The Blowfish Blog

[Fishnet] Maze

There were other artists. Some were men, some were women, and she didn’t sleep with all of them. Just most of them. The labyrinth’s path extended out, twined around her body, all pieces of a path towards an unknown destination. Her own path now traveled over the southwest, as convoluted as her tattoo, from place to place, from person to person. Each of them added something to her, and she took it in, made it her own. A different woman might have lost herself on her travels, forgotten why she’d left, and why she was going. But not her.

Read “Maze” in Fishnet, Blowfish’s always-free journal of erotica.

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[The Pro Circuit] Writing Porn, Writing Poetry, and the QWERTY Handjob

One of the first interviews I ever did, back in the mid 1980s, was with poet, memoirist and singer Jim Carroll, author of the quintessential streetwise NYC memoir The Basketball Diaries. In addition to being a beautiful, insightful and deeply poignant book, Diaries is bad-fuckin’-ass. With its explicit details about drugs and sex, it was was one of my early experiences of living on the edge, an entrée into a world that I found infinitely more exciting and adventure-filled than the boring suburban nightmare I’d just spent seventeen years wanting to get the fuck out of. As the author of this classic street story and lots of poetry and NYC-school punk songs about cool shit like heroin and prostitution, Jim Carroll had become my hero, and I hung on his every word. One seemingly minor thing he said has stuck with me for 20+ years because it seemed so banal and yet was incredibly illuminating to me — and it came at the end of an era.

I’ll paraphrase it here, because the quote was cut by an economy-minded college newspaper editor, and my cassette tapes have long since demagnetized. Carroll said something like this: “When I’m writing poetry, everything about my physical surroundings becomes part of the experience. For instance, I find that if the typewriter ribbon is running down, it profoundly affects the way I’m writing.”

I remember my ears going pop-pop when he said that, the way they do in moments of sudden and agonizing clarity. I’d spent a year or so in college-level creative writing classes at that point, but had never heard one of my fellow writers describing this concrete experience, which I’d had since my early writing days — not with typewriters, but with fountain pens.

When, at 12, I sat down to write my fantasy epic, I’d spent my ill-gotten lawnmowing gain on cheap fountain pens and a half-dozen colors of ink. I could only write fantasy in fountain pen; for whatever reason, I had to go through that archaic ritual of loading, blotting, scribbling and smearing in order to get any creative juice flowing. What’s more, I had to have a variety of ink colors, or the sensual details of the writing just never showed up. When my epic hero was in his pseudo-medieval metropolis, dark blue ink would do, but if he was on a pirate ship sailing legendary seas the ink needed to be the peacock-blue of a Caribbean ocean. When he slogged through the depths of a magic forest, the pages had to be rendered in green ink or the chapter never got going. When he delved sword in hand into the dark, dusty realms of an underground cave system, the ink had to be brown. Once he’d gone deeper, far enough into the ground to reach the outer reaches of the domain of Evil, it was black ink all the way. After that, the poor sonofabitch found himself punching through the darkest subterranean depths into a fantastic hell — and there in the savage realm of smoke-belching damnations, the ink was always red.

Not to put too fine a point on this, but I wasn’t drawing comic books or rendering any sort of narrative pictures — this was just text, pure and simple, but the sensual details of the page were critical. It wasn’t just ink color. I had a desk packed with different types of paper I traded off with. Eight-inch-by-ten-inch paper conjured a different feel of story than eight-and-a-half-by-eleven. College rule inspired differently than wide rule. I even once used unlined paper because the hero had traveled to the land of the magical air beings, above the clouds, where everything was all white and open and there were, if you’ll forgive me, no rules.

What does any of this have to do with sex? Well, when it comes to Jim Carroll, the author who created such loving sensual depictions of the streets of New York and the scents and sensations and textures and tablature of drug use, that particular author could reasonably be placed in the tradition of sensualists — small “s” — that includes such writers as Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Poe, Octave Mirbeau, and, yes, the Marquis DeSade. Carroll himself is anything but a porn writer, though he often deals frankly with sex. But once you start talking sensuality and writing, pretty soon you have to end up considering sensual masterpieces like Venus in Furs, The Pearl, and The Story of O. One of the themes running through those works is the empire of the senses, the idea that physical experience is as real as mental, and that the former can be captured in and communicated by the latter — by writing.

I have no idea if Pauline Reage wrote The Story of O on a typewriter or by fountain pen, or if she switched her ink color from peach to ruby-red as her heroine’s cheeks went rosy with punishment. But I know what happened to my epic fantasy stories when I hit puberty.

