Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

Poem: Last Night on the Web

Last night on the web
We saw a strange thing.
A pretty girl tied
Herself up with a string
And smacked her bare butt
With a handful of trash
While moaning out loud
And asking for cash.

Last night on the web
We saw a strange sight.
Twenty-two Shriners
Fucking at night.
Their fezzes were cocked
And their targeting true.
Has this sort of thing
Ever happened to you?

Last night on the web
We heard an odd noise.
Three ladies were shrieking
And playing with toys.
Their gasps were excited,
Their batteries strong
But we finally quit, they
Were taking too long.

Last night on the web
We saw a wild show.
Four different couples
Were ready to go.
They’d oiled themselves up
With some butter and grease
And waited til midnight
To pray for some piece.

Last night on the web
We had a great time.
We watched as a stripper
Picked up a flat dime.
She didn’t use hands,
Or teeth or her lip.
Just the force of her will
And a powerful grip.

Last night on the web
We clicked on a page
And found women hooking
For minimum wage.
The ladies were cute but
We had to give way.
When we’re looking for love
We don’t go to eBay.

Last night on the web
We hooked up Kazaa
And downloaded things
That were truly bizarre.
But the worst of them all
Was scary and rude
Geraldo Rivera
Was totally nude.

Last night on the web
We surfed to a spot
Where cheerleading teens
All showed what they got.
We couldn’t help seeing
The clues; such a pain
But two were all wrinkled
And one had a cane.

Last night on the web
We met our true match
This guy shoved a webcam
Up his girlfriend’s tight snatch.
He turned to the right
And she started to cough
But when she went pee
Then I had to log off.

Last night at our house
We didn’t log on.
We had a nice dinner
And kissed, whereupon
We made tender love,
Without jpeg or gif
Or movies or flash apps
And we said, what if

We abandoned the web
And lived our own lives?
Without great big hard schlongs
Or young cum-sucking wives?
No generic Viagra
Or offers of porn?
A brand new clean life!
It’d be like being born!

We’d both have more time
For more vital stuff
Like… sitting around,
And… wow, this is tough.
Last night on the web
We looked at our lives,
And we jumped back online
Where depravity thrives.

And now I must go
Some hot chick from France
Is messaging me now
And wants in my pants.
This relationship thing
Is fun for awhile
But too much real life
Is cramping my style.

Bambi’s Revenge

Last week a Las Vegas news program broke the story of a private club (Huntingfor that allowed men to shoot naked women with paint ball guns for the low, low price of thousands of dollars. Quickly thereafter the concept of naked women as targets sprung up on morning radio shows and blogs and horrified women’s organizations across the world as everyone weighed in on this sensationalistic topic.

But I was no exception; I posted my thoughts (”Yechh!”) and left it at that. Since then I’ve received comments and e-mails to the effect of “What the hell is wrong with you? They?re not serious or anything, it’s just a bit of harmless fun! I thought you were a humor site!”

Unfortunately I think these people have missed the point of the Island, and to help demonstrate what I mean I’d like to offer some suggestions on how to rework the Hunting for Bambi idea – which is more than likely a hoax to get publicity and sell videos – into something we’d be proud to host ourselves.

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As it was described, a typical Hunting For Bambi event involved someone paying $10,000 to choose one of over 30 women to hunt. The woman would strip down to sneakers and take off as the intrepid hunter stalked and shot her down like a dog.

Now this all sounds reasonable. But I have problems with the one-sided aspect. Hell, if you’re going to go to all this trouble, why give her sneakers? Easier to just stake her down in the middle of the desert and fire away. Or use a paintball gun with a sniper scope and drop her without even leaving your car. Geez.

Let’s even things up a bit. Give her a rifle, at the very least. Or get herds of naked women out there so that shooting at one could bring the very real danger of being trampled by the rest when they stampede. The hunters should be naked as well, which should be good for a laugh, especially when you consider what a paint ball with a muzzle velocity of over 200 mph could do to the average scrotum. Tell me this wouldn’t sell if you marketed it to feminists with good eyes and itchy trigger fingers.

