Lucrezia Magazine

Peep Show: Tales of Voyeurs and Exhibitionists

Anastasia Mavromatis — Sun, 28 Feb 2010 13:33:25 +0000

If the internet is anything to go by, with the advent of social networks and everything web-cam related, exhibitionism and voyeurism are common in all of us. The most recent phenomenon, in the form of a ‘randomized’ chat site, aptly named Chat Roulette, indicates that the unknown intrigues many, even if that unknown happens to be a middle aged man dressed in an animal printed catsuit on the other side.
The eclectic collection of erotic shorts within Peep Show (Cleis Press) vary on the scale of sexual detail, albeit in a positive way. Some stories are relatively conventional (masturbation) while others go further by way of sexual positioning, choice and risk. Even so, many of the couplings tend to be one on one and some characters beat the same drum, in the expression of their view of ‘being discovered‘ as the aphrodisiac or central . As a reader, I would like to delve deeper into the psyche and the common held view of the ‘risk of discovery adding to the appeal tends to be overdone and stereotypical. Any one who has experienced the unexpected exhibitionist first hand will know that the experience is more than ‘the risk of being caught’. Then again, the word count requirements of short fiction can limit the writer. It’s not my thing to outline every single story in an anthology, except to say that certain things (like stereotypes or the occasional cliché) may stand out more so than others. Every reader will have their favorites and each favorite will, undoubtedly reflect a personal experience, identification, amongst other things but such lists are ultimately biased on some level. Besides, this collection ought to be approached in the same way one approaches the subject matter: unexpectedly.
The first story of the collection, the aptly titled ‘Showtime’ perhaps displays voyeurism and exhibitionism in a simpler, yet effective manner and provides an ideal introduction to the collection. The – perhaps accidental exhibitionist – muscular stationary cyclist across the way rivets two women to the point of masturbation that goes beyond phallic worship. The two women, one an older and conflicted voyeur to her younger co-worker, submit to their primal urges in a darkened room that is fitted out to enable free viewing. The simplicity of the story is what makes it successful, whereas other stories tend to condense detail -sometimes to the point of being illogical or, clichéd. A part of me will always shake my head when authors add references to content that has been done before (or done to death), such as the song ‘Leave Your Hat On’ (Joe Cocker), which was done and dusted in the film 9 ½ Weeks to wind up as the usual student/professor sex story. If only my own university lecturers were so sexually attractive. I guess that is what fantasy is all about. Some stories like Rosse Buurt and People Who Live in Glass Hotels, will have readers using Google to respectively locate Amsterdam’s red light district and the Arcotel Hotel Velvet Berlin with glass walls facing the street. Former hotel guest reviews posted on various sites vary and don’t actually reflect the sophistication described in the story but fiction tends to reinvent some realism and, hopefully, makes up for everyday shortcomings by way of plot and characterization and, in the case of erotic fiction – the sex.
In this collection, you can be guaranteed scintillating mind-altering sex but getting there – for a few stories – requires more work from the reader. For example, Audience Participation requires readers to suspend reality over two pages and accept the fact that a group of research scientists simply accept their miserable lot (being prohibited to access the internet) and not use their own – separate – wi-fi enabled laptops to access the internet via their own private internet providers. It is a flaw in characterization and doesn’t make for great foreplay (unless the story is set in China or Iran, which it isn’t, where internet censorship is a reality) and one hopes that the upcoming sex will make up for it. In my daily life at a university, I see plenty of researchers and students use their own plug-in wi-fi connections (or failing that, their iPhones). Audience Participation won me over on a personal level as I have experience anal-retentive IT staff, restrictive company policies and corporate repression. Based on my own personal identification and experience, I read on and was plunged – pleasantly, I may add – into a hot conclusion, but along the way, and up to the hot conclusion, the two central characters of this story witness the sexual shenanigans of a supposedly rigid supervisor. Here, the central female character experiences revulsion juxtaposed against pleasure, as her body involuntarily responds to the sexual scenes via the in-office webcam. Thus, voyeurism -in any way or form, feeds in to sexual arousal and, actual foreplay. Scenes witnessed in the past or present, can be recalled as sexual props to enhance or ignite a tryst.
Thus, with exhibitionism and voyeurism, there is a sense of revulsion and pleasure. For some, the revulsion may reflect their personal morals, or morals that were a part of one’s upbringing. As for the sexual or pleasurable response, this tends to operate on a primal – near involuntary- level. Without wanting to delve too much into the Freudian view of the subconscious, the almost immediate physical sensations occur before any logic enters the thought process and all of the stories in Peepshow address this emotional reality while exploring the sensual physical outcomes that will appeal to every erotica aficionado. If you want to get your sensual pulse racing, get your hands on this book.

Read more about this anthology on the official blog and watch the Peep Show trailer here. This book is available from all good book outlets and via Amazon.

