Tag Archives: erotica

I Played 8 Queen Elsa Medical Fetish Games So You Don’t Have To

It started, as so many things do, with a text conversation with my husband.

Elsa foot surgery games for kids

I want you to know how tiresome this is getting for me. My husband is not a wild guy. He makes vanilla ice cream look like a ghost pepper smoothie. He makes Peppa Pig look like Caligula. I once asked him which physical attribute he found most alluring in a woman, and he responded: “Bangs.”

And yet, it’s always him discovering this deep-web, poorly-disguised internet fetish nonsense. On top of that, he knows that, once he brings it up, I’ll be compelled to dive into it face-first. He knows, and yet he tells me anyway.

I hope you’re happy, Ryan.

Note: While there is nothing NSFW about these games, they do contain some medical imagery that readers may find stomach-churning. I know I had to look away from my screen a couple times while I was playing them. Continue reading


Apparently People Still Use Goodreads: Six of the Most Esoteric Genres on Amazon’s Social Media Platform

goodreads logo

For me, Amazon‘s Goodreads is a bit like Pinterest: I made an account, tooled around on the site for a day or two, and then totally forgot about it. I’m woman enough to admit how old I am, and old enough that sometimes I don’t “get” things. Pinterest is one of those things (so it’s sort of like Tumblr, but for stay-at-home moms who want to make other stay-at-home moms feel inadequate?). Goodreads is another (anyone looking at my reading history for recommendations is in for a world of hurt).

I have to admit, though: When I decided to read and review weird erotica, Goodreads was there for me. From sexy bigfoots to sexy minotaurs to sexy dingoes with nipple piercings, Amazon’s social media site caters to even the most obscure of appetites.

Come along as I explore some of the most esoteric genres on Goodreads. I promise, only a few of them are sexy.

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Sex-Crazed Idiots: A Trashy Book About a Classy Boat

The Pleasure Palace, by Joan Lee

Please Note: This post is thoroughly NSFW.

Last time, I explored the labyrinthine innards of John K. King Used Books. This time, I’ll show you what I fished out of said innards: Joan Lee’s staggeringly stupid 1987 sex novel, The Pleasure Palace.

Never before or since has a novel containing so much sex been so thoroughly unsexy. The characters kiss, lick, and boink their way down a non-stop stream of soap operatic misadventure, yet they fail to ever look cool doing it. Before we get to the boinking, though, allow me to mention my biggest problem with this book.


This tagline is complete bullshit, because the god damn Pleasure Palace–a much referenced luxury cruise ship–doesn’t even show up until the last 30 pages of the book. This novel should have been called Lots of Pointless Screwing, and Then There’s a Boat at the End. By the way, when the Pleasure Palace does show up, no one finds dreams there. One person finds danger, but we’ll get to that in a second.

First, let’s look at the characters… Continue reading

Bad Romance: Four Bizarre Novels About Love & Sex

A week ago, my friend Matt sent me this image. I fell in love instantly.

But...You're a Horse

Man hands. I just realized the horse has MAN HANDS.

I’m both sad enough and wise enough to have heard of people who like to get it on with horses, but this…this was something entirely different. This was a full-blown horse-on-lady romance! Would they share a candlelit dinner of oats and sugar cubes? Canter down the beach an sunset? Break their legs after getting spooked by a snake and have to be put down? The possibilities were, if not endless, then at least appealingly weird.
Alas, my fragile heart was destined to be broken. But…You’re a Horse is not an actual horse romance. It’s not even a romance. It’s a comedy book written by David Bussell, a tome that someone–perhaps Bussell himself–decided to bestow with a hilarious but unrelated cover. I spent a sleepless night nursing my betrayal. And scheming. Always scheming…

The next day, I skimmed through Goodreads’ erotica directory and picked out the four weirdest books I saw. I then read them. What follows is a summary of the horrors contained therein. Sit back, pop a Dramamine, and prepare to have your world rocked in the sexiest possible way.

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Women and Erotica: Let’s Have a Giggle About Fanfiction

When I was a kid, the Internet sucked. I mean, really sucked. It was slow, hokey, full of gifs of skeletons smoking spliffs, and sounded like demons screaming in Hell whenever you fired it up. A typical day on the Internet was you waiting three hours to watch a fifteen-second clip from Star Trek and then getting kicked off the computer because your mom needed to make a phone call.

Dial-up Internet


I say this for the benefit of anyone under twenty-five who happens to be reading this blog. Another thing I’ve done for your benefit: found a sound clip of the dial-up Internet noise. Don’t thank me too effusively until you’ve actually listened to it. Christ what a racket.

