The case against sex on the beach | Van Winkle's →

Here’s one compelling clue that sex on the beach sucks: The drink named after it uses peach schnapps. At best cloying and at worst the thing of which nightmare hangovers are made, peach schnapps is preferred by people who are young, unsophisticated and lacking a proper bed.

Which, I might add, is also true of those who consider sex on the beach a capital idea.

The act seems to hold myriad allure. Sex on a beach is public, it feels romantic and classic movies tell us it’s something hot couples do. No doubt, the beach is sexy. People are barely dressed, rubbing themselves with oil, dripping with pheromones. Everything about the environment  tells us we should want to fuck.

Everything, that is, except the sand. And the bugs. But mostly the sand, which sticks to moist bits (and what is sex but an elegant mashing of bits that are moist?). At its essence, sex on the beach is a bucket-list act, sitting alongside the mile-high club as something we're supposed to do. Beach boning is a to-do list item that, once checked off, is unlikely to be done again.

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The Tongue-Twisting History of the Many Euphemisms for Eating Ass | VICE →

I remember the first time I actively, unambiguously tongued the anus of a man. It was June 1994 in the Yankee Doodle Motel in Shelburne, Vermont. My boyfriend, a muscly manly man, hot from the shower and dewy with steam, flopped on the bed. The skin over his ass was plump and invitingly pink-white; I had to put my mouth on it. My tongue, flat as a trowel, cleaved to his asshole. In the parlance of the time, I "rimmed" him, and he liked it.

Growing Up as a Girl Surrounded by Fuckweasels

Let's see: There was the time I was 15 and, eying a career in broadcasting, did a Saturday ride-along with the local news team. The smirking, fratty 30-something male reporter told me a dirty joke; it ended with a punchline about a tiger and me laughing nervously. There was the middle-aged guy at the pool who would leer and talk at me the summer I was 16; his chest hair glistened in the sun, oily and fluffy as sheep wool. I giggled at him too. 

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Blood lust: why period sex shouldn't be taboo in Hollywood or anywhere else | The Guardian →

The filmmakers cut the infamous ‘tampon scene’ from Fifty Shades of Grey without understanding why fans found it sexy instead of disgusting.

I am a big fan of period sex.

Part of my enjoyment is that I came of age in a place (Vermont, renowned for its woodsmen and its hippies) and a time (the late 70s and early 80s) that were conducive to being matter-of-fact about female bodies. The very first time I had sex during my period was on the floor of a nearly-empty college apartment with a guy I was dating; I had no idea that I had gotten my period while we were shagging. I went to the bathroom and, in the greenish cast of the fluorescent lights, I saw the blood. I thought it was pretty cool.

I walked out and told the guy. “Oh,” he said, looked down at his crotch, and offered me a beer. It was no big deal to him. (Read more)

A Brief History of Pubic Hair in Art | Vulture →

John Ruskin, as any liberal arts grad will tell you, is famous less for being the defining voice of Victorian art criticism and more for the putative story of his wedding night: He gazed upon his bride’s naked body, saw her muff, and fled in horror. Ruskin died in 1900, but our own repulsion at and fascination with female pubic hair continues to mirror his. The human body holds myriad uncanny sites, but few are as contested or as overdetermined as the female mons. Hairy or bare, it’s rife with meaning, intrigue, and analysis. It’s also the shiny, glossy, four-color subject of Marilyn Minter’s glam new art book, Plush. (Read more)