Let's Talk About Sex

I read a rather bothersome article earlier over at details.com the gist of which was that modern conventions like the internet and picture messaging in tandem with the over saturation and acceptance of pornography in youth society has fundamentally changed the sexual experience for young people. The article is called How Internet Porn is Changing Teen Sex and you can read it for yourself here. I don't really have much to say about it, but some of the things in it really got to me. In part because it is an exposition of how sad young people can be but also because it made me examine myself as a product of my own surroundings. I hesitate to say that what is examined in the article is the mistreatment of sex because, as a product of my environment, I'm torn between belief and disbelief in the conventions of taboo. One line that I found particularly striking was this one : "it's safe to say that the first purebred guinea pig to have grown up never knowing a world without fisting on demand is probably around 22 years old." By that estimation I am one of the cantankerous old men in the world, and reflecting on the article affirmed that for more.

The article looks at how both boys and girls are now approaching sex as a result of pornography. And while this can lead to many different conversations it reminded me distinctly of one of what I have found to be the more perverse couple pairing rituals I have seen in a few years. This summer a recent high school graduate who I was working with mentioned to me that her suntan tattoo was fading. After determining what a suntan tattoo was I asked her what hers was of. She told me it was of her new boyfriends name; that when she was on Spring Break in cancun she used stickers to spell out this boys name on her body (she did not mention where) and then got a tan so that once removed his name would show up in her lighter, untanned, skin. She told that then she took some pictures with her phone so that she could show him it and that later on that, when she was back home, they had started dating. The whole thing stuck me as incredibly odd but also something more than that. Something about the implication of ownership it makes and how regressive it seems feels inherently perverted to me. But then again, maybe thats just me being a cantankerous 20+ year old. But then again, maybe I only find it so perverted because of the perverted interest I in the practice I feel when ever I happen to think about it.

“It is not human nature we should accuse but the despicable conventions that pervert it.”

Zooey: in memory

"We are assembled here today to pay final respects to our honored dead. And yet, it should be noted that in the midst of our sorrow, this death takes place in the shadow of new life, the sunrise of a new world.”
- James T. Kirk

Sometimes I wonder if this blog should just give in and write exclusively about science fiction… find a niche that is marketable and build an expanded readership from there. But then I remember how nice it feels to write about sex and longing and how few the times I’ve masturbated to Princess Leia have been and coyishly considered how many more times I should’ve.

In that same way I also consider writing a blog exclusively about such things as strange sexuality. Weird sex. The works. It wouldn’t be hard; Matt and I have seen such things that would make you wonder, like Birdo bjs and Marty Feldman tits. Even a simple image search for Robert A. Heinlein on Google has led us to a busty and bulging redhead in her baby blue bra and panties. The sub-culture of pornography on the Internet is something I’m going to look back fondly on in many years as one of the more artistically surprising moments of my youth and harden at.

But right now it is not with a smile but a sigh that I write about some such dazzling porn. And that is because my best friend Matt has lost someone very important to him. Her name was Zooey, and she was a porn. And like Zooey Glass neither he nor I are sure we know how to say her name right but we still feel connected to her. I never knew her the way Matt did but he told me about her upon her passing and in preparation for this obituary. Though I never watched her I feel I knew her through his words:

“Zooey? She had blonde hair down to about halfway between her shoulds and shin, rectangular black glasses and a school girl's outfit. It was one of those porns that's supposed to be teacher/student thing, but while the girl MAYBE could be taken for a student, the teacher looks like some guy you'd find playing pool in a dive bar. She gave him head and then he bent her over the desk, it wasn't very original from that perspective, but she was just the prettiest girl...”

She’s dead now, deleted, gone the way of Goatse.cx and the dinosaurs (wink wink.) It’s a sad day when you lose a porn that’s close to you. Some of us only have but a few brief minutes of joy in the sun before like the house fly were gone forever, navigated away, lost forever ins a sea of skin and jpegs.

But luckily there is hope because as one light dies another may be lighted. It just so happens that while Matt’s Zooey lay dying I was just finding my favorite clip of porn. I don’t know her name, but I think I’m going to call her Kevin because she’s home alone. She’s green, like an unripe banana, and like Matt said about Zooey, there isn’t anything particularly special about Kevin or the clip or anything- but some nights she’s just the prettiest little thing to look at.

There are vixens out there; calling. Sweet sweet vixens.

Carrie Fisher- in effigy of Zooey, may she rest in peace

Water Water Everywhere and-

HOLY SHIT look at all those tentacle monsters! 

