arms and legs. Merely opening my mouth would cause those nearby to quickly hush and watch me; watch my lips, my teeth, the expansion of my ribs as I breathe in, preparing to speak.

‘The Porn King requires a blow job.’ A flurry of activity followed as the girls quickly clambered off the sofa onto the ground and two others standing nearby rushed to help.

I once lived a life of regal opulence. Hedonistic extravagance. Girls and boys available to me at any time for any need and every want: food, sex or even… conversation. I’d be given free tickets to the local cinema and I’d be rushed through the other entrance at nightclubs, the one without a queue. At restaurants I’d always get the best table, the freshest bread and it wasn’t uncommon for the chef to prepare a special dessert, just for me.

I felt just a bit like The Godfather.

Unlike the Godfather though, I hadn’t built an empire based on coercion, fear and racketeering; this was an empire built upon something far healthier: sex and satisfaction. Not the human-trafficking kind either: sex, gooey and juicy, safely condensed into an easily-transportable disc.

The word ‘pornography’, perhaps aptly if you’re a ‘moralist’, comes from ancient Greek literally meaning ‘the writing/recording of prostitutes/prostitution’. That’s not a good start for an argument in favour of pornography, but wait!

Historically porn has been outlawed for religious reasons — monotheistic of course: the Greeks and Romans loved sex and all the sticky extras it entailed — but more recently the anti-porn brigade has been led by the feminists: ‘Porn is degrading to the female form!’ they decry. At the same time they claim that we’re now grown up enough, as a culture, to grant women the rights they’ve for millennia done without: to vote, to display and do with themselves as they see fit, to sleep with whoever they damn well please — to be a separate race or species: women. For the longest time women have merely been an extension of man, their subordinate helpers, humans without penises. Feminists — and most sane people — argue that it’s time women were allowed to plant their feet on the ground, look around, and strike out in any direction

The argument is, of course, that the actresses in porn aren’t ‘being women’; no, they’re prostituted lumps of meat, their bodies sold for money to the highest bidder for the satisfaction of a paying audience that’s sitting in front of their TV or computer screen, fapping, flapping furiously. But… is there something wrong with that?

It’s the classic problem: how restrictive do you make laws? You can’t re-outlaw porn — it just wouldn’t wash without the stranglehold that religion once held over law-making. You can’t point your finger at the mischievous boys and girls and say: ‘You behave and keep your clothes on now, y’hear?’ The cat — the pussy — is out of the bag.

Perhaps a better question to ask is: why is porn considered to degrade women, but not men? Is it because the woman always ‘receives’? Is it purely because women have been on the receiving end of male leadership and ownership since the dawn of time? What about gay male porn? Are there masculists out there campaigning for the rights of men that always ‘play the bottom’ in porn? Another case in point: I had to look up ‘masculist’ to see if such a word even existed. That’s how foreign the concept of ‘male rights’ are in today’s society.

It’s a shame that women and men must resort to starring in pornography, and no doubt it’s hard and unsatisfying work wrought with risk. In all but a few unfortunate cases however, it was their choice to take part — perhaps they like sex so why not be paid for it? It’s a lot safer to have sex on a porno shoot than with some random guy or girl that you meet at a club — for a start, you have a camera crew and director watching to make sure they don’t stick something in the wrong hole. That’s probably a better problem to address: the current urge for ‘modern women’ to screw anything with a pulse just because they can, but that deserves a separate topic of discussion.

It boils down to this, feminists, priests and conservative law-makers: is it possible to have too many human rights? Do you somehow pretend to understand more about ourselves than us? Ethics — the ability to decide what is right and wrong — is fundamentally personal. You can’t tell someone the right answer for any given situation: to retain the human right of free thought and self-determinism they have to decide for themselves. Instead of trying to govern our actions, educate us fully and hope that we come out the other end wiser and relatively unscathed.

As a race we’re great at getting through things if we know what we’re getting into. When we are blinkered by lies and propoganda, when we walk into a situation without unbiased information, when we are unable to see both sides of an argument due to outside influence — when we lose our ability to make rational and fair decisions, then we’re in trouble.