In fact, to make it interesting I’d want to rig up different scenarios. Check these out:

First Person Spooger
One guy, clothed, against all 30 nude women. They’re hiding in dense woods, it’s dark, and they have way more ammo than you. Can you make your way past the nude sentries to raid their camp? I’ll bet James Bond has fantasies like this.

Man Against Nature, in the Form of a Hot Naked Babe
One hunter, one nude woman. No paint ball guns. Instead, each has a single paint-filled sponge. They start at different points of the woods and start stalking. Last one unspattered wins! This can also work as an indoor game, hint hint.

Command and Conquer: Yowza
A team of hunters against an entrenched army of naked women. The hunters must use brilliant tactics and cunning strategies to accomplish their goals and they’d better be careful, because you don’t want to know what happens to the hunters that get captured.

The Girls Gone Wild Frontier
One hunter, one naked gal. However, she started off a week ago, and he’s got to track her down. It will take all his woodsman skills to find her, especially if she had cab fare.

Remember the Galamo
As many hunters as you like, but the naked girls are inside a 30′ high armored fortress. The hunters will have to fashion primitive siege weapons while avoiding the paint-filled balloons thrown from the walls. For more exciting play they can make ladders to scale the walls and engage in hand-to-whatever combat, but they’d better watch out for the cauldrons of boiling hot paint waiting for them!

After you get your party of hunters, match them with the same number of women, then strip everybody down. Add gallons of baby oil, and the King of the Hill battle has begun. Winner is whichever one can stay on top of the pile for a measured minute, but this is the sort of game where nobody really loses.

This one gets a little trickier, but it has a devoted following. The field is a large, padded arena. You have two naked teams, male and female (can be modified depending on the preferences of the players). Each team has the following players:
Two Swingers, whose job is to nail as many people on the other team as possible.
Two Bumpers, whose job is to body slam members of the opposing team who try to score.
One Host, who must keep the drinks and pretzels coming.
One Stud or Slut, who’s only job is to find and grab the Golden Bitch.
This is played with regional teams, and fan loyalty makes for some impassioned and creative waves in the stands, I can tell you.

Tree Blinds Date
This is easily the most perilous, and the most personally dangerous. One hunter, one clothed woman. The hunter must select and track the woman, corner her, buy her a drink and maybe a reasonably priced meal, and then he must – without the gun – talk to her and try to form a relationship based on mutual respect and affection. This is not for the faint-hearted or weak-willed! This is the Hunt to End All Hunts, and it will take all of your wits and more courage than most men have, especially since usually you can’t use rope snares until the second date.

Hunting for Bubba
I like the naked hunter idea more and more, so let’s go with it. One nude guy, with sneakers, is open season to a woman with a paint ball gun. The huntress could even pick out the accessories her target is to carry such as a beer can, a remote control, or a paycheck larger than hers. This could even be therapeutic if you offered it to rape victims and abuse survivors, but you may have problems getting her to stop after only one shot. Oh, what the hell, shoot him again.

See? The concept is fine, just needs a little work…

Next week: More on this, as we delve more deeply into the “only hunt what you’ll eat” philosophy.

Happy gays are here again

This has been possibly the best week ever for homosexuals in North America. Gay marriage is now legal in Ontario and about to be legal across Canada, and the U.S. Supreme Court struck down Texas’ anti-sodomy law, overturning a previous ruling. The opinion now held by the court, taken from the dissenting opinion in the original ruling (Bowers v. Hardwick), is this:

“…individual decisions by married persons, concerning the intimacies of their physical relationship, even when not intended to produce offspring, are a form of “liberty” protected by the Due Process Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment. Moreover, this protection extends to intimate choices by unmarried as well as married persons.”

Isn’t that the most marvelous thing? I want it tattooed on me somewhere, ideally where you’d have to committing an unnatural act on me to see it. It’s certainly the last decision I ever expected to see during the Bush Adminstration. I would have paid cash money to have seen the look on Attorney General John Ashcroft’s face when he heard about it. Behind him, I’m convinced, the enshrouded Lady Liberty was giggling her half-naked ass off.