 If you've ever wondered what tentacle monsters are or what exactly it is Matt and I are always talking about, this should give you a better idea.  What this picture is actually meant to be though is an HIV/AIDS awareness and protection poster.  It's brought to you by the artist James Jean.

cml

Boys and Girls

Matt asked me to write this. He implored me. I can only assume he felt that I was more aptly prepared and disposed to discuss the themes which are to follow. There is a good chance that this piece will be double posted, here, and also over at The Most Sublime Noise to Penetrate the Ear of Man, a fellow blog I have only recently begun writing for.

I asked her her name and in a dark brown voice she said Lola. L-o-l-a; Lola.

Vanity Fair said of Nabokov’s masterpiece Lolita that it was “The only convincing love story of our century.” If Lolita is this century’s only convincing love story in literature than The Kinks’ 1970 song “Lola” must be the only convincing love song we are left with.

It’s surprising how catchy the song is when you first listen to it. The strong twanging intro grabs you deep down in your groin with a snug grip only to let go for you to relax as Ray Davies’ tiny, pubescent, boy-girl voice starts to whisper in your ear. There is something entirely faggoty about the sound of the song that, even before you know what it is really about, is exciting and playful to listen to. At first listen “Lola” is simply a summer love song like any other summer love song should like to be, enjoyable; cutesy; moderately lasting. “Lola”, on its surface, is a well to-do love song. But, it is what’s under Lola’s makeup which is truly remarkable and endearing about it as a love story. This love song, like so many good rock and roll love songs, is nothing but a painted whore, a bright pair of leopard print tights, hiding the true nature of love and art, a throbbing, tucked back, veiny muscle of love.

“Lola” is among those other hidden pervert songs like “Blister in the Sun,” “F.H.I.T.A.” and “Longview.” The enduring quality The Kinks managed to impart in this song, besides the slightly masked transvestite and homosexual themes of the story, is that even after the point when it becomes clear to the listener that the song is in fact about an uncommon or expected love affair it is still and incredibly enjoyable satisfying song. Lola dregs up in its listener those feelings of sexual confusion and apprehension that have always lived with us. It’s hard for some people to imagine living a Grecian life style of antiquity and partaking in the styles of man-love only understood between and warrior and his fellow plunderers and spearmen or the occasion and goat farmer and his cattle. The question that should be pressed to our leaders, in politics, religion, and academia, in sociology, anthropology, history and psychology has nothing to do with “nature verses nurture” or “how do we square the cases of child molestation by the forefathers of modern culture with today’s values?” or even “is homosexuality a trait or a choice?” but what would you do for the love of a woman?

Nevermind the bullocks. Over look the five o’clock shadow and that she walks like a man. This is a battle of wills: not the head and the head but the head and the heart. The love for a true woman isn’t physical but spiritual. When you’re left in solitude, away from home for the first time, what will you do for the love of a woman, a woman who you can love and will love you back, just as hard and severely? What price would you pay? Is it so wrong? Should you turn away, run for the door? Or is it more atrocious to deny yourself happiness and to refuse what love there is that’s real?

Girls will be boys and boys will be girls
Its a mixed up, muddled up, shook up, world …except for Lola.

-Caleb Michael, not the world's most masculine guy

The Ball and Tentacle

We didn't ask for this... We didn't want this... I was just trying to come to grips with a weird incident, I just wanted to bring some humor into the world, to create some laughter. Is that so wrong? Isn't that a noble cause?

But, now... now, it's all gone to hell. Do you understand how many hits we've gotten lately because of tentacle rape? How many weirdos we've attracted who are googling "tentacle manga", "weird tentacle porn" or "monsters and allies fucking girls manga"? Seriously, what the fuck does taht even mean? Does it have to do with WWII?

Why, God, oh why do you curse us? Why put this pox upon our house? What did we do to offend you, oh great God of Internets, Drugs and Rock and Roll? It's like we yelled fire in a crowded movie house! Last time I checked, we were the fourth search result on google for "tentacle rape"! How is that even possible?! I...

You know what? I don't even know what else to say. Is this the lasting contribution of the Robotnik Generation? Is this what we've worked so hard to create? No, I refuse to allow this to happen. We will not be a den of sin and vice, purveyors of smut and Japanese weirdness. I didn't write about baseball or whine about girls for that.

Or we could just capitalize on the increased volume... yeah, maybe we'll do that. But, I'm really not sure yet.

Obligatory Tentacle Picture

A Moment in the Sun: Tentacle Rape

Maybe it is a delusion of grandeur, maybe it is all mistake, but BSD has finally reached the pinnacle of internetdom. After a year of working out fingers to the bone and climbing, we have finally reached the google main page for something other than "blast shields" or "caleb michael".