I need to begin this one with a little background information: I have gas; the internal, intestinal kind, the type that comes out both ends with startling regularity. I don’t know if it’s a male thing, windiness, or if some men get it more than others, but I do know that I have plenty. The reason for this is quite simple: I eat a truly diverse range of foods — often at the same time — and I drink plenty of carbonated liquids, like Coke. I mix my food types with reckless abandon, and my stomach and intestines rebel violently enough to generate gas — lots and lots of gas.

Being a full-time hermit, it’s not really a problem: I mean, does a hirsute British bear shit or fart in the woods? Does it really count as burping if there’s no one there to hear it? What’s the sound one one butt-cheek farting…?

The problem is thus: when I actually find myself around other people, I have very good manners. I don’t fart or burp, nor do I pick my nose. I hold in all of that gas until, by the end of the evening, I’m ready to burst. If you’ve ever held in farts for long enough (I don’t expect girls to admit to this, but the boys probably will), you’ll know just how rough it gets; everything starts to feel really… compacted. Holding in burps isn’t so bad, but it compresses the contents of your intestine from the other side! Finally, with enough swallowing and butt-clenching… something’s gotta give. And it’s always your ass. Always.

And so with that introduction… we move onto this week’s embarrassing, too-much-information tale. As always, if you want more of the same, hit up Lilu’s blog. This is a short one, with yet another Flash animation from my favourite site Sexinfo101. If you can’t see the (not work-safe) animation further down, you need to read this story on my blog.

This one’s so terrible that I’m not going to give you a location, nor shall I mention any names. It involves me and a girl. We might be in a hotel or at my house — or we might be in a cave in Turkey — it’s irrelevant, for the sake of this story.

All you need to know is that we’re having sex. Dirty, no-holds-barred sex. The kind of sex you might have with someone you may never meet again or alternatively, a lover that you know incredibly well: you either know exactly where to touch them, or you hit all the rights spots with a fumbled, scatter-all approach. It’s that kind of frantic, frenetic sex where your heart, arms and crotch feel like they might give out at any moment — but that’s OK, because you’re going at it as if tomorrow might never come. You’re there, in each other’s sweaty embrace, breathing heavily and giving it everything you’ve got.

‘Hey baby… how about a sixty-nine?’

I pause momentarily, wondering if calling her ‘baby’ might be spoiling the moment; I ruin the deep, wet rhythm we’ve so carefully nurtured too. I look at her slightly-parted lips and grin winningly as I kiss her closed eyes. Gradually, as she realises that I’m no longer plunging back and forth like a maniac, she opens her eyes to look at me. A gentle sigh escapes from her lips, the fleeting ghost of a moan that never quite made it. ‘Sure!’

Up she climbs into old-faithful sixty-nine. I guess it varies from girl to girl, but she certainly likes it. She’s one of those few delightful girls that actually derive a sense of power and pleasure from deep-throating a long, hard penis. Funnily, most men like it because it’s very dominating — but girls like it because they’re totally in control of the man’s pleasure. And with the 69, there is of course the tiny matter of the girl receiving oral sex too, which normally settles the deal. It’s safe to say that the position is, for almost all intents and purposes, awesome.

I’ll let the animation above do most of the talking as I don’t really want to make a name for myself as a softcore erotica writer (can’t see it? You have to read this story on my blog!) Perhaps, if one day I feel the urge, I’ll start another blog and write pseudonymous porn under my dress-up-at-weekends alter-ego ‘Debby’. But I digress…

She was quite thin, so I could easily see over her stomach and breasts to her head and mouth. Magically, mystifyingly bobbing up and down. She realises I’ve stopped to look and grunts in that I’m-not-using-my-teeth-but-I-could-if-I-wanted-to way. There was actually one girl, a few years back, that took my cock out of her mouth, looked down at me, staring up from between her legs and boldly stated: ‘Look Seb, get on with it. This position does my knees in and I ain’t got all day.’ This girl was more polite and I took the hint: I got back to work and the thrusting, sucking, whimpering and moaning continued.