I’d been reading increasing volumes of Robert E. Howard’s Conan books, and the many comics based on them. I was well aware that certain fantasy worlds had people who really didn’t wear a whole lot of clothes, and my fantasy universe relocated itself from the pseudo-Medieval-Europe of Tolkien and C.S. Lewis to the exotic reimagined occult antiquity of Howard and Michael Moorcock — which would surely trouble Moorcock greatly, as he’s long been an antiporn crusader. There, people wore loincloths and thigh-high boots, with tight leather halters for the women; straps went across their chests to hold their weapons and occult tattoos etched across their half-nude bodies indicated the complex demands of their warrior castes. Years later I would attend Folsom Street with a weird sense of déja vu.

Sensual details became even more important as I switched from G to XXX fantasies; in the new fantasy world, incense burned in demonic temples; the scents of magical drugs came wafting from pavilions in my pseudo-Orientalist opium dream.

Meanwhile, my heroine turned female, and in each new environment came a crew of fantasy extras ready to pleasure, punish or gangbang her. She was every bit as fierce a warrior as the male avatar who kicked ass in my pre-pubescent fantasy stories; she just sometimes happened to lose. When she did, the story got at least as interesting as it did when she won. Stripped naked and felt up by the mud people? Brown ink, of course. Seized by dryads and subjected to a little forced forest girl-girl? Green ink, naturally. The blues got a little complicated — when the dryads handed her off to the naiads, her riverbound ravishment was related in deep-river indigo, but her later debauchment on a pirate ship was rendered in Caribbean blue. In these early erotic stories, written by a virgin, the groundwork was laid not just for all the porn I would write afterwards, but, frankly, for all the sexual and sensual experiences I would ever have.

I’ve now written a whole lot of porn novels (something more than 30 and probably fewer than 40 — sheepishly I must admit that I lost count some time in the early naughties) and not one of them has been scrawled in fountain pen. But whether it’s the black-to-gray progression of a typewriter ribbon, the color of the ink in my pen, the feel of QWERTY under my fingers, there’s a direct connection between the sensual experience of putting down words, and the sensual details that fill the writing.

Thomas Roche is the PR Manager at Kink.com, an educator at San Francisco Sex Information and has written or edited ten books under his own name plus a bunch more under pseudonym. He can be found at thomasroche.com.

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Kama Sutra Petite Pleasures Honey Dust

Spring has sprung, at least in some parts of the country, and as the weather warms up young and old fishies alike start to perk up and frolic (do fish frolic?). Whether you’re searching for a new paramour or getting gussied up for a new roll in the meadow with a favorite lover, we’ve got a whole new patch of smell-goody products to help you feel great. The Kama Sutra Petite Pleasures line features adorably small versions of some of our favorite products, which is just perfect if you’ve always wanted to try them out, but didn’t want to shell out for a full-sized jar. Or, if you already love the products, these are wee enough that you can take them along with you on your next picnic!

Start your evening off with a light dusting of Honey Dust, an edible powder that leaves a tasty shimmer on the skin. It’s light enough to use as a replacement of your daily powder (or nightclub body glitter, though it’s not quite that sparkly!), and sweetly scented just enough to sprinkle in your sheets to make your bed that much more enticing. Once you’ve lured your new love home, relax them with a sensual massage with the sinfully delicious Body Souffle. Very light, it leaves the skin soft and silky instead of greasy, which your partner will appreciate. It also tastes heavenly, making their skin into an even sweeter treat! If you want to take things up a notch, consider rubbing in some Oil of Love, then blowing lightly across the skin to activate the unique warming sensation. A very titillating experience, especially when used on your more sensitive bits. And, finally, for the artistic love, we now offer Kama Sutra Milk Chocolate Body Paint. This is the single-jar version of the most popular flavor from the Lover’s Paintbox. Just dip the supple paintbrush into the tasty chocolate and design your path to paradise!