Yes, folks... that's right... we're the number four google search result for "tentacle rape".


Since we always seek to please our readers, we here at BSD would like to announce a new segment, called Tentacle Rape Corner, where we will be discussing all sorts of things tentacle related... both rape and yes, consensual sex... with tentacles involved, of course. We will also be working on other squid/octopus related subjects and are trying to hammer out an agreement with some Krakens for photo ops. Anyway... I hope you enjoy.

Robot Sex

I came across his old article from MSNBC.com the other day and it got me thinking... Honestly, it got me thinking about several things, mostly the psychological impact of falling in love and marrying a robot would have on someone. Seriously... that can't be healthy. Humans are social creatures and need to interact with other humans, no? Do you really want to marry something that is programmed to be perfect for you? Then again, if someone cannot find someone to love, isn't it better that they have something rather than being horribly lonely? Or what is the robot was programmed prior to you falling in love with it? Would that be okay?

I could go on about that aspect of the issue for a while, but I'm really not sure I know the answer. So instead of waxing philosophical, I'm going to discuss the other images that this conjured up for me. Given the chance, what robot would you have sex with?

A little too old for me


Is this Megatron's girlfriend?


Sweden is weird...

It's better than Astro at least...

I'm pretty sure this was the only reason I played Xenosaga

Troy McClure's dream come true

I'd love to make her spine glow

Was he even a robot?

Well, cast your vote and go visit this link for more insanity. I"m out.

Tentacle Rape

Oh boy... this is going to attract some weird visitors. C'est la vie...

You know that weird girl you went to High School with? The one you always felt kinda bad for until you realized that there was a good reason why no one talked to her? It’s not that she was a bad person, she was just too weird to have any sort of conversation with. Now, I know this seems like the pot calling the kettle black. Hey, I’m not going to deny I’m weird, strange, crazy, dorky, whatever… I embrace it. I just wrote a piece about Aquaman and Black Manta where I used the phrase “doinking mermaids and playing Marco Polo with dolphins”. I get that, I accept that, but I know how to interact with others, most people like me. And if anything, my own weirdness should underscore just how strange that girl is… because, I’m sure most of you know a person like that, but…

Have you ever had a conversation with her about tentacle rape?

Just process that for a few moments. Tentacle rape… weird Japanese Manga about girls… being raped… by tentacle monsters. It’s like that urban legend about Led Zeppelin fucking some girl with a fish, but about four trillion times worse. It’s not that the concept really even bothers me all that much. Sure, it’s weird and disturbing and disgusting, but I’ve seen worse. But to have a conversation about it… with that weird girl… in the middle of class was the most awkward moment of my life.

It all happened one sunny day in history. I was headed to the back of the room so I could plug in my laptop and entrench myself for the three hours of history lecture and discussion that were to follow. I pass by this girl and I’m almost to my seat when I hear my name. Fuck. I had thought I’d gotten through scotch free, but apparently not. Considering I’d been ignorning her pretty well that semester, I felt like I should go see what she wanted. It was quite possibly the worst mistake of my life.

“Do you know about tentacle rape?” she asks me as she looks up at my with squinty eyes.

I stop in my tracks, stare down at her and wonder if I’d fallen down the rabbit hole. “Um… yeah?” I answer, trying to figure out where on earth this could possibly be going and where she learned about humanity from.

She launches into some long spiel about anime and manga, Japan and art and of course tentacle rape (which she doesn’t like, just so you know, but only reads it because the art is good), and a whole slew of other topics that went in one ear and floated off somewhere, probably killing some kittens when their vile forms finally found something good they could destroy.

I stood there horrified, as if in Medusa’s gaze, wondering what was going on upon the page of that “book”… it was like something out of H.P. Lovecraft’s worst nightmares. It was some sort of demon Kraken, as if Cthullu vomited slimy green vines and decided to attack a school full of Japanese vaginas with it.

I understand sexuality comes in all sorts of forms, and I’ve been known to be attracted to fictional things… be them aliens or robots or whatever, but they’re always at least humanoid. But to be attracted by some human, Godzilla-like squid monster that formed from the radiation after Hiroshima? That, I just don’t understand…

But, I just nodded along, agreed with her that tentacle rape was weird and when the torture was finally over I returned to my seat, convinced she was an alien, because the entire conversation just could not have come from a human being.