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Now you may not be gay. You may even think homosexual acts are against the laws of God, unhealthy, immoral, and/or icky. But there is a good chance that you too will benefit from this decision, especially if you’re the kinds of people I think you are. See, if the law been struck down because it was discriminatory (since it wasn’t against the law in Texas for straight couples to bugger each other), as Justice O’Connor argued, it would have invalidated all laws against sodomy between same-sex couples but left the rest of the anti-sex laws alone. Instead, the majority argued that the law violated the individual’s right to privacy, and so with a stroke of the pen all the consensual sex laws have been undone. The government has been completely shoved out of our bedrooms, and the door has been locked.

And now it’s a whole new ballgame.

Have you ever found yourself avoiding unnatural acts in the privacy of your own bedroom for fear of prosecution? Grab the butter!

Ever wanted to carnally explore a watermelon? Now you can!

Been holding back on inviting the bridge club over for sandwiches and light bondage? Start slicing the cucumbers!

There are still restrictions, of course. Your twisted acts must be fully consensual, everyone involved must be old enough to legally consent, no animals, and no commercial transactions. But look what that leaves! Here’s a short list, all now officially sanctioned by the United States Supreme Court:

Oral sex.
Heavy petting.
Group sex.
Group sex involving sodomy and oral sex.
Group sex involving sodomy, oral sex, and the contents of your vegetable crisper.
Group sex involving a couch, a gallon jug of vegetable oil, and the game “King of the Hill.”
Mutual masturbation.
Competitive masturbation for speed and/or distance.
Pillow fucking.
Nude housework.
Nude carpentry.
Water sports.
Extreme water sports.
Hand jobs.
Blow jobs.
Wearing clothes originally designed for the other sex.
Gang bangs.
Gang booms.
Sticking an entire Bratz “Slumber Party Meygan” doll up there.
Sex with shoes.
Sex with boots.
Sex with cheese.
Sex with armpits.
Pogo swirl.
Pump with an underground hammer.
Nude Yahtzee.
Sex with a deep sea diver’s suit on.
Home colonoscopy.
Sex while fantasizing about Supreme Court judges.

Party hearty, people! This is a great day for all of us, and I’m incredibly grateful to the two wonderful homosexual Texans who made it all happen by not taking their sodomy charge lying down. Bless you, both of you, and I can only hope that you’re celebrating your asses off.

The Rhythm of the Night. Or Afternoon, Even

It can take a long time to learn your lover’s rhythms. Each person has their own inner beat, and nowhere (except for television channel changing) is it trickier to synchronize your tastes with someone else than in bed. Have you ever zigged when you should have zagged? Has your lover ever zagged when they were supposed to zig, even after you made puppy noises when they almost zigged, and any halfway sensitive person would have noticed that and damn well zigged ’til they were blue, but no, your lover had to go and zag like a selfish bastard and throw you completely out of the moment and the whole time your lover was looking at you like you weren’t pissed off, right, and yelping at you like an idiot, “Say my name! Say my name!”

Well, we’ve all been there.

Establishing a rhythm during lovemaking can be tricky, especially for those of us who sing only in the shower or more than 300 yards away from other people, by court order. You can try putting really loud clocks in the bedroom, or even a metronome on the headboard as a cool decoration and valuable pace-setting tool (use 100-120 bpm in 2/4 time for a lively evening, only moving up to 160-172 bpm if you have a durable partner and a strong heart). You could even use dance rhythms to keep your focus, although if your partner overhears you muttering “One, two, three, one, two, three,” under your breath over and over you soon may be dancing alone. But these methods, while dependable, leave you with a steady, boring beat that will bring your partner to ecstasy only by dogged perseverance and long-lasting batteries. Much better to use music.