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Balloon Animals

Karl Koweski — Sun, 28 Feb 2010 13:16:11 +0000

It was Food Galaxy’s grand opening and I stood outside to the right of the automatic doors like a paisley fire hydrant for all the puppies to piss on. The temperature crept toward 110 degrees. Heat baked off the sidewalk. Sweat and greasepaint melted down my forehead like candle wax.
I wanted to go home to my shitty apartment, peel off my green, yellow and purple polka-dotted and paisley jump shit and crack open a beer.
“I wanted a dinosaur,” a little kid under foot mewled.
We looked at the green balloon in his hand that I’d contorted into the same shape I also called a dog, a cat, a horse, or whatever other bullshit animal the kiddies requested.
“That is a dinosaur.”
“That’s no dinosaur.” The kid’s voice edged toward hysterics.
“Here let me show you.”
I took the balloon creature back and withdrew a pen from my pocket. I meant to draw mean eyes and sharp teeth on its head. The balloon popped the moment pen tip touched balloon skin.
The kid howled. The mother called me a monster. They both stormed off, the mother pledging never to shop at Food Galaxy again.
To think I went to college for this. Clown college.
“Don’t you love them?”
Christ, the manager. If I blew another commission for Clowns Around clown rental agency, I’d be tooting my horn and squirting water out of my funny flower on the street corner for spare change.
“Oh, I love kids. They’re our future, and…”
She wasn’t the manager. She wasn’t even a Food Galaxy employee. I could say for sure she was even a shopper. She loitered near my helium tank, hanging out. A clown groupie.
“I hate those little fuckers,” I finished.
She looked… great. Dark, short-cropped hair, small button nose, large anime eyes. Green eyes, the sort of eyes that caught you in a vortex so that you could barely stand to look away even to check out the rest of her smoking hot body. She was pretty as a pixie, the sort of pixie who would slip on a pair of brass knuckles and punch you in the teeth as easily as caressing your cheek. My favorite kind of pixie, incidentally. She wore a black baby doll T-shirt that highlighted the brightly colored tattoos blazing down her left arm. I couldn’t tell what it was at first glance. A peacock, or something. A bass, maybe. Some sort of fish and fowl hybrid. No, a phoenix, a phoenix rising from flames. And a flowered necklace was inked around her neck like a choker.
She was the sort of woman I would date if I actually possessed the good looks and extroverted personality needed to win over such a lovely creature.
“Hell of an attitude for a clown,” she said. “I like it.”
“I don’t define myself by my occupation.”
“Well that’s good to know. My name’s Brandy.”
“I’m Yarbles the Clown.” I honked my horn for emphasis.
She looked down at my shoes, stupid red pancakes jutting from my ankles.
“Is it true what they say about clowns with big feet?” Brandy asked.
“Actually,” I sighed, figuring she was only about five minutes and twenty five feet away from the truth, anyway. “You know how clowns are always crying on the inside?”
“Yeah.”
“There’s a reason for that. And it’s got something to do with unreal expectations in regards to shoe size, dick size and the discrepancies between the two.”
“How tragic. So, Yarbles, do you get a break or is it all balloons all the time?”
“Well, truth be known, balloon animals ain’t really my forte. I’m more of a juggling clown.”
“Fascinating. A multi-talented clown. So you think you can get away for a little bit?”
“Yes, but not far away. I’ve got my van over there. It’s the teal, fuschia and marigold van with the lavender bow tie on the bumper.”
“I never would have guessed. Is it comfy in the back?”
“Sure is.” I’d slept off many a drunks in the back of that van.
I hung my “back in five minutes” sign around the helium tank and lead Brandy to the back of my van, thanking God I no longer drove that silly plaid Volkswagen beetle. You could have squeezed fifteen clowns into the VW, but try fucking a 5′9″ clown groupie and you’d find yourself riding your unicycle to the chiropractor three times a week.
I glanced around the parking lot for any curious soccer moms or gangs of wayward children. Finding none, I popped open the back doors and we hopped inside.
The interior was dim with only light from the windshield filtering through the striped curtains separating the driver’s cockpit from the clown gear storage/dressing room. I clicked on the lights at the vanity mirror where I applied my make-up. Brandy was the sort of woman whose body deserved to be well-lit as opposed to the other sort I ordinarily entertained.
“Is this where the magic happens?” Brandy asked.
“One of the places.”
She kneeled in front of the mirror. I hunkered behind her, admiring the way her blue jeans melded with her firm ass. She surveyed my clown paraphernalia, my assortment of greasepaint, the brightly colored wigs hanging off hooks like cotton candy pubic hair.
Brandy motioned to the base white greasepaint. “Mind if I get into character?”
“Help yourself. But you might want to take your shirt off first, though. Greasepaint is hard to get off dark fabric.”
Her reflection smiled. “Of course.” She peeled off her shirt in one quick motion, making her tits jounce. Maybe a C-Cup if she had worn a bra. She hadn’t. Gravity did nothing to thwart her perkiness. There was a conglomeration of seven stars tattooed on her lower back.
“I like your tattoos,” I whispered, my red bulbous nose pressing against her ear. My cock, hard as a rocket ship, pressed against the northern most star inked into her back.
“I like your face,” she said, applying the first dab of greasepaint across her forehead. “What was your inspiration for the template?”
John Wayne Gacy. “No one really. Just needed something relatively easy. Since I’m always running late.”
I massaged her shoulders as she rubbed her face mime white. “Your frilly cuffs tickle.”
I apologized and she said not to. It felt good. When I tried to unbutton my clown suit she stopped me. “Leave it on,” she purred. “I want to fuck a clown, not some bum in make-up. You got a piss hole to pull your cock through, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but damn it’s hot in here.”
“It’s about to get a whole lot hotter.” She smiled, radiantly. “How do I look? Does Pussywillow sound like a good name for a clown?”
“You look amazing. And Pussywillow is perfect.”
Brandy unbuttoned her jeans, slid the denim down her hips. She wore no underwear. It would probably alarm some folks to know I don’t wear underwear, either. I unbuttoned the piss hole in my clown suit and pulled out my cock. Brandy giggled a bit, but the good thing about being a clown; if you pull out your junk while in uniform and the woman laughs, it’s not quite as humiliating as it might otherwise be.