It’s all going so well. I can hardly see — damnit, I need wipers attached to my forehead — but what I can see looks damn fine! My body starts to tingle, starting at my toes and quickly zipping up my thighs to my groin. I have a firm grip on her legs and back, and I can feel her squirming with the involuntary spasms of muscles all over her body as she orgasms yet again. Any second now I’ll join her. Her head, her mouth, still bobbing, still dipping, still sucking. My nails dig into her thighs as I start to climax; my back arches as my muscles tense and then shudder with a violent convulsion.

PPFFAAAAAAARRRP  PfffTTTTTttt  ppft    ffftt

The monster of all pent-up farts fired explosively into her face. As if the semen wasn’t enough, she’d swallowed her pride and sucked a fart straight up her nostrils.

Those of you that have farted in the bath will know the diabolical intensity of pure, undiluted farts.

We never did the sixty-nine again. And I now excuse myself from a girl’s bedroom for just a few moments before commencing with the foreplay.

(Click for larger… if you you like detail…)

She’s quite pale, but you’ll have to trust me: she’s Japanese.

I have used the mug for other things too. But I’ll leave the specifics to your imagination as I don’t think the world is quite ready to look in to the receptacle. That would be disastrous for my reputation… and your psyche…

As always, more ‘too much information’ is over on Lilu’s blog this Thursday.

There he stood, sharpening his long, smooth, folded-steel machete.

There she stood, licking her lips, looking first at him, and then down at the ground demurely.

“Give it to me!”

“Never!” She sprang from the warm rock with a derisive snort and flick of her tail. Her pace quickened as she bounded into the tall grass, her paws finding, gripping and rebounding rapidly from the firm soil. She could hear him clumsily pushing the tall grass aside in an attempt to join the chase. Escape would hardly be a challenge, but would escape be the most fun? Her thoughts drifted and her pace slowed a little.

She found herself thinking of the rainy season. Six months ago, but the memories were still vivid and sharp, wet and slick — bitter… and sweet. They’d first met six months ago. She had run and he had chased, just like today — but back then she had slipped and he had caught her. Writhing in the wet, slippery glass of the savannah, his grip too strong even for her savage muscles, he had made her his bitch.

The reverie almost caused her to slip and fall. She could hear him gaining, gathering speed, the tell-tale swish of machete clearing a path for his clumsy human footfalls. Would it be so awful if he caught her again? Her pace faltered, complex thought not coming easily to her prehensile, feline brain — humans have it easy — just two legs! How am I meant to push my way through tall grass and think of him? She found herself plunged back into the six-month-old memory.

First he had tackled her to the ground. They had slid and bounced a few feet, only stopping when the limited friction of the wet grass and ground had finally gripped them. Then he was on top of her, wrestling her arms down until she was spread and pinned. The bulk of his weight and strength of his thighs were expertly employed to hold her hips firmly against the ground. That was when they had made eye-contact for the first time. He looked vicious, his muscles and veins bulging, the throbbing pulse of his carotid artery clearly visible. There was a hint of shining victory in his eyes, but she knew the fight wasn’t yet over. He leaned down until his face was almost level with hers, until they could both feel and taste and smell each other’s ragged breathing. Before she knew it, he had pulled a length of rope from his waist and had begun to tie her paws together. Before she knew it, he had turned her over and lifted her hind legs.

She was shocked back into real time by the sinewy weight of the man throwing himself upon her. She didn’t struggle as he quickly flipped her onto her back. He took a long, hard look at his catch and smiled.

* * *

Forgive me, for I have sinned. I wrote this all in one go, without any planning. It just… sprung from… somewhere deep within.  There’s more TMI (and probably less furry porn) over on Lilu’s blog.