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Music has long been used to establish a mood for romance, seduction, and laying the pipe down. It may have been why music was invented in the first place, Rohypnol being thousands of years in the future. But I’d like to sugegst that you use the cadence of the tune, not the atmosphere the music creates. Fix a tune in your mind and thrust along with the words. Hump to the beat! You won’t need to try and come up with individual rhythms or styles, you can use someone else’s. Instantly you’re a sex god, moving with confidence and driving her wild! There’s a reason that rock stars get so much poon, and it can’t be their looks. It’s that driving, pounding rhythm that gets into the soul and drags you along, forcing your body to pulsate at their frequency and resonate to their every movement. Also the drugs.

Next time you’re intimately connected, pump, lick or suck in time with the catchiest song you can think of. Doesn’t have to be sexy, or even good, just fun and bouncy. Here’s the sex score for the first two lines of “You Are My Sunshine”:

Unh uh uh UNH UNH, unh uh oh UNH UNH
Unh uh unh UNH UNH, unh uh ah unh…

That’ll get her going! Almost any song will work, although you might want to avoid rap and bluegrass banjo until you’re more comfortable. Try starting slowly, with some songs that all but tell you when to thrust, such as The Beatles’ “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” (Bang! Bang!) or Billy Squire’s “The Stroke.” Once you get the hang of it, try more complicated melodies for different effects. Queen’s “We Will Rock You” is an obvious and insistent choice, Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” seems to have had this purpose in mind from the start, “Livin’ La Vida Loca” can drive you over the edge of the bed, Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” is a good, dependable guide when you want to pace yourself, “The Anvil Chorus” is surprisingly effective, the chorus of The Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine” can bring anybody off, and “Amazing Grace” can produce a truly astounding orgasm if you can last for all six verses.

No matter what tempo you have in mind for your monkey-lovin’, there’s a song to help you out. Remember, all you need from it is the rhythm, it doesn’t matter what the song is about. Want to go slow and steady? Go with Simon and Garfunkel’s “Scarborough Fair”, Five for Fighting’s “Superman”, Whitney Houston’s “Exhale (Shoop Shoop)”, Arlo Guthrie’s “Alice’s Restaurant” (why not?) or “Air for a G String” by Bach. Pop music, up-tempo classical and feisty country songs are ideal for playful romping with variable rhythms, such as Madonna’s “Open Your Heart”, Randy Travis’s “Before You Kill Us All”, Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”, or anything by Belle and Sebastian (even though the sounds of kids playing during “If You’re Feeling Sinister” throws me off). And if you’re in the mood for jackhammering, you can’t go wrong with Queen’s “Stone Cold Crazy”, or “One Week” by Bare Naked Ladies. Be sure to do some stretches first, and stay hydrated. My wife and I once tried to keep up with Savage Garden’s “I Want You” and it took us a week to work out all the leg cramps.

As long as the cadence of the lyrics or the beat of the song matches your sexual needs, there’s no reason not to pick songs that match the moment. I think highly of Bloodhound Gang’s “Bad Touch” and Tenacious D’s immortal “Fuck Her Gently”.

And don’t neglect television theme music! Theme songs are easy to keep stuck in your head and they can provide fantastic thrashing rhythms as long as you keep repeating them over and over until you’re done. Just think about the themes from Mission Impossible, Barney Miller, Sesame Street, Rawhide, Gilligan’s Island… I get all shivery just thinking about it. And the commercial jingles! They drive you fucking crazy anyway, why not use that to your advantage? Besides, the erotic uses of the Oscar Meyer theme song are so obvious they don’t bear repeating.

Schoolhouse Rock songs are unbelievable.

Musical accompaniment works wonderfully for other forms of sex besides just the ol’ in-and-out, y’know. Try giving a pounding handjob to Busta Rhymes’ “Woo Hah! Got You All in Check” (”Woo Hah,” indeed), finger your lover to the beat from Pink’s “Don’t Let Me Get Me” (RUB rub rub RUB RUB!), and while Ludacris’s “What’s Your Fantasy” is a strong runnerup, “The Marriage of Figaro” is, quite simply, the single best guide to cunnilingus ever devised:

Lick lick lick LICK lick
Lick lick lick LICK lick
Lick lick lick LICK lick, lick LICK lick, lick lick lick lick
Lick lick lick LICK lick, lick LICK lick, lick LICK lick lick
Lick lick lick
Lick lick lick
Lick lick lick lickalick lick lick lick lick lick slurp!