Brandy had nothing to be ashamed of. The beauty of her face and the perfection of her breasts extended down the length of her body. My eyes soaked her in. The contours of her tone legs curving into her firm ass. A quick movement of her legs and I caught a glimpse of her trimmed pubic hair pointing down to her chubby pussy.
Then she was kneeling again in front of the mirror, her playful green eyes mesmerizing me.
I kneeled behind her. She leaned forward applying red rouge along the base of her jaw and the corner of her forehead in splotches creating a raspberry rorschach. I crawled up behind her, kissed her ass cheeks, kissed each of the seven stars, kissed up her back to her shoulder as my hands kneaded her ass, spreading her cheeks, squeezing them together, moving my hands along her hips, then pressing her ass against my groin, feeling my circus tent pole sliding between her moist lips, finally piercing her wet, squirting flower.
Brandy groaned and braced herself against the table. “Go easy, bozo, your gonna fuck-up my make-up.”
She made a black line across her lips and bisected each line from one end of her mouth to the other as though her lips were stitched. She made a heart on her forehead while I dipped my fingers in red rouge and rubbed her nipples erect.
She tilted her head back against me and sighed, snaking her arm around my head, pulling me by my orange wig until our lips touched and our tongues midget wrestled. My left hand unclasped her nipple and dipped into my pocket before trailing down her xylophone rib cage and trampoline belly. With my cock halfway inside, I frigged her clit with the tip of my fingers before pressing my joy buzzer ring against her cunt. Brandy spasmed instantly, body writhing. I could feel my cock tingling inside her.
“Oh my fucking god.” She knocked my hand away before the joy buzzer induced seizures.
She smiled her stitched lips and took a red prince valiant wig off the hook, putting it on. Sitting on the edge of the make-up table, Brandy spread her legs and rubbed her twat, splaying her pussy lips with two fingers.
“What do you think? Would I make a good clown?”
“Mmmmm. If there were more clowns like you, I’d have stayed in the circus.”
“Aren’t you the sweet talker. How bout putting your tongue to better use and licking my pussy?”
Now there was a request I could honor. I bowed before her and tongued her pussy with more relish than I ever showed twisting balloons into dinosaurs.
Brandy draped her legs across my shoulders and I cupped her ass in my hands, pressing my clown nose against her pubic bone and digging my tongue into her soft wet trench. Her cunt was like a cotton candy funnel cake, except better. My tongue was a super-charged electro-fantastic pinwheel, a steroid frenzied contortionist fitting himself into a velvet lined box. I stuck an exploratory finger up her ass and she reacted with the same enthusiasm the joy buzzer instilled. And for once in my life I didn’t feel like such a fucking clown. Even when she gripped my curly wig and pulled it down over my eyes.
After a taffy elongated ten minutes of pussy licking and ass finger fucking, I let off her pussy and took a much needed breath.
Brandy took my purplish balloon animal and hid it in her mouth. Her green eyes like flecks of jade on ivory glinting with pleasure. Her wig bobbed with her cocksucking motion. She grabbed my fluffy clown buttons like circus chakras and fondled them as if they were balls which seemed to rev her motor since she started making motor boat sounds as slobbed my clown knob and dipped down to suckle and tongue juggle my clown balls. I know she didn’t have a joy buzzer in her mouth, but it sure felt like it.
Just as I reached a crescendo which would have surely sent me doing back flips through the van’s interior, she popped my cock out of her mouth like a champagne cork.
“You taste like licorice,” she said, mysteriously.
“Mind if I put my licorice in your candy jar?”
I laid her down on a few spare clown outfits strewn across the floor of the van and mounted her with the confidence of a trapeze artist. Pushing my wig up out of my eyes I was able to watch her breasts piston. It was so hot in my clown suit, steam puffed out of the suit’s piss hole as I thrust in and out of her sopping wet pussy as best I could considering the clown shoes didn’t give much traction.
I pushed her legs back to her ears, bent down until we were clown face to clown face. She caught my nose in her teeth and spit out the red foam. We kissed long and deep, greasepaint smearing until we were more ghouls than clowns. I fucked her as hard and deep as my rod allowed which, you know, poor circulation kept my cock from attaining the length and girth it should have been, honestly.
I kissed the tiny flowers tattooed around her throat, reared back and grabbed her ankles, spreading her legs as I pumped.
“Fuck me, clown. Fuck me, hard, Yarbles.”
Brandy grabbed me by my vermillion collar and pulled me over onto my back. She took my cock and ran her tongue up and down the length before turning around, bending over, giving me an eyeful of her beautiful ass, bending until I could see her asshole and pussy slung underneath, a carnival of pleasures. She eased my cock into her and rode me reverse cowgirl, bending forward so she could play with my clown shoes, massaging my ankles, fondling my silver shoe laces.
She bounced on my cock as though I were a trampoline. She grunted with the effort. I grunted and gasped with the pleasure until I could hold off no longer, all my little clowns gathered in my clown sack ready to charge into Brandy’s tight pink car.
I pulled out and Brandy whipped around, taking my cock in her strong hand, she expertly jerk and twisted my cock until I added my own sticky greasepaint to her chin and lips, down her neck, adding a pearl necklace below her ink choker, dribbling down the slope of her breasts. Brandy swiped my cock head across her rouged nipples.
Her wig had come off in the fucking mayhem. I’d flipped my wig earlier. We kneeled there gasping and panting, giggling a little bit. I reached over and kissed her tasting cum and greasepaint. I could see the sweat, cum and greasepaint slathered between her thighs. I couldn’t wait to get between those thighs again.
“You’re the best clown I’ve ever fucked,” she said. “And I should know. I married a rodeo clown out of Austin.”
“Oh.”
“Well, have a good life, Yarbles. Maybe I’ll see you again when the circus is in town.”
I watched her dress and exit the van. Outside I could hear the kiddies screaming for their balloon animals.