• Kama Sutra Petite Pleasures Honey Dust
• Kama Sutra Petite Pleasures Body Souffle
• Kama Sutra Petite Pleasures Oil of Love
• Kama Sutra Milk Chocolate Body Paint

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Kama Sutra Sweet Celebration Box

Looking for something a bit more substantial, perhaps something to give as a truly romantic bridal shower gift? The Kama Sutra Sweet Celebration Box is a sumptuous collection of treats, ideal for creating the perfect honeymoon evening. With full-sized containers of Vanilla Cr•me Oil of Love, French Vanilla Cr•me Body Souffl•, and Pleasure Garden Massage Oil, they’ll not only have options, but run no danger of running out of yummy stuff to rub one another with for their whole trip. The Sweet Honeysuckle Boudoir Puff comes in a pure white satin bag and is infused with sparkly Honey Dust (perfect for her to dust herself with before a romantic candlelit dinner) and the lightly fragranced rose petals can be scattered across the bed for a decadent lover’s romp. It all comes in a lovely pink box, adorned with stamped metal decorations. A simply beautiful way to say “I love you guys, now go have fun loving one another!”

• Kama Sutra Sweet Celebration Box

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Best Women’s Erotica 2008

We’re all big fans of a woman’s touch here at Blowfish. The Best Women’s Erotica 2008 is erotica written about, for and, for the most part, by women, and, of course, there’s lots of women touching and being touched all over the place in these stories. But if you think that’s just too narrow a category, then you have another think coming! These stories feature experienced women, naive women, strong women, and tender women having sex that’s rough, messy, gentle, voyueristic . . . you get the idea. With stories by Alison Tyler, Morticia Catherine, R. Gay, Lola David, Miel Rose, George Storey, Xan West, Cerise Noire, Scarlett French, this is women’s erotica at its very best.

• Best Women’s Erotica 2008

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[Greta Christina] Jealousy, Friendship, and Bisexual Chopped Liver

So there’s this trope I sometimes see in monogamous relationships. (In particular, I see it in advice columns: it came up in a recent Savage Love column, and I’ve seen it more than once in the Dear Abby/ Ann Landers ouvre.)

It goes like this: “My partner has a friend. The friend’s sexual orientation is towards the gender that my partner happens to be. Is it reasonable for me to be jealous? Should I permit this friendship to continue?”

(Or the reverse: “I have a friend. The friend’s sexual orientation is towards my gender. Is it reasonable for my partner to be jealous, and to want the friendship to end?”)

Okay. In trying to make this generic and gender- neutral, I’m being a little obscure. So let’s clear it up and make it specific: “My wife has a new friend from work, a straight man she sometimes goes to basketball games with. Should I be jealous?” Or: “I’m a straight woman who’s developing a friendship with a lesbian. My husband is jealous. WTF?” (Both real examples from real advice columns, btw. Dear Abby stupidly advised, “By no means should you permit your wife to attend basketball games with another man”; Dan Savage, much more wisely, suggested that the husband of the woman with the lesbian friend should get a first class ticket for the clue train.)

Now, I’m not going to get too deeply into the obvious. I’m not going to get into the craziness of the idea that any and all friendships will eventually turn sexual if the sexual orientations line up right. I’m not going to get into the fucked-upedness of the notion that people should choose their friends entirely on the basis of gender, for the sole purpose of avoiding possible sexual attraction. I’m not going to get into the absurd paranoia that even the slightest hint of sexual attraction in a friendship will eventually overwhelm it with uncontrollable passion. (Hey, for some of us, having a little attraction for a friend makes a friendship more interesting . . . even when we have no plans whatsoever to act on the attraction, ever.)

And I’m not going to point out that, according to this theory, gay men could never have gay male friends, and lesbians could never be friends with other lesbians.

I’m not even going to get into the borderline- evil concept that people in relationships have veto power over their partners’ friends. This is just R-O-N-G Rong, stupidly and evilly wrong, in all but the most extreme circumstances. (”My partner is making friends with the man who tried to murder me.” Okay, you have veto power. Everyone else, shut up. Your partner is a free agent, with the right to make their own damn friends independent of you.)

Here’s what I want to say instead:

So what are we bisexuals — chopped liver?

According to this theory, bisexuals could never, ever have any friends at all. We couldn’t be friends with gay men, straight men, straight women, lesbians. And we definitely couldn’t be friends with other bisexuals. According to this theory, the fact that we’re attracted to both women and men makes us ineligible to be friends with anybody, of any gender, ever.

No, that’s not quite true. We could be friends with non-monogamous people, and with single people. But once those single get into monogamous relationships — blammo. That’s the end of that friendship.

I’m not just writing this to point up the stupidity and irrationality of this particular form of jealousy. I’m writing it to point up the stupidity and irrationality of bisexual invisibility.