Don’t stop during the instrumental parts or your lover may look at you oddly, wondering why everything shut down, while you’re mentally waiting for the next verse. Keep right on going, playing the air guitar with your hips, which is basically what Mick Jagger has been doing for forty years now. If you’re the lady on top, twist your hips to the tune from “Hotel California” by the Eagles, or bounce merrily along to Disney’s “It’s a Small World”, although you might want to hum that last one to yourself.

Instrumental pieces also add an impressive feeling to the encounter, like you have an orchestra backing you up as you prong away. “The Ride of the Valkyries” is majestic and aggressive, “The Flight of the Bumblebee” is ideal for that office quickie, “Mars, The Bringer of War” from Holst’s “The Planets Op.32″ works well for that l-o-n-g slow grind, and nothing, but nothing beats “The Main Title March” from John Williams’ stupendous Superman movie soundtrack. Starts slow, builds up, goes slow, builds up, gets fast, goes slow again, ends triumphantly. Up, up and away!

If you’re in the moment and having problems thinking of the perfect melody (don’t you hate that?), try turning on the radio and taking pot luck. Pick a station with heavy playlists and few commercials, and try to avoid the afternoon show or you may find yourself trying to screw to a traffic report. If you’re really feeling adventurous, set your radio to “scan” and let the rhythm change every five seconds. Can you keep up? Don’t use MTV or VH1 for this, since the last thing you’ll ever catch a music video channel doing is actually playing a music video. If you get really cocky try a Weird Al Yankovic polka medley.

There’s no reason you can’t share your newfound love in music with your lover. You can spend an exciting time looking through each others’ collections and selecting the night’s playlist, and you can sing to each other as you happily bang away. The gift of a specially-made best-of CD carries even more meaning if you know it’s the menu for the evening. And if you both know what’s coming up you can time things better, such as holding back because you know she loves to come just as “A Day in the Life” builds up to the crashing piano chord.

Once you get good at it, it’s time to go for an entire evening of musical sex. Play entire CDs and keep up with the changes. Theme albums work well for this – Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” may be too depressing to permit a hard-on, but Styx’s “Kilroy Was Here” is a ball-drainer, and “Downward Spiral” by Nine Inch Nails speaks for itself – and the variety of songs on the average CD makes for a unpredictable romp in the sheets. Try any album by Tangerine Dream, or Dream Theater.

Different things work for different people. For me, it’s soundtracks. I’ve already mentioned Superman, but I call to your attention the outstanding fucking potential of such greats as the Indiana Jones theme, the “Imperial March” from Star Wars, and The Pirates of Penzance (do “Modern Major General”, I dare you). I have a personal fondness for The Nightmare Before Christmas, and I cannot recommend highly enough the soundtrack to the movie The Princess Bride, although I usually lose it during the sword fight theme.

After awhile you may find yourself thinking in terms of musical selection when you size up new dates. Would she prefer the gentle lovemaking of Edwin McCain’s “I’ll Be” or John Mayer’s “Your Body Is a Wonderland”, or does that hungry look in her eye call for a screaming “Bat Out of Hell” fuckfest? Do you feel like doing Bon Jovi’s “It’s My Life” on that guy at the bar until he can’t remember his parent’s names? Are you in the mood to “Ja Rule” somebody tonight? You may even find yourself characterizing people by genres, and choosing your lover based on the Billboard charts. I know I’ve started judging new music for its lovemaking properties. When I first heard Norah Jones “Don’t Know Why” I knew immediately why she couldn’t come: her song was too damn slow. Stick in a big drum solo finish and she’d have popped one off, no problem.