Artwork: Jeff Koons

Karl Koweski’s erotic stories have appeared in Ruthies Club, Swank, Hustler Fantasies, Clean Sheets, Chocolate and Oysters and in the anthology The Mammoth Book of Erotic Fantasy. His first collection of smut stories, Low Life, is due out in November from www.zygoteinmycoffee.com.

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The Senator’s Wife

Sylvie Chambers — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 14:26:15 +0000

Lynne left her briefcase on the desk and let herself be led into the closet.

“Hillary?”

“Finally you’re here.” Her partner smiled and kissed her. She was wearing the strap on again underneath her wool slacks, and Lynne pushed her hips against it, feeling its stiffness against her leg.

“I’m all yours.” She’d been looking forward to this all day, all through the depositions she’d been listening to over with her law firm. They were boring as Hell, but she knew by the end of the day she’d get some kind of release.

“Ready?”

“Yes, Mrs. President.”

Her partner pulled the dildo out from her wool slacks and rubbed it between Lynne’s thighs. She smiled that camera-perfect smile, with her eyes wrinkling at the sides and the reddish lipstick glimmering off her lips. A wave of dyed-blonde hair fell over her shoulders, shadowing her face. Lynne dropped her eyes and watched her partner run her palms along the shaft of the dark cock, warming up to it.

Lynne helped guide it between her own legs. She shivered as it touched her clit through her clothes, and she felt the warm sensation run down through her thighs and up along her back.

“Finally it’s my turn to get some in the Oval Office,” her lover whispered.

“Hmm, yes.” Lynne laughed softly. She took a step back, knelt down on the floor, and took the dildo in her mouth. As she sucked, she ran her hands up and down her partner’s thighs.

Her partner thrust her pubis against the cock lightly and moaned, but Lynne pulled her mouth away. “Don’t make any noise now,” Lynne whispered. “Those security cameras are sensitive.”

Her partner laughed, and Lynne continued to lick.

A cell phone rang from the desk, and she moaned audibly now. “Damn, that’s my husband.”

“Bill?”

“Very funny. He’s coming here.” The front door slammed, and the phone stopped ringing. “Shit!”

The two women tumbled out of the closet as the footsteps thundered up the stairs.

“Goddamn press!” He walked in the door to his bedroom and greeted his wife. “Hello, Mayor.”

“Now’s not the time, Senator.” She tried to stuff the cock back into her pants, but he barely noticed.

Lynne suppressed a giggle. The Senator’s graying hair looked more disheveled than usual, but he still had that fine curve of a nose and solid chin that the voting public adored.

“Hello, Lynette,” he greeted her. Then he looked at his wife and said, as sarcastically as possible, “You’re not playing Hillary again, are you sweetheart?”

“It’s none of your damn business,” she glowered. “Not that you would ever have the same charisma or virility as William Clinton.”

He ignored this and turned toward the window. “Sorry to bother you, love.” He drew the drapes and peered out through the chiffon curtain. “I know you and your pussycat are having your play time. Meanwhile, your diligent State Senate was debating the Gay Agenda bill today, and the press have been following me around ever since. I thought I’d come home and show them what a happy couple we are.”

“Perfect,” his wife answered. She was finally struggling out of her slacks in order to unstrap the cock.

“Oh, this is grand,” the Senator said from the window. “They’re looking up at me. Honey, will you get that thing off and come smile on my arm?”

Lynne leaned forward and unhooked the Mayor’s harness straps. “My law firm would love to find me in your bed.” She sighed. “I guess I’ll have to sit around and listen to you two bicker, till the paparazzi leaves.”

The Mayor laughed, which she was not known for doing in public. “Maybe I should hire you as my maid, then you’ll have every excuse to stay here with me.” She bent down to kiss Lynne, her mouth still soft and warm. Lynne wanted nothing better than to pull her back down on the bed. The Senator might not even notice.

Instead she caught the harness as it slid off the Mayor’s hips. “I’m not convinced that would be a step in the right direction for my legal career.”

The Mayor shrugged and looked around for her slacks. “Go put that thing in the dishwasher.”

“Hardly necessary,” Lynne said, fondling the silicone. “I’ll make some coffee. Plenty of training doing that.”

She appraised the Mayor from the bed. Her skin was aging and getting leathery but still held that well-polished tone and complexion. Her ass sagged but her thighs were thick and strong, and her pubic hair trimmed nicely. Lynne had done that herself.

The Mayor knew she was being watched. “When you’re my presidential advisor, you can come and go as you please.” She pulled her slacks back on, sans panties, and ran her hands over the wool to straighten out the folds. “Legal advice and all.”

“As long as there’s more coming than going,” Lynne grinned, and rushed down the stairs before she heard anyone groan.

The Mayor sighed and stepped over to the window, to stand beside her husband. She smiled down on the huddle of reporters ogling them from the street. Finally, one or two noticed her, and she waved with the hand that held her wedding ring – a huge chunk of a diamond flanked by smaller stones. When they’d married, the ring had been featured in some high-circulation fashion magazine whose name she could not recall. The article had earned them both a political boost in the ratings for being not only successful, but fashionable and hitched, too.

Downstairs, the reporters started pounding on the door, sending a rattle through the house.

“Blast them!” the Senator cursed, never losing his media smile. He was known for his congeniality under pressure. “They want a quote for their damn articles.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I said, no comment. They know I’m soft on this issue.”

Despite herself, his wife laughed. She really was fond of him, despite that broad chin and beady eyes. “Thank you, dear.” She leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek, but before she could move away from the window, the Senator slapped her ass.

“Anything for my wife.”

Sylvie Chambers is a freelance writer in the San Francisco area, whose erotica has also been published by Clean Sheets magazine and For The Girls. By day she enjoys lounging about on her bright green shag rug, taking photographs, and going for bike rides by the beach.

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The Vintage Personal Ad

Dee Stern — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 13:01:11 +0000

A young soldier, of two years’ standing in the armies of the Republic, is desirous of conducting a correspondence with some American lady, not over 24 years of age, with the view that it may lead to a mutual desire to become personally acquainted — that such acquaintanceship may ripen into love, and, by the consummation of our affection, two lives be blended into one; or, in the plain King’s English, I am quite anxious to marry…. None but those who are sincerely disposed to look this matter “square in the face” need reply. In regard to his personal appearance, qualifications and character, the advertiser prefers to say nothing — a carte de visite, the contemplated correspondence and the future will disclose all that is necessary or desirable to be known on the subject…. Address Charles P. Hanover, First New York Mounted Rifles, Suffolk, Va.