I thought I’d spend a little time discussing the marvels of sexual fetishes and fantasies in east Asia. The region is special because of the time it spent disconnected from the Christian religion of the west and mid-east — Japan and south-east Asia never ‘enjoyed’ the medieval sex-is-bad-and-depraved Dark Ages. As a result, those Japanese (and the Thai, and any other Buddhist/Shinto countries in the region) have some really different ideas of what’s normal, and what’s sexually amoral.

For a start, the penis is good. Just like in Rome or Greece or anywhere pre-Christianity, the penis is a sign of fertility! Of strength and power! That never really went away in the East (check out the Japanese Fertility Festival for evidence!)

But, as you know, depravity feeds depravity. It’s a slippery slope, which is probably why the Bible/Testament-based faiths are so strict — those old prophet dudes knew that if you didn’t nip it in the bud, shit went south real darn quick. It might start with sodomizing your neighbour, but before you know it, you’re rubbing your ass in old oven fat and screaming ‘BANZAAAI!’ at the top of your lungs.

So, anyway, to both educate and disgust, I’ve compiled a list of the weirder fetishes and practices to come out of the East. For more TMI (because you can be sure that the next bit is going to be really gratuitous), check out Lilu’s blog.

From here on out, the links might not be safe for work. I’m not going to link you to porn, but there are descriptive diagrams… Also, that image above is a boy. Well, kind of… a ladyboy… she was once a boy.

Bukkake / pronunciation: boo-kah-kee

Ah, the poster-boy (or girl) of disgusting eastern culture! This is perhaps the most ‘popular’ of weird sex acts — not to say it’s a common practice, but it’s been the staple of western porn for quite a few years now, so it’s quite ‘well known’.

Bukkake, from the Japanese ‘bukkakeru’ meaning ‘to splash’, if you didn’t already know, is when multiple males shoot their (often voluminous) load on the face of some poor, (un?)suspecting victim.

It actually came about due to the ban on distribution of obscene materials in 1907 — you can’t show the genitals, but you can show everything else… thus… bukkake! What a great work-around…

Omarashi / pronunciation: om-ah-ras-ee

This one’s pretty weird. Literally ‘leaking’, omarashi is all about… wetting yourself. Or, more accurately, about girls with bladders that are full-to-bursting. Mostly this isn’t a hardcore thing — it’s deriving (sexual) pleasure from watching someone that really needs to pee. They can be fully dressed, or naked, it’s not really important.

There are also Japanese game shows which involve heroic tests of bladder strength…

Hentai

Ah, my personal favourite! (Well, some of it.)

You’ve probably heard of Manga, or anime — the ‘Japanese style’ of comics and animation, but you might not have heard of hentai. Actually, if you’re an Internet nerd, you’ve probably heard of it… or even seen it (and as you know, hentai is one of those things that can not be unseen).

Hentai, other than graphic depicting sex (obviously), is infamous for two reasons: it often involves protagonists that look very young (both male and female), and tentacles — big, gribbly, dribbly tentacles. You might know the term ‘tentacle rape’ — that comes from hentai.

If you’ve never seen hentai, it’s definitely an eye-opening experience, if only to appreciate the sound effects made by the voice actors… (seemingly, it’s quite hard to accurately produce penetrative tentacle noises in the foley studio).

A brief nod in the direction of Lolicon and Shotacon should also be mentioned at this stage (you should only really read those if you’re of a hardened disposition though…)

The Ladyboys of Bangkok

I had to end with the most exciting prospect of a trip to Asia: a run-in with the kathoey ladyboys of Thailand. They’re actually quite common all over south-east Asia, but mostly in Thailand and the Philippines. I have no idea why, but I find it better to not question such things. (It’s probably due to Buddhism and its different way of thinking about such things.)

They range from transsexuals to intersexuals, to cross-dressing and merely effeminate males. And they’re not just prostitutes, escorts or courtesans, that’s the weird/cool thing — they basically fill the entire role of… being female. They work in beauty salons and serve in restaurants. They dance in clubs, they model, they become pop acts… basically, all the ‘eww, weird’ stigma that we have in the West doesn’t exist over there.