Naturally, despite my exhaustive research, I’ve completely forgotten the ultimate sex song, but I’ll bet you’d be only too happy to show me the error of my ways. So send it in! Write to me at and tell me which song you most enjoy knocking boots to and I’ll round them up in a future column. Remember, we’re looking specifically for cadence and rhythm, not emotional meaning or quality. Even if the song sucks and makes the average listener cringe and try to yank their own ears off in frantic self-defense (and here, of course, I’m thinking “Achy Breaky Heart”), as long as it has a catchy beat and you can fuck to it, send it on.

I’ll just be sitting here with my headphones on, don’t mind me.

My thanks to the people who already tossed in ideas to augment my frozen-in-the-mid-80’s tastes, especially Rick and Dana.

Poem: The Quim Reaper

Please gather ’round,
hear what I’ve found,
the truth I’ve learned inside;
the night I dreamed,
the night I screamed,
the night my pussy died.

I’d laid right down
in my nightgown
(it’s flannel, soft and thick)
when I awoke
to see the smoke
like from a magic trick.

I sat upright,
awash in fright,
and knowing I would die
when there appeared
a thing most feared;
the Reaper, one foot high.

Cold darkness spoke
inside its cloak
and demons howled within.
No face I saw
inside that maw
but I could feel its grin.

“You’ve lost your way,”
I heard it say.
“Your pleasure you’ve forgot.
What you don’t use,
you’re bound to lose!
I’ve come here for your twat.

“You’ve let it lie,
you let it die!
Your pussy has gone south.
No daring stunt
can save your cunt!
Not even mouth-to-mouth.”

“But I can’t fuck!
I’ve had no luck
in finding perfect guys!
You’re saying I
should just comply
and open up my thighs?”

“I do not nudge,
I do not judge,
I merely come and take.
The bill’s been paid,
your twat will fade
and leave before you wake.

“But think on this,
and reminisce
on what just might have been.
You’ve not proposed
to keep it closed
because of fear of sin.

“It’s not been still
to test your will
or any higher call.
You don’t demure
to keep it pure,
(and worthy reasons all).

“No, I’m afraid
you have betrayed
your pussy’s life to fate.
If you won’t touch,
or look too much
or even masturbate.”

Up on my bed,
and then it said,
“Now for your quim’s demise.”
And in that strife,
my pussy’s life
did flash before my eyes.

We lived it high,
my cunt and I
when once we were a team.
Those days back when
we both loved men
and ate them whole, with cream.

Once for a whirl
we tried a girl
and that was squishy fun.
We had no fuss,
me and my puss;
we worked and played as one.

The years gone past,
in stark contrast,
have dried my juice to dust.
I’ve been so stressed,
no time to rest,
and hardly time for lust.

We had to quit,
me and my slit,
before our dreams were met.
But, dwelling on
my joys foregone,
I started to get wet.

The Reaper crept
towards my cleft
and raised its blade to slay.
My hand swept down
and grabbed its gown
and stripped its cloak away.

It stood revealed,
and unconcealed
it was an awesome sight.
A dildo strong,
a full foot long,
and colored boney white.

Instead of fear,
my path was clear,
my last chance come upon.
I held my breath,
and snatched up Death,
and turned the fucker on.

The fury came;
the thing became
a hellish buzzing force.
With all my strength,
at full arm’s length,
I moved it from its course.

If it could reach
my fuzzy peach
I knew my twat was dead.
So I deployed
that fiendish toy
and shoved it in, instead.

The battle grew,
and we both knew
that this would spell the end.
For if I lost,
the smallest cost
would be my oldest friend.

So on I stroked,
my pussy soaked
with lust and fear and flame.
and just in time,
with joy sublime,
my pussy and I came.

We came in fright
in hallowed light;
we came and we were one.
The Reaper stood
and donned its hood
and said to us, “You’ve won.

“But think on this:
one swampy bliss
won’t cover decades’ lack.
You both must fight
to seek delight
or one day I’ll be back.”

So that’s my tale,
my hot young male.
And now you have your chore.
You and your chum
must make me come
To keep me from Death’s door.

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