May 27, 1863

When it comes to introductions, contemporary singles ads tend to be associated with internet technologies that instantly, and in some cases, raunchily convey an individual’s requirements for a much desired partner. Introduction services don’t need to be formal. Many are free and exist in virtual form. Some are household names, like Craigslist.
People may not like writing them, but many simply enjoy reading them. Personals have been a part of life ever since large scale urban development. It’s with great interest to come across an article by Pam Epstein in the New York Times that briefly relates the growth of the personal advert.

“In the 19th century, as cities experienced enormous population growth, men and women invented new ways to find partners in an increasingly atomized world. Amorous advertisements abounded in newspapers around the country; the ads became so popular that one letter-writing manual even offered model replies.”[source]

It isn’t too different from the present era. Except now, guides to writing ideal personal adverts are found in the very sites that host personals. What makes Epstein’s article even more interesting is her own personal investment in the history of the personal ad. Her investment spans an entire blog devoted to the history of the personal ad.
Advertising for Love is a collection of personal ads from the nineteenth century. This collection isn’t so much a commercial venture, but more a personal journey. Pam Epstein is a PhD candidate at Rutgers University, who was stuck for a dissertation topic – until inspiration came in the form of a vintage personal ad. Now, she is completing her dissertation on the topic of the transformation of love and marriage in mid-nineteenth century to early twentieth-century America.
Visit Advertising for Love here.

Dee Stern lives half of her life as a postgraduate psychology student and writes her blog, Dirty|Sexy|Pretty|Fun.

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The Formula for Love

Anastasia Mavromatis — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 03:30:05 +0000

Just when you thought that school was over, that the headaches associated with math formulae were finally left behind, a mathematics professor has released a love equation in time for Valentine’s Day.
Love is a tricky endeavor. People pay professional introductory services to meet their (potential) significant other. Others take on the job themselves, registering for a variety of online services that brag about successful love matches, but love or mating, is as uncertain as the striking it rich by winning the national lottery.

A new formula by an Australian mathematics professor, Tony Dooley, is nicknamed the ‘fiancee formula’ and works by considering the age at which one sets out to look for a partner and the upper age limit of one’s relationship goal. The purpose of the formula is to calculate the ideal age to fall in love
“Although probability isn’t the most romantic basis for a marriage, the formula does seem to fit a lot of couples — whether through accident or design,” said the equation’s creator, Professor Tony Dooley at the University of New South Wales.
“There’s no reason why the science can’t be extended to calculate the best moment to marry,” Dooley said in a statement.

Yes, the long equation above is the actual formula.

According to the university’s PR release:

Women of the world, watch out. Men now have another reason to avoid the ultimate marriage commitment: probability.
In an endeavour to show the application of mathematics to everyday life, statisticians from the University New South Wales (UNSW) may be able to help Australian men decide the right time to choose a bride.
The question of whether (and when) to propose has taxed bachelors for centuries. However, according to academics, a better guide could lie in probability and the „theory of optimal stopping‟ – a sequential decision-making process which is used in many areas, such as medical clinical trials.
As a offshoot of wider research, UNSW statistician Professor Bruce Brown, has calculated a model which gives men a 37% success rate of finding the best partner from a pool of marriage prospects – not bad odds given the divorce rate is predicted to rise as high as 50% for current brides and grooms.*
To work out when you, or your man, should pop the question, follow the process below.

First of all, set out the last possible age by which you want to get married, for example, 39. Call this number n.

Then, decide the earliest age at which you‟ll start to consider women as potential wife material, for example, from when you turn 20 onwards. This age becomes p.

Subtract p from n (i.e 39- 20), then multiply the result by 0.368. This gives you 6.992, which then needs to be added back to your minimum age (20), which more or less equals 27. This result is your optimal proposal age. Ideally you should not propose to anyone before you hit this age, but afterwards you should prepare to pop the question to the very next girl you date – as long as she‟s the best of the bunch so far.

Download the solution HERE

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John DuPret | Cerebral Eroticism

Anastasia Mavromatis — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 01:36:46 +0000

John DuPret was born in Portsmouth, England and began taking photographs and painting when he was 12. An example of his early illustrative work won an Art Award and was exhibited alongside the work of John Piper in an exhibition in Portsmouth City Art Gallery. At 16 he won a place in the Portsmouth college of Art but was unable to take it because of straitened family circumstances so is largely self-taught.

He works nowadays in “erotic” art in his home/studio near Brighton, England, where he lives with his wife. Over the past 20 years he’s lived in New Zealand, Australia and France, and his work has been widely exhibited. In New Zealand, his work was regularly hung in the Academy of Fine Arts, and he was considered one of the Antipodes leading contemporary artists. He has also designed trophies for 2 major fashion awards, in Australia and New Zealand.

DuPret is also known for his erotic photographic work, which has been widely published in books and magazines over the past 10 years. He is a self-confessed voyeur, which he says is the best reason he can think of for being a creator of fetish, perverse and erotic imagery. He’s also a lover of early erotic photography, and with his wife has collected a large and well known archive spanning the period 1850 – 1938.

