Get ready to talk about sex on your sexy Sunday night, ONTD! So don't be your TL;DR self and get cracking with these sex newsbites!
America's First Sex Manual, From 1766, Is Full Of Monsters
If you think the drawings in The Joy of Sex are quaint, check out the wood-carvings in Aristotle’s Complete Master-Piece, published on Open Culture today. North America’s first sex manual, Aristotle's was written by self-described English “professor of physik” William Salmon and first published in Boston in 1766. Although the book, which gets name-checked in Ulysses and Vile Bodies, was mostly sold under the counter, its illustrations are far from sexually explicit. They mostly show the “monstrosities” that will befall your children if you look at “images” while having sex, including birth defects, full body hair, or being a different race. So, yes, the colonists didn’t have everything quite figured out, but there is at least one happy error therein. “It suggests that both men and women should enjoy sex,” auction house Lyon & Turnbull’s book specialist Cathy Marsden observes. “That’s interesting because much later on, when they realised that a woman didn’t have to climax in order to conceive, the idea of a woman enjoying sex was considered far less important.” Read some excerpts, including the colonial definition of “clytoris,” at Book Tryst.
( SOURCE )
What If Rush Limbaugh's Imaginary Slut Pills Were Real?
When Rush Limbaugh went on his vile rant last year about Sandra Fluke, then a Georgetown law student who wanted her birth control covered by the university’s health insurance, he revealed a bit of confusion about the birds and the bees. Limbaugh seemed — or pretended — to believe the cost of birth control pills depended on how frequently a woman — or just Fluke — was getting laid. “She’s having so much sex, she can’t afford her birth control,” Limbaugh said and repeated 30 or so times over the course of three days. He was talking as if the pill were taken by the encounter, and not doled out in overpriced monthly prescriptions with an annual pap-smear tax.
Limbaugh’s ignorance was likely just in the service of arriving at his big (and ultimately costly) finale — Fluke is a slut. But his imaginary, take-one-before-boning slut pill was the stuff of single-girl dreams. It turns out the reproductive health community agrees.
Over the past few years, enthusiasm and interest has been growing among doctors for a real-life slut pill. They call it pericoital contraception, a pill you take around the time you have sex, if and when you have sex. A lower dosage of the emergency contraceptive Plan B, it was used with some popularity in Asia and Eastern Europe in the eighties. In 2011, an American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists literature review concluded that pericoital birth control was “moderately effective” (more effective than condoms) and called for more rigorous research. Before its call for a better condom, Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation provided funding to a group planning for clinical trials of a pericoital pill. The latest, published in Contraception last month (h/t Steph Herold) found the majority of the women who visited abortion or family-planning clinics would be interested in pericoital birth control, especially those who have had trouble accessing birth control or have unprotected sex regularly.
Even though Plan B is now available over the counter, it’s still treated like a once-in-a-lifetime, "Hail Mary" pass for responsible people whose condoms break; and it’s priced accordingly. But according to Contraception, for lots of people, unprotected sex isn’t an emergency, it’s the norm. Punishing them by making them carry pregnancies they don’t want to term is one way to deal with it, but it’s a little unnecessary given the possibility for and interest in a non-emergency slut pill. Then birth control wouldn’t have to be all about the grave, biological risks and responsibilities of being a woman and could be more about actually having sex, conveniently and spontaneously. Like Viagra. Imagine Vagagra! And its sex-positive competitors, Yoloft, Bonowva, Nokidone, Intimacil, Sexapro, Slutafed and Plan A.
( SOURCE )
What I Learned From Trying Out for Playboy
Recently, while perusing the morning Internet, I came across an article about Farrah Abraham, a former star of a former show called “Teen Mom,” who was, evidently, desperate to be featured in Playboy magazine. Twice now, it seemed, Playboy had rejected her offer to pose. I was surprised by this report, as the Internet claimed that Abraham had not only starred in a graphic sex tape (“Backdoor Teen Mom”) but had also undergone breast enhancement surgery; between these efforts and her low-grade celebrity, why wouldn’t she meet Playboy’s criteria? The article didn’t say, but it did report that she was “disappointed.”
I recognized the feeling.
In 1995, I was no teen mom, but rather a sophomore at Columbia University with a terrible haircut and a ballooning case of cystic acne. My dorm was above a Pizza Hut that accepted the Columbia meal plan; for three or sometimes four meals a day, I consumed a personal pan pizza and a Coke. The personal pan pizza alone had 620 calories. Most days I ate lots of other things too.
So not only was I in transition that year in terms of what I looked like, but also, like a lot of college sophomores, I was in transition in terms of who I was. Every day at college left me deeper at sea. I tried, for a while, to be more Jewish, but the committed Jews at Columbia all seemed like beautiful people in yarmulkes who had little use for newcomers. Then I tried to be a fiction writer, but the creative writers at Columbia all read William S. Burroughs and recited their work at parties. Meanwhile, I scrawled on notebook paper, then burned what I’d written.
I tried to be an art history major, but in those darkened, air-conditioned classrooms, I fell asleep every time.
