In OBSOLETE I talk about how phone sex is going bye-bye, thanks to sexting, IM sex and other forms of online sex (which I wrote about a few years ago on Salon).
I don’t write about this in the book, but I have a theory that there’s eventually going to a backlash against all this sexy technology. Personally, I like to do it retro style—without denying myself the pleasures of modern technology, that is. Just put the video chat screen in black-and-white mode, turn off the sound, get some speech to tech software that turns your words into subtitles at the bottom of your lover’s screen… For the full effect, slip an asprin into your Coke and draw a silk-stocking seam on the back of your leg. NOW you’re really partying like it’s 1929. As my 17-year-old cousin would say: Yummy!
ANYWAY, I mention this 1985 Village People production in OBSOLETE, but I could’ve written the entire book solely on this video. I would do it right now, but I have to go take a bath in eggnog. So, I will not bore you with any more of my silly ramblings. Really, this baby needs no ramp up.
I humbly offer this as my Christmas present to you.
I interviewed Larry Flynt in OBSOLETE; he had some things to say about whether or not porn magazines were becoming obsolete…However, he didn’t have as much to say about it as Al Goldstein. Al, are you reading this? I’ve been trying to get back in touch with him but haven’t been able to since I spoke to him last year.
Anyway, I just came upon this photo of Flynt showing off some copies of Hustler. The funny thing is that the cover looks tamer than pretty much any fashion magazine on the newsstand today.
I…I don’t even know what to say.
W.W, Bauer’s follow up publication was called, fittingly, Stop Annoying Your Children.
(via ihatemyparents)


Leg humping: Obsolete?
I’m inclined to believe that this product is some kind of hoax…and yet, I’ve seen blow-up sex toys for humans who are into bestiality, so anything is possible. But here’s my question: Will they make one for cats?
In college, I lived with my father and Sonny, a skinny orange tabby who’d belonged to a reclusive librarian cousin who died. Just for the record: I adore animals. I have two dogs warming my feet as I write this. But Sonny was about as lovable as Nero.
Whether or not Sonny was always a son of a bitch is hard to say. Maybe he was the perfect cat until he ended up spending several days in an apartment with a dead woman. All I know is that by the time he moved in with us, he took little pleasure out of life. He had two main ways of dealing with whatever trauma he’d lived through: sex and violence. When he wasn’t shredding my 4-year-old nephew’s plump, virgin arms, he was humping. His favorite partner was a little tie-died piece of fleece. He would somehow fashion it into a kind of cylindrical shape and then would hump it vigorously, always in front of my dad. He clearly had something to prove. My dad was very generous in his willingness to placate him. “Yes,” he’d say. “You are very virile. I’m impressed.”
Eventually, though, the fleece wasn’t enough to satisfy Sonny’s needs…
Fortunately, the Devil Cat took little interest in my cat, Sylvia—a round, long-haired black beauty who was clearly out of his league. He did, however, discover a taste for towels. If I left one on the bed while I got dressed, it would instantly be spirited away to the closet. Once he collected a large pile of them, he’d mount them all and go at it. “Look,” my brother would say. “It’s a gang bang.” We let him keep the towels. No one really wanted to use them after they’d joined his harem. Needless to say, we eventually, we ran out of towels.
So, my dad found a little black round pillow and sewed two eyes, a nose, and a mouth on one of its sides. It looked quite a bit like Sylvia. Sonny spend hours humping it from every direction as we called out positions. He was a big fan of missionary, but he also indulged in the occasional sixty-nine.
Eventually, we bullied another cousin into taking him in. At least now I know what to get her for Christmas.