First published : SexyArtGallery

Images © John DuPret

Images exclusively available from SexyArtGallery

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Surfer Boys – Gay Erotic Stories

Dee Stern — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 01:55:40 +0000

Life begins in an aquatic environment, so it’s natural for water to be a part of our daily lives. Whether we drink it to replenish essential fluids or use it to maintain hygiene, water is essential to everyday wellbeing. So it comes to no surprise for water, in the form of the beach, to be a central theme in an erotic anthology.
Surfer Boys – Gay Erotic Stories (Cleis Press), takes the reader to beaches around the world. From Cape Cod to Malibu, Kujukuri to Byron Bay, surfer boys and those who love them – in various ways – explore their boundaries, come of age, flirt, surf and surf some more. In fact, there is an equal dose of sex as there is surfing. The reader will also learn surfing terminology and, possibly, leave this anthology with an additional interest.
The lure of the sea is as old as classical mythology. It’s no surprise that the surfer boys in this collection are attracted to the sensuality and danger of the surf. The water is an essential backdrop to their lives, sexual psyches and, in some cases, relationships.
It’s difficult to isolate favorite stories within this anthology and such difficulty is a positive sign as it indicates a balanced selection. The prose, by way of word selection, tone and mood, adds to the eroticism and enlivens the scenery. You can smell the salt on sun baked skin, sense the tumble of the surf and taste the water as it jumps off the page. There is an equal mix of rough and soft, as there is casual and romantic sex.
The first story, Hang Ten, sets the scene. It begins with a secret tryst, to culminate in an audacious foursome that brings a lump to the throat and fresh tide of blood flow to the pelvis. When Wade’s Woody Was Running channels the 60s surf film classic Gidget, but Gidget’s paramour Moondoggie is the fantasy vehicle for Tony, whose adolescence is influenced by his film idols to be rudely interrupted by everyday reality in the form of Wade, and his rigorous surf lessons. The initial culture shock in Samurai of the Surf, is relieved when surf competitors Connor and Kenji complete their event and create their own erotic extravaganza on the beach. I wouldn’t call this anthology touchy feely. Sure there are caresses, kisses, licks and the usual array of sexual ministrations, leading to penetration and/or oral sex, but the overall and highly erotic resultant is achieved through a balance of characterization, plot and a general appreciation for the subject matter – the surfing theme. Surfer Boys is a consistent anthology featuring some of the most beautifully written surf themed erotic stories with a timeless quality.

Surfer Boys is edited by Neil Plakcy and is available at all good stockists and, of course, Amazon.

Dee Stern lives half of her life as a post graduate psychology student and writes her blog, Dirty|Sexy|Pretty|Fun.

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Sensationz

Michael Hudson — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 14:38:12 +0000

“So what’s next?” I asked.
“Got a couple of choices, goat milk or video games. I don’t recommend trying to come up with something on your own again so soon.”
This was only the second time Roger had called with an assignment, I would have taken just about anything he offered.
“Goat milk?”
“Yeah, some cooperative in Oregon found a way to make solar panels out of it or something like that.”
“I’ll take the video game.”
“Figured that’s the way you’d go. Got to warn you though, it’s not your grandma’s type of game. David wants you to look at it because there have been scattered reports of people getting really messed up on it.”
“Messed up?”
“Yeah, starvation, mutilated genitals, disappearances.”
“What game?”
“We’re having a copy sent to you, it’s not currently available over here. It’s development was financed by some, well, you do the research, I’d rather make sure it confirms what we’ve heard.
“Needless to say, it’s a big sex game and it’s headed for American shores whether Jesus likes it or not. You think you can handle it for a little bump on the rate?”
I agreed and promised I’d have it in by the end of the following month, then didn’t think anything else about it, not even why he had asked for my measurements, until the package arrived the next day.
Ariel, my live-in, age-inappropriate girlfriend, answered the door in her underwear, then returned triumphant to the TV room.
“Big sexy package for the big shot writer.”
She leaped playfully onto the couch and set the brown paper box gently on my belly.
“Does this mean I won’t be seeing you for a while? You better have some time left, for me you know. I have needs.”
“Oh, I know.”
And I knew it until she couldn’t take it anymore.

Later that night, I cut open the package. There was a sticky note from David attached to the game case, “We really want the full story on this one, go nuts. Rest of the gear will get there tomorrow.”
The gear?
I pulled off the note, revealing the typical sword-and-gun- wielding Japanamation hero with some symmetrical ball of light forming nearby. A less-armored, lingerie-clad woman also sauntered in the background beneath the calligraphic title, “The Dark Winds of Celestor.”
A reproduction of the cover art appeared with a glistening admonition to ‘Press Start’.
So I pressed start, but was disappointed.
“Connect Sensationz, then Press Start Again.”
My ‘Sensationz’ were in the mail, so I would just have to wait.