Erotica and the Early Internet
Needless to say, the Internet of the late-90’s was not the virtual flesh market it is now. Don’t get me wrong–it was still full of pornography–but one’s efforts to access it were often stymied by poor connections, insane site layouts, and whatever virus came with that HOT!HOT!HOT!AshBangsPikachu file you downloaded off Napster. This was a transitional time when middle school boys still kept adult magazines under their mattresses despite having the World Wide Web at their fingertips.

“What about middle school girls?” you ask, with a not-at-all-creepy gleam in your eye. “What did they do?”

To which I reply–after submitting your name to whatever shadowy organization maintains the government watch list–thusly: “We didn’t need the Internet or the skin mags. Not when our mothers had these…”

Continue reading

Of Lovecraft and Sexual Rampages

Yesterday I visited Classicon, the annual pulp/paperback show coordinated by the Mid-Michigan Antiquarian Book Dealers Association (MMABDA) and the inestimably excellent Curious Book Shop.  I took so many pictures that I have no recourse but to split them between a few separate posts.  This is the first of three, titled to elicit maximum prurient interest and, ultimately, maximum disappointment.  Enjoy!

Antiquarian book shows are the stuff of dreams–provided your dreams feature genre fiction, decades-old erotica, and at least one weird dude hitting on a widow by telling her about the time he pooped himself in class.  (I think it was poop.  It might have been barf.  It was something that came out of his body, at any rate.  By the way, he followed the anecdote up with: “Anyway, what’s your name?” which impressed me, because I wager most people would have done the introductions before the poop story.  It takes a special kind of visionary to do it the other way around.)

(Jeez, where was I?)

Right, so.  The show was great.  Here are a few of the things I saw there.

Dirty Magazines
There’s a real dearth of proper men’s mags these days.  We can probably blame the Internet for that, as well as the recent fad of trying not to be such a drooling, slack-jawed ass-banana.  Fortunately, fans of obviously fake war stories and the problematic fetishization of foreign women can still get their fix.

ImageAs fun as it is to picture a bunch of topless women stampeding through the jungle, flinging their poo and calling to perspective mates with distinctive pant-hoots, I suspect the term “sexual rampage” more aptly describes what invading armies do to the people they invade, not the other way around.  I do like how this magazine included a story about people attacking cars for spare parts just because they could work the word “strippers” into the title.  Bravo!

ImageIt says something about our society that I can’t tell if the army is rescuing women from rape, or rescuing them by raping them.  Either way, I’m sure it’s a harrowing and not-at-all-made-up story.  And hey–at least they’re doing it “with safety.”

Image“China’s present day pirate queen”??  I think I’ve just found my new career goal!


Dirty Books
Pulp erotica isn’t rare.  Pulp erotica that actually delivers, however…Image“The fourth floor can’t be all that torrid if they’re doing it under the covers,” you say.  Well, hypothetical pervert, you’re exactly right–there’s not that much sex in this book.  In fact, having flipped through a number of similar tomes, I can reliably state that there’s not much sex in any of them.  Perhaps the authors need to review the definition of a tease

ImageThanks, TEEN WORKS.

That said, I did find one book that actually delivers more than it promises.

Image“Three’s a Crowd,” it says, and yet there are four women pictured.  Bonus!

Pulp Oddities
Then there are the bits and bobs that can’t be otherwise categorized.  For example, here’s all the proof you need that I am a twelve-year-old boy in a twenty-seven-year-old woman’s body.

ImageYes, yes, I know what “dick” means in this context, but the part of my brain that regulates laughing at things for ten minutes straight simply doesn’t care.  Anyway, look at that detective casually punching that dude in the chin.  That’s definitely something the other kind of “dick” would do.

ImageMore truth in titling!  If I woke up from a nap to find Satan putting a bunch of rats on me, that would, indeed, be “weird.”

At this point in the proceedings, the owner of the Curious Book Shop, who had seen me perusing several weird fiction publications, asked me if was a Lovecraft fan.  I said that I was.  (The truth is slightly more complicated: I love most of Lovecraft’s fiction, funny purple prose and all, but am really grossed out by his personal beliefs.  Dude once wrote a story wherein the twist wasn’t that the love interest had Medusa hair, but that she was part black.  Cthulhu give me strength… -_-)

Anyway, as it turned out, the book shop owner was a Lovecraft collector in his younger years, and he showed me some of the really special stuff he had in a paper sack behind the counter.  Stuff like this:

ImageThat, friends, is a book from Lovecraft’s personal library at his home in Providence, Rhode Island.  The sticker on the inside cover, which you can’t read because my cell phone camera isn’t that great, says “Ex Libris Howard Phillips Lovecraft.”  Stuffed in the book is a real photograph of H.P. and his muppety face, as well as an original clipping from a Rhode Island newspaper announcing a second collection of stories by their native son.  I was pretty darn excited about this, though I thought I kept it in check.  Only later did my husband inform me that most people reserve that kind of squealing and frothing for a One Direction concert.

What is wrong with me?