Dr. Zoidberg's dream girl

Apartment A2

My first apartment had bumpy, uneven floors and a tick in the walls. I was living in the old apartment when she broke up with me. The second night I spent there she and I went around the apartment and had sex in every one of its rooms. This was before I’d even gotten any furniture moved in. My bed would remain on the floor where I first dropped it for the entirety of my time living there.

We had sex in every room that night: mine, the closet, the living room, even my roommates room, right next to the frame of his bed, a cold painted steel frame leaning against the wall. She was on all fours and I was on my knees too, right where he’d eventually put his bed, right next to his picture of Jesus.

She sat on the ledge in front of the sink in the kitchen and I fucked here there too. I was bumpy and uneven and paunchy and she was perfect, fit and slim; dark, olive skin; callous and still fragile.

After she’d broken up with me it was never very easy to do dishes again, to stand in front of the sink, facing in, my hands down in the water, my finger tips wet and pruning, hesitating and burning down there. If I left the window open the steam would rush up in my face and sometimes the pilot light in the stove would blow out too and the room would smell like gas. It got a lot easier eventually, and even now I just hate doing dishes for all the normal reasons, for all the reasons I had for hating to do the dishes when I was young, before things got complicated. Before sex and kitchen sinks had anything to do with one another the way they sometimes do now.



Caleb, the no fun apt. room A2

Happy Black History Month

...from all your pals here at BSD.

CML, Black Manta Historian

Revisited

Today I found a porno-magazine in the middle of the road. It was all alone on the asphalt. The pages were turning one over another, back and forth, exposing young girls and their breasts and asses and more. When my bike tire rolled over the magazine I thought I heard the crunching of dry leaves but as I looked down I saw her. I saw her two legs, pinned down by me now, spread eagled underneath the rubber of my tire. Held there, her legs disjointed, her smile gazing up at me, wet and pink, spread wide across her youthful face. She is clean and pristine and nice but undeniably dirty and corrupted on the page. She looked happy to me. She looks happy to me still. She looked ready to make someone else happy too. “This girl is a giver,” I thought. “Someone who really understands the meaning of altruism. A real tart of empathy.”

Suddenly, I’m passed it and before anything can register I’m hearing the leaves rustling again, pages turning quickly, full of nature and instincts and carnal matters. Did I just see that?

I did. Yes. Yes! And there it is again, and there again! It’s as if some little boys (maybe two or three, let lose from somewhere inside of me) are gathered greedily around it, the magazine, and are flipping glossy pages, silk slick first and then clammy with sweat against their blood-flushed fingers. The pages seem so dry though, so worn there in the road that one more turn by those invisible spit licked fingers might tear the pages, mutilating some poor girl’s body or face and bending staples out of this book’s binding.

I double back and there she is again, and again (or is it now her sister, or her lover?) They’re young and fresh and all different shades of the same well known (or well learned) pinkish hue. But I’m more struck by their faces- each is happy. Everyone is smiling up at me with perfect pearl teeth, high polished on the pages. “What’re you so happy about?” Even their looks of longing and hard-pressed, long waiting glimpses of anticipation seem more playful than anything else. There is nothing these girls are missing. Except, maybe, their clothing. But, I don’t think they even miss those all that much.

The pages keep turning at a heartbeat’s rate and I’m standing over them. My bike is in the grass and I’m in the middle of the road staring down at my feet and her face, and ass, and more, intently and not so unlike Mosses I’m on a mountaintop with God. After all, I’m staring down with my eyes averted from all the people walking past me, from all their disgust, from the drab sky and cold wind that was before in my eyes. But is this so much better or so much worse? I was content today, void of thoughts and feelings until these girls fell underfoot and under tire and flaunted their happy, content, fresh faces in my way. How can I feel sixteen and sexy and stupid all over again? And lost like John the Baptist awaiting god in wilderness untouched, uncontrolled, and all alone before all majesty, at once? How can I feel so old and stupid and decrepit too? These girls are running past me like all girls do, but flipping one by one past me, turning back flips and bending over, wide and low and long, across beds and barn doors and stable walls. They are taunting me and are unkind, and dance past my old, cold weathered stiff bones.

By the grace of God I’ll walk by all this and won’t take off my jacket and fold it over my lap today. Not today. I’m not all that young and uncontrollable and untouched. This isn’t freshman year again, not like every other day has been. I’ll walk by all of this today. Or, maybe I’ll roll it all up tight as her and stuff them in a black back pack. Maybe I’ll save it away not for pleasure, but as a tool, a reminder, a talisman of fall and sex and being young again, or never again, or always still.

Who knows really?


Caleb, 19