A large box arrived early the next day while Ariel was still at work. I tore it open immediately only to find three smaller boxes stamped in one of those eastern European languages that use a lot of extra punctuation.
The first box contained a medium sized dildo molded from dark, golden plastic. A long USB cable hung off of it. The second box contained a dark red cylinder with a hole of slick, smooshy material through the center. It twisted apart, ostensibly for cleaning, and another dozen smooshy liners were at the bottom of the box. It also had a USB cable.
The third box contained the most absurd piece of clothing I had ever seen, an armless onesy with flaps on the crotch and ass, colored like a dull gray suit of armor with golden adornments. The flaps were thicker and coated in rubber. You could tell there were wires running through it like an electric blanket. The material was a cotton-poly blend that appeared both comfortable and easy to wash, although I wondered how it’s data cable would weather it.
I went to work plugging everything in and then restarted the console, for the first time in my video game experience wearing a required article of clothing. I had had a chance to wear a Nintendo powerglove at one time when I was a little, but some other kid was so good at Punch Out that he never died in the game so I could have a turn. It hadn’t made my childhood any happier.
After I pressed start, the game let me in this time, even treating me to a bit of synth music. The screen darkened, then focused on the main character, lying asleep. A gruff elder with a candlestick burst into the room, and whispered in halting English,
“You’ve got to wear this clothing or the vile spirit will be able to get to you! Even your skin! You are of noble bloodline and now they all know! All of them! You have to leave town at this instance or you are assassinated! Quick! Put it on, they’ll be here any minute!”
And he holds out a dull gray suit of armor with golden adornments and instructions appeared.
“Press A when you are wearing Elthusian Armor”
I was one step ahead, I thought, making note of how different the rubber flaps felt than my normal underpants.
As soon as I pressed A, electrical stimulations charged over my body. My crotch and ass were startled, giving me a deep tingling sensation. I shivered.
On the screen, a ghost floated through the door and killed the guy by some kind of electrical exsanguination. I tried to punch it, which was easy enough to figure out, but apparently you can’t just punch ghosts. So I went right through and the onesy tingled me again.
The ghost stared me down and said something about waiting for the right moment and then he would strike again. Then it left. With his last breath, the gruff man then told me to run. Assassins are on their way. I should see a woman, named Nymphia, in a town that sounded like ‘Brucho’ when he said it. I needed to hurry, he added.
So I ran out the door and I must have beat the assassins because there were only guards. They were upset with me for trying to escape. They each took turns swinging at me, but it was as though they were only attacking my groin. I tried to back away but they got me.
My balls got zapped so hard I yelped. I dropped the controller, but they kept on hitting me. I contorted myself, unable to decide whether to get the controller, remove the electric crotch from the pants, or just unplug the whole apparatus. But every time I touched the crotch, that’s when I would get zapped. My body thought I was zapping my own self and I couldn’t convince it otherwise.
I finally grabbed the controller but when I looked up, my character’s health had run out and my armored body was lying on the ground, pants-less, being kicked.
Would I like to start again from the checkpoint?
I looked down at the removable patch over my genitals.
I pressed start again, which gave me the options to save, load, audio, video, game options and what I was looking for, calibration. I was glad the creators had decided to give the public some choice in how hard they wanted their genitals shocked, but who knew what my junk would have to go through before everything would be dialed in just right.
So I stalled. I clicked Game Options and adjusted the difficulty, heavily downward. Then I went to the audio and turned the music off because the mandolin techno was unbearable.
After tweaking the control scheme, I finally moved onto the calibration section. There were sliders for crotch, ass, body, wand, hole, and then a button to run everything on auto. The crotch slider was, not surprisingly, all the way up. That first set of shocks comes with the experience.
My research had found it was an experience that approximately forty thousand Germans, Italians, Hungarians and Moldavians had paid hundreds of euros to bring into their home. There was no marketing campaign, no website, only a few reviews at obscure magazines. It was a company that didn’t seem to be in any rush to grow. Their address was in Berlin but the location of their factory and development headquarters appeared to be a closely guarded secret.
Surprisingly, there wasn’t a single lawsuit against the manufacturer yet, although lawsuits are so convoluted over there it could be years before it would become public even if there were already several underway.
I’d been reading for about an hour when Ariel walked in.
“Half-day! Oh, look at you! So cute in your onesy!”
“It’s a Hungarian sex game. Maybe Moldavian, still tracking that down. If you’re good I’ll get you a matching one for Christmas.”
“What does it do?” She picked up the cylinder.
“It gives you the tingles. I haven’t gotten very far in it though.”
“The tingles? So this video game is one that you wear and is supposed to make you feel good? Like sexy good?”
I held up the dildo.
“Oh.” She raised her eyebrows.
“But I haven’t gotten to that part yet.”
“Why is it so small?”
I picked up the box and looked for the name of the company.
“I’m sure the ‘Halzu Uldeng Concern’ put a lot of market research into that decision. Maybe there’s a plastic shortage over there we don’t know about.”
“Maybe that’s big for them.”
“Makes me feel good, I might as well believe it.”
“Rational.”
“Isn’t it?”
I had an idea.
“You wanna try to beat the part I just tried?”
“Yes. Oh yes.”
I took the suit off and she stripped then put it on.
“This is sleazy.”
“In a good way though, yeah?”
I handed her the controller and kissed her on the cheek.
“Hit A, the green one, when you’re ready to try.”
Then I acted out the control scheme so she could see.
“Left stick, forward back, right stick, look around, the triggers throw punches,” I said as I made the motions. We geared up the game to the point just after the gruff man had died.
“Go for it.”
She hit A. The guards charged her and attacked. Right in the crotch.
She screamed, dropped the controller, then cursed me, grabbing frantically at the suit. But then she got hit again and pulled her hands back, experiencing the same counterintuitive feedback effect I had. She fell to the floor and cursed me again.
“Turn it off!”, she shrieked.
So I unplugged the whole monster.
She fell limp.
“I was just wondering if it might need to be calibrated?” My grin was audible.
“I am going to get you back for that you know.”
“I hope so,” but I wasn’t sure if I meant it or not.

We left it for that night and cuddled with comfort food and entertainment that we both knew was only mildly interesting. I think we were trying to live in a world where the onesy didn’t exist, to prove our lives were beyond being as fascinated, tantalized, as we were. But it wasn’t long before we started talking about it again.
“I wonder what the plot is about.”
“You have be curious what Nymphia’s voice is going to sound like.”
“You don’t have to be part of this if you don’t want to. It’s just a review,” and I was serious about that.
“It’s more than a review though and you know it. This is a whole new way of interfacing sexually with existence. Now all five senses are involved. Those guards aren’t real, but they made me really feel something. Like really feel it, like I’ll never forget.”
“So you’re into it then?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Into it enough to do the calibration?”
“Oh yeah.”
“No promises, who knows how much it will shock you.”
“Now I’m ready.”

She put on the suit and we cranked the console back up.
I would use the controller and she would feel the results, with some help from me when she asked for it or I felt like it. She would retain full veto power with our usual safe word, ‘Dormancy,’ in the event of a true emergency.
It was the first time I ever considered it probable that it would be used.
“Any more negotiating before we continue?”
“You should put that in the review. If you are doing this with other people, you really need to negotiate before-hand. And that the first scene involves people shocking your genitals on full power if you don’t do the calibration first.”
“Oh, come on, admit it was an a unique experience. You’ll never go through a door quite the same way again.”
She suited up while I cleaned both the other USB devices with soap. When I returned, she had moved the recliners as close to the screen as they could go and turned the lights off completely. She had also activated the game console with her own hands for the very first time.
I picked up the controller and was about to press start, but she interrupted me, giggling.
“No, wait, listen to this.”
There was an introduction movie, I had just missed it because I hadn’t waited long enough.
“I’ll just restart it at the beginning, I’ll have to watch it anyway for the review.”
“You should put it in the review word for word.”
“Okay.”