We used to be a culture that assumed heterosexuality. We still are, to a great extent. But even when we don’t assume heterosexuality, we are still, far too often, a culture that assumes monosexuality. We are still a culture that asks, “Is he gay or straight?” We are still a culture that sees a woman dating a man and says, “Wait a minute — she’s straight? I thought she was a lesbian!” (Or a woman dating a woman, vice versa.) We are still a culture that ignores the Kinsey scale, the spectrum of sexual orientation — and the shifts that many of us make over that spectrum throughout our lives.

And this assumption leads to some truly convoluted errors in logic. I recently wrote about an example of this here in this blog, about how the “Is sexual orientation a choice?” debates almost always ignore bisexuals . . . since even if bisexuals are born bisexual, we still have some degree of choice about which direction to take our lives in. And the bisexual wars in the lesbian community led to my favorite piece of Alice in Wonderland political logic ever: “The lesbians will decide who is a lesbian.”

I can see why people tend to overlook bisexuals. Our existence does poke holes in a lot of conventional wisdoms — especially when it comes to sorting our society by gender and sexual orientation.

But . . . well, that’s actually my point. The existence of bisexuals pokes holes in the sorting of our society by gender and sexual orientation, pointing up ridiculous contradictions and convoluted logic that would be hilarious if it weren’t so annoying.

So maybe we should quit sorting our society by gender and sexual orientation.

And maybe we should start with our friendships. And the friendships of our spouses and partners.

Which are none of our damn business anyway.

Greta Christina, copyright © 2008. Be sure to check out Greta’s blog.

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Upload: Director’s Cut

The makers of Corruption, one of my favorite porn films of recent years, have worked their magic again, this time with Upload — a movie that manages to combine my love for science fiction with my love for really nasty hardcore enthusiastic sex. There are a dozen sex scenes, a plot that’s worth watching, some really clever ideas, and a million special features. Forget replay value; it’ll take you hours just to watch this thing once, and if you’re like me, you won’t even be tempted to fast-forward to the sexy bits. The production values are staggeringly good, and if the science fiction ideas are kind of old and familiar to a jaded SF reader like me, well, they’re no more behind the curve than mainstream science fiction epics, and a hell of a lot more fun. The plot involves Eva Angelina as a rogue agent with the future Digital Security Agency, a sub-section of the Department of Homeland Security devoted to policing “sims”: basically cartridges that people can slot into their necks, which permit them to experience fully immersive virtual-reality simulations. (If such technology ever actually exists, of course it’ll be used first and foremost for porn. Porn is always at the cutting edge of entertainment technology. •William Gibson’s famous adage about the unpredictability of technological applications goes “The street finds its own uses for things,” and quite often, that use involves sex.) Quite often, of course, those are hardcore porn. There’s some cat-and-mouse stuff involving Hillary Scott as a fugitive, and some cop drama stuff involving Eva and her ostensibly straight-arrow partner Derrick Pierce, and the genuinely engaging story only serves to make the incredibly hardcore sex that much more satisfying. How hardcore? Here are just a few of the sex acts you’ll see this huge cast take part in: five-guy-on-one-girl gangbangs; double penetration; double anal; cum-swapping; pissing; real BDSM; fisting; slapping; choking . . . I could go on. Gonzo fucking with a glossy sensibility and a good story: it’s like porn utopia!

Then there are the extras. There are two disc’s worth. (That’s on top of two discs just for the film itself, which runs over four hours.) There are extensive behind-the-scenes extras, and they convey just how seriously Eli Cross took this production, and how very much he demanded from his actors. His work ethic seriously paid off. This is the best movie I’ve seen . . . since the last Eli Cross movie I saw. (My understanding is that the regular version — the non-Director’s Cut — is about a quarter of an hour shorter and lacks some of the peeing, fisting, and more hardcore bondage, but is otherwise pretty much the same.)

• Upload: Director’s Cut

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Broken

So, I just watched Broken, starring Sasha Grey, directed by Dave Navarro, with a script — and it really is a script — by Navarro and Sancho. The phrase that comes to mind is, “This is fucked up, right here.” There’s some incredibly over-the-top weirdness at play. For instance: Sasha Grey takes a cumshot in her mouth, then goes into a bathroom, spits the come into a spoon, cooks it, fills a syringe with it, and injects it into her arm (offscreen, but we see her tie off her arm with a rubber cord, so it’s not really left to the imagination). During Sasha’s intense scene with Mark Davis, there are Italian subtitles . . . for no obvious reason. The next sex scene has Jenna Haze and Tommy Gunn in a hackneyed porn set-up: he’s the pizza guy, she’s the girl who wants to pay for pizza with poontang. But most of the non-sex action is on fast-forward, with sped-up voices, and soon we discover this is just one scene of many being shot on a porn movie set. (Yeah, it’s all pretty meta.)