I’d joined the socialist-leaning college newspaper because I was too intimidated to join the Spectator, Columbia’s venerable daily; there, at least, I’d found a community that didn’t judge me for being an insecure, acne-covered Pizza Hut enthusiast. The leftist paper wrote enraged articles about things I’d never before considered: a subway ad telling commuters not to give money to homeless people, the predominance of dead white males in Columbia’s reading list. I liked my new lefty friends and grew enraged alongside them, in solidarity.
So when Playboy began recruiting, sometime that winter, for its Girls of the Ivy League issue — well, the lefties went berserk, and so did I. Just who did Playboy think we were? Were we going to sit back and accept the magazine’s attempt to turn Columbia women — strong, smart Columbia women — into victims of the male gaze? Clearly, we had to fight this thing. But how?
Looking around at my impassioned comrades, emboldened just by having been welcomed, I knew it was time to get tough. “I’ll audition,” I said. “And I’ll report back.”
* * *
Playboy held its Girls of the Ivy League interviews at the Warwick in midtown, a slightly shabby hotel where the Beatles had stayed during their first trip to New York. I arrived in a leotard, as I’d been instructed, and layers of pancake makeup. A woman in the lobby directed me to an upper floor suite, where I met a small man with a few small dogs. He ushered me to a couch, saying, “Well, I think you’re pretty,” as though that had been a topic under discussion. Then he asked me why I wanted to be in Playboy.
Clearly I couldn’t announce that I was here to perform hard-hitting undercover reportage. Instead I mumbled something about “owning my sexuality” and “finding myself,” which were phrases I’d never used before and haven’t used since.
But even as I mumbled, I sensed that I was, in some way, telling the Playboy man the truth. Sitting there on that floral couch, being smiled at by a small person with a Polaroid, surrounded by yapping dogs — yes, what I wanted that afternoon, more than anything, was to find myself. And if I happened to find myself in Playboy, wouldn’t that be a relief? Just to discover I’d been hiding there all along? Maybe the magazine would victimize me with its male gaze long enough to tell me I was still the pretty-enough, secure-enough girl I’d been in high school, instead of the quivering marshmallow I’d become.
“I see,” the man said. “Well, I guess we should take some photos.”
I took off my jacket to expose my leotard, which was tightly constricting my rolls of college flab. I gave the camera my sexiest smile.
Together we watched the Polaroids come into focus on the coffee table. It seems I’d closed my eyes when the flash went off, so that in the resulting photographs I looked a lot like a drunken seal.
“Well,” the man said, after a long, quiet minute. “Do you want these?”
“Won’t you, like, need them or something?” I asked. “To show corporate?”
The man shook his head at me but then, catching my expression, picked up a photo by the edge. “I’ll keep this one,” he said, adding, gently, “for corporate.”
I don’t remember Playboy ever calling to reject me personally, but I do remember seeing the issue a few months later and feeling relieved I wasn’t in it. All those girls in unzipped varsity jackets, nipples peeking out, holding strategically placed college banners; even if I wasn’t sure who I was, I knew this was definitely who I wasn’t.
Besides, I’d written a funny article about the experience and had become, for a few glorious moments, a hero among the campus leftists. Which gave me the confidence to keep trying new things and writing about them. I wrote about the doughnut selection in the college cafeteria, about a new band I’d fallen in love with, about my junior year abroad in France. I even wrote about the dead white male situation, which I’d decided, heretically, wasn’t really too bad. And then, years later, I looked back and wrote this.
Which all leads me to the advice I’d give Farrah Abraham, were she looking for any, which I assume she isn’t, but you never know. Sometimes, in Playboy’s rejection, comes an affirmation of who you really are.
And sometimes, in that, comes the chance to be something even better.
( SOURCE )
Jonathan Klay From Discovery Channel's “Naked & Afraid” Did Porn Too
Jonathan Klay from Discovery Channel's latest survival reality TV show, Naked and Afraid, apparently has a pornographic past. The former Marine appeared on an episode of Playboy TV’s Foursome, an erotic program with a relatively self-explanatory name. You can watch a clip over here. Check out pics of Jonathan Clay partially naked for "Naked and Afraid" below.
More information about Naked and Afraid below as taken from the official WikiPedia page:
Naked and Afraid is an American reality television series that airs on the Discovery Channel and premiered on June 23, 2013. Each episode chronicles the lives of two survivalists — a man and a woman — who meet for the first time and are given the task of surviving a stay in the wilderness naked for 21 days. The partners must find their own water, food, and clothes, after they meet in the assigned locale.
Discovery Channel issued a press release which announced some Nielsen ratings milestones for the series. Naked And Afraid was the "#1 Ad Supported program in cable among men on Sunday July 28". They also noted that the program now shares the Discovery Channel record for the highest-rated survival telecast in the network’s history since June 2009. On July 31, 2013, The Discovery Channel posted a casting-call and a dare to "survive the 21-day challenge", via their Twitter account. All six episodes of season one carry a TV-14 rating due-to nudity; only buttocks are unpixelated.
The hardcore NSFW photos and video clip of Jonathan Clay in straight sex action can be found at the ( SOURCE ).
OP: Y'all know the rules about directly embedding/posting hardcore porn/sex photos/gifs in the comments, so unless you want your fierce and fabulous selves banned from this community, you are heretofore warned. That being said... Sex/porn discussion party post! Let's have fun tonight, ONTD!