A woman lays alone in an upstairs bedroom wearing lingerie. She hears a strange sound outside. There’s a well dressed man beneath her window. He speaks in halting, overdubbed English with subtitles.
“My most dearest Nymphia, you must come with me tonight, our powerful future together awaits.”
“I cannot understand,” Nymphia shakes her head.
“I have found a portal to the future, it will only be open for a short time. The future is wonderful, if we only go through some testing at the processing center there, they will let us be free and together!”
“I don’t like processing center.”
“It’s not that bad, please come with me!”
“Ok, you have my heart, anyway.”
Nymphia climbs down the trellis of her idyllic country home and runs with him toward a shining portal on a hill in the light of the full moon.

“Now can I press start?”
“Absolutely.”
“We’re going to calibrate the hell out of you.”
“You better.”
“You say that now.”
“All talk.”

The calibration was a complicated and painful affair in all the right ways. It was like I was an optometrist of shocking her body, asking if it was better or worse each time. We gradually completed each section. She kept adjusting the crotch zapper until she had it at a spot just above her clitoris.
“I never knew there was any part down there that liked to be shocked.”
“But you wince?”
“I like some things that are bad,” she said, but it wasn’t news to me.
At first, we were trapped in a cell. Turns out, you’re not supposed to try to escape even though the cell isn’t locked. You are supposed to examine things in the room for a second and feel what it’s like to be trapped in the processing center.
“It’s clever, it begins by making you feel powerless. You have to wait,” she said, all dressed up with no place to go.
That’s when I noticed the mirror on the wall. It was displaying what the console’s camera was seeing, which at that moment was the bottom of our recliners. I had to pick up and set it on a nearby table, but then the mirror on the wall was showing Ariel’s dim outline. A human voice trying to sound mechanical suddenly shouted out.
“We can see you at all times. Obey our orders and you will eventually be set free. Take off your clothes.”
I began to say something witty.
“Alright, process-”
But the game interrupted me.
“Silence!”
“Yow!” Ariel screamed, then yelled, “Oh yeah!”
“Silence!”
“Yow!” She screamed again, than said, “Sorry.”
“Ow!” She screamed, then got very quiet and stared at me, biting her lip.
And that’s when we had our first electroshock sex and I’ll never forget it.

At first, when she saw how much it had hurt me, Ariel said we should put the game away until I was all better. But the next night, I woke up to the sound of her moaning in the living room, in front of the game, in the onesy. She was playing alone, moaning quietly in pleasure. I was aroused, but painfully so. I didn’t know what to do.
I went with the pain. And the next night, too. And then the next.

By the end of the week, she was having in the order of thirty orgasms a day. She couldn’t sleep through the night anymore and lost her job. I tried to take the console away but she wouldn’t let me. She begged me and said she loved it and loved me for letting her use it.
She said she would do anything to keep it.

My doctor says I have to go at least a month without getting aroused or I’d risk permanent scarring, also known as genital mutilation. After a few days fearing my own erections, the impotence pills were worth their weight in gold.

Roger called to say the magazine loved my review but that it had turned out to be “a little more hardcore” than they could publish themselves. He was optimistic about it’s chances elsewhere, but came up blank when pressed for specifics.

I hide in the other room when she’s playing now. I try to keep my mind off it, off of her. I know there is one character in the game that she always goes to every time she plays.
His name is Cornelius.
His dick never tires.

Image © Luis Royo
Michael writes short stories and screenplays, fixing other people’s computers when it comes to that. He is currently a reading intern with Abbot Management. He is hoping to hear positive news from agents regarding his screenplay about funk music and his short story collection. He is a Lucrezia fan and hopes more of his saucy stuff will be accepted in the future

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Fabio Borquez | ‘Victresses’

Anastasia Mavromatis — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 02:10:52 +0000

Fabio Borquez’s female nude photography has been exhibited in museums and art galleries worldwide. However, despite having been published in world renowned magazines such as Playboy and GQ, Borquez’s intention is not to put the nude on display. He discovers his models during photo shoots and castings, or even out on the street. More than just mere objects in front of the camera, his models unveil their characters in their unrehearsed poses and the look in their eyes. The triumph of femininity coupled to a total confidence in the photographer is what makes these “victresses”, a term coined by the artist himself, seem at ease and passionate at the same time. Although some of them might have only just met him they believe in his ability to capture the best in them.

In the relaxed surrounding of the photo shoot the models give away their intimate look, a genuine expression of their individuality. Borquez insists that the models do not show their bodies but themselves. Once they have discarded their clothes they are able to freely move around with a challenging look on their face that says “I am here”. When talking about his nude photography, the artist refers to historical examples in art. The female nude has been depicted as far back as in ancient Egypt, Greece and Rome and at no time were they reduced to their sexuality. Who would even think of calling Rembrandt’s beauties or the Venus de Milo sexual objects? There are times when Fabio Borquez also reflects classic themes, particularly when he leaves the studio in order to work in private surroundings, hotels or outdoors, often under the same technical conditions.

Born in 1964 in Argentina, Fabio Borquez studied art, photography and architecture in Buenos Aires. Various scholarships took him to India, Columbia and Germany. He met his German wife at Miami Beach, where he told her after just five minutes that he would marry her. She was the reason he waived goodbye to his accustomed life in order to follow her to Germany, where he has been living near Düsseldorf since 2001.

First published: Sexy Art Gallery

Images available for purchase at SexyArtGallery

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Bang! Portugal 3rd in Poll

Anastasia Mavromatis — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 02:01:37 +0000

It’s wonderful to announce that Kevin Breaux’s short story Bang! Portugal was voted 3rd in the 2009 Preditors and Editors Readers Poll. Bang! Portugal was published here a year ago.

Congratulations to Kevin!

Read Bang! Portugal here.

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