Pretty soon we’re dipping in and out of those other scenes, and it’s like watching a porno that’s come unstuck in time. It’s some seriously non-linear narrative . . . except it’s not particularly narrative, being mostly just fucking. 45 minutes of fucking! Eventually performers amble over into one another’s scenes, and they’re not just breaking the fourth wall — it’s like they’re breaking the floors and the ceiling, too. Ultimately it’s an orgy, sort of, with wandering cameramen and sound guys occasionally appearing, going about their business. It’s hot . . . and hard to follow . . . and sometimes a little annoying. But it’s not boring, lazy, or ordinary. You get more fast-forward moments, random intervals of black-and-white and even photo-negative shots, and a pervasive sense of strangeness. It’s awesome and exhausting.

The next scene is kind of relaxing, by contrast — Audrey Biton and Marco get together backstage, fucking on and around a director’s chair, and there are some very spankable moments. The weirdest thing here is Audrey licking some come off a mirror, and really, in this flick, that hardly rates a mention.

Finally we get Sasha coming home to Mark Davis, ambushing him with a shotgun (no subtitles this time!), making him kneel, strip, put a condom on the gun, and bend over. What happens next is . . . well, I’d honestly hate to give it away. Let’s just say the meta-qualities of the film continue, and the ending is both shocking and completely justified by what came before. (And also, just maybe, transforms those Italian subtitles from a bit of pointless weirdness into a hint.) This is an ambitious movie, though I couldn’t tell you whether or not it entirely succeeds . . . that would require me knowing what the creators were trying to accomplish! An argument for the dehumanizing power of porn? A cautionary tale about the kind of broken personalities that sometimes gravitate toward the adult film business? A simple character study of a rather disturbed mind in an often-disturbing business? A case could be made for all those, and more. Regardless of what it means, it’s worth watching.

• Broken

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[Caught in the Net] The Truth Told Well

I worked ever so briefly as an advertising copywriter, and my boss always said that good, effective advertising wasn’t about telling lies or tricking customers — it was just “the truth told well.” Kind of a nice thought, huh? But if you can tell the truth well with the addition of cocks and boobies, then I say that’s the truth told even better.

Consider this ad campaign created by French college students protesting the lack of student housing, which forces them to keep living at home, featuring a couple of healthy young people screwing in bed between a set of sleeping parents. The text, translated based on my two semesters of college French, reads “Some pretend that students don’t have housing problems . . .” Who knows, in France, this might even be an effective argument!

Here’s another ad with a social conscience, this time encouraging people to eat more fruits and veggies. Yes, that is a woman made of broccoli — and, what, squash? — shagging a dude made of carrots. I feel healthier just looking at it!

Not all advertisements are aimed at making the world a better place, of course — most just want to sell you a product. And it’s not exactly strange for a condom ad to be sexually explicit, but this poster for Manix Endurance condoms is just too damn weird not to link. The painting, titled “Marathon,” depicts a surreal world of disembodied cocks that participate in sporting events, a land of boob trees and stocking bushes and cock-hungry birds . . . it’s like something out of Bosch, only with more smiling bow-tie wearing bunnies.

And here we have some good old-fashioned masturbation humor, with a mom horrified to discover her son, who happens to be an anthropomorphic M&M, licking himself. Well, we’ve all been there, haven’t we?

I always thought Aston Martins were classy cars — I mean, James Bond drives one! — but they’re the first car company I’ve seen suggest that buying their vehicles can transform a woman from a mere mom into a MILF. And here I thought expensive cars were only for male midlife crises!

And, finally, a bit of old-school advertising from a simpler time, as seen at Eros Blog: Now! It Can Have Fur Around It! Well, yes. Yes, it can.

Until next time, shop wisely!

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[The Pro Circuit] John Stagliano, Evil Angel Under Indictment

It’s fairly hard to miss this story if you read the adult entertainment news sources, but it’s still amazing to me how many sex-positive, porn-positive people in my social circle have no idea it’s happening — and how many more than that just don’t seem to care. On April 9, adult industry website XBiz reported that John Stagliano and his company Evil Angel had been charged by a federal grand jury in Washington, DC with a host of offenses, to wit:

Seven counts of “operating an obscenity distribution business and related offenses” not to mention “three counts of using a facility of interstate commerce to sell and distribute DVDs containing obscene films together with a movie trailer in violation; two counts of using a common carrier for the conveyance or delivery of DVDs containing obscene films in interstate commerce; one count of engaging in the business of selling or transferring an obscene film and a movie trailer; one count of using an interactive computer service to display an obscene movie trailer in a manner available to a person under 18 years of age; and one count seeking forfeiture of certain assets of the defendants.”

Damn, that’s a lot of obscenity. Stagliano, in case you don’t know him, is the eponymous “Buttman” of the influential Buttman series of porn movies. His Evil Angel video is known for pushing the envelope and releasing movies with decidedly taboo themes. In the case of this indictment, there are two movies named: “Milk Nymphos,” which appears to feature milk enemas, and “Storm Squirters 2,” which features female ejaculation. Also named is a trailer for Belladonna’s “Fetish Fanatic 5.”

Stagliano’s attorney Al Gelbard addressed some of the constitutional issues surrounding this case, and XBiz reported that Stagliano would hold a press conference following his April 21 arraignment. Evil Angel responded by launching DefendOurPorn.org, a clearinghouse for information about the case and a place for fans and free-speech advocates to donate to Stagliano’s defense fund. They also said that DefendOurPorn will remain live after the charges are (inevitably) beaten, and left over funds will be donated to other free speech causes.

Though the paragraph’s worth of charges quoted in the XBiz article is enough to make one’s eyes cross, the case hinges on the idea that the material in “Milk Nymphos,” “Storm Squirters 2,” and the “Fetish Fanatic 5″ trailer is obscene.

Calling it that relies on the Miller test, the US Supreme Court’s standard, and therefore the US legal standard, for obscenity. In determining whether a work is obscene, the Miller test asks:

1. Whether the average person, applying contemporary community standards, would find that the work, taken as a whole, appeals to the prurient interest,
2. Whether the work depicts/describes, in a patently offensive way, sexual conduct or excretory functions specifically defined by applicable state law,
3. Whether the work, taken as a whole, lacks serious literary, artistic, political, or scientific value.

The government thinks that a work depicting female ejaculation is without literary, artistic, political or scientific value. In an industry of money shots, this is one of two titles selected for prosecution?

But ultimately, why should you care? Certainly a lot of people, even porn people, don’t seem to, except as it relates directly to them. They see Evil Angel as one of the “big dogs” who “asked for it” by being too big, being too successful, being too extreme. I’ve heard it in recent days from the lips of otherwise right-thinking supposed sex-positives.

On the other hand, antiporn groups are bloody pissed off that Stagliano has been indicted. Robert Peters, president of Morality in Media, said that the government does nothing to stop the mainstreaming of porn by prosecuting Evil Angel. He also asserted that Americans do not like pornography, despite its rampant popularity: “Just because there’s a lot of pornography around doesn’t mean the American people accept it,” Peters has been quoted as saying.

Morality in Media is one of those antiporn groups that opposes pornography and other forms of “obscenity” in the media. Their founder, the late Fr. Morton Hill, sat on Lyndon B. Johnson’s Presidential Commission on Obscenity and Pornography. In 2006 and 2006, Morality in Media received Department of Justice grants in the amount of $150,000 to fund ObscenityCrimes.org, a website that solicits citizen obscenity complaints. As of August, 2007, it had resulted in a whopping zero obscenity prosecutions. High five, Fr. Hill. Morality in Media also led a campaign to get Cosmopolitan banned from supermarket checkout lines, and their response to the white ribbon campaign against violence against women was to lead a sort of counter-white ribbon campaign against pornography.

But I digress — Morality in Media is hardly the problem, since they could give a rat’s ass about “Milk Nymphos” specifically; they oppose the fact of porn, not its execution. The government has the burden of proving that individual works are obscene, and that’s going to be tough, even with something called “Milk Nymphos.”

The reason you should care is not — or at least isn’t just — because the government’s going to be coming for your porn; maybe it will, maybe it won’t.

But one thing’s guaranteed: the dollars spent on having federal agents watch zillions of hours of porn, pick two titles to prosecute, and build a case they’re almost certainly going to lose — those are real dollars; if you pay US taxes, they’re your dollars, and they’re going down the drain even as we speak.

Thomas Roche is the PR Manager at Kink.com, an educator at San Francisco Sex Information and has written or edited ten books. He can be found at thomasroche.com.

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