Slut is a word describing a certain kind of woman and a pejorative term. According to Wikipedia:
Although the ultimate origin of slut is unknown, it first appeared in Middle English in 1402 as slutte (AHD), with the meaning “a dirty, untidy, or slovenly woman.”[2]Even earlier, Geoffrey Chaucer used the word sluttish (c.1386) to describe a slovenly man; however, later uses appear almost exclusively associated with women.[2]The modern sense of “a sexually promiscuous woman” dates to at least 1450.[2]
But, think about this, there really is no “politically correct” term which describes a woman who is both sexually experienced and provocative.
I went through this phase – Am I gay? Am I straight? And then I realized… I’m just slutty. Where’s my parade? Margaret Cho
Thinking about the term “slut”, what it means, how it is used to demean women and why there is no equivalent term for a man who sleeps around, would really hurt. Thank god VISIONS is just a mindless Flickr sex blog and doesn’t have to think deep thoughts. Here are a handful of photos from Flickr tagged slut:
Only Flickr members with safe search OFF will see these photos. Join Flickr free.
Casey – Fingers - Bare - Having Fun – Plaid Skirt – Pink & Pretty – Hot Ass – Blonde - Temptation – Sexy Look - Sexy Spinner – Fun – Waiting – Foursome – Showing Off – Sexy Nun - Strip – Duo – Looking Up - Ready
Some Flickr photographers who models are definitely alive, definitely nude and definitely girls…
Only Flickr members with safe search OFF will see all of the photos in this post. Join Flickr free.
NomSuayMah. Here’s one of his sets demonstrating his skill (and his model’s beauty). And another.
Sea Tree Images. His Red and Black sets are wonderful.
perthroproductions2. His set Fetish/Kink is a little snapshotish but cute…
Inposure. This magnificent Flickr collection is bursting with fourteen set of Chinese beauties in the buff!
I can’t remember who I was talking to before that. Probably a large group of Russian men in a house floor to ceiling with empty vodka bottles. Everything leading up to that point became meaningless, the black, infinite darkness before you come sliding out of the womb. I just remember her face. Elfin, pixie-ish, with shoulder length brown hair and one of those thin, perfect noses cosmetic surgeons just can’t emulate, no matter how hard they try. She looked into the camera and smiled, lighting up my world, and most incredibly, she didn’t hit F9.
Your partner is typing…
“Hey! What’s up?”
I fumbled for my keyboard, caught between a “not much, you,” or a “Hi! You’re incredibly attractive…” But then, tragedy. My browser hung. The small square containing the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen was now just a mocking, blank 320×240 pit of emptiness. I refreshed, my guts in my mouth, hoping against hope that our paths would connect again, hearts across the wi-fi, only to be confronted by a man having sex with a toilet seat.
That night, I lay awake, unable to get the image of that girl out of my head. In my freshly-beating heart, I knew it was meant to be. Was it really that crazy to fall in love with a smile? Nobody laughed at our Grandparents when they saw each other through the windows of a moving train and just knew they’d spend the rest of their lives together. There was no choice; I had to track her down, I had to find my soulmate, no matter how many more connects it took, and the tale of this would be our story, told hand in hand at weddings and parties for fifty years.
Dracula once told his beloved that he’d crossed oceans of time to be reunited with her. The jagged, thrashing waves of my ocean were proud between the legs of pixelly, headless men. Thick, sweaty horsecocks and stubby little nobs clasped between thumb and forefinger like rotten strawberries; my righteous path was strewn with enough penis for ten thousand lifetimes. I asked men dressed like Jesus and shirtless OAPs if they’d seen my girl, if they could only give me a clue to her whereabouts, or to let her know that I was looking for her, should they find themselves connected. Most just hit Next and moved on. Some laughed. Many started masturbating. One girl showed me her boobs, but I quickly hit F9, so’s not to cheat on my beloved. And then, following a close-up of a beltbuckle reading ‘DAD’ with big, swollen testicles poking out of the fly, there it was – that smile. The rush of blood to my head was so intense that I almost fainted onto the desk.
Your partner is typing…
“Hey! What’s up?”
Heart booming in my ears, I pasted my carefully pre-written text – a short summation of my quest complete with email address – into the chatbox, and slammed on the enter key. Sure, it was needy, maybe even stalkerish, but times like these you have to throw caution to the wind. Faint heart never won fair maiden.
Your partner is typing…
Never gonna give you up,
Never gonna let you down,
Never gonna run around and desert you
…
One part of that was totally true. Can you guess which bit? And this link isn’t even worksafe if you work in a crackhouse. Click here to find out.
The Best Ass In The World by Davis Fleetwood
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Even a godless commie like me is not against everything. I’m actually looking forward to the Olympics, for instance. And on this next issue, I remain, momentarily, on the fence. So I’ll put this question to the women: If you bend over, take a picture of your own ass and upload it to the Internet to a website selling underwear, are you participating in your own exploitation? Asserting your post feminist sexually liberated self? Drunk?
American Apparel has launched a controversial new ad campaign that seeks to identify the best ass in the world. Insert any number of ass puns that cleverly reveal your feelings on this matter here.
An invitation on the American Apparel website reads:
Confident about the junk in your trunk? We’re looking for a brand new bum (the best in the world!) to be the new “face” for our always expanding intimates and briefs lines. Send in a close-up photo of your backside wearing American Apparel panties, bodysuits or briefs for consideration between January 28, 2010, and February 21, 2010.
There would have been a time in my life, when I was in my early twenties, where this sort of thing would have driven me to the streets in protest. In fact, in the early 1990’s, when Randall Terry and his terrorist organization Operation Rescue went on their assault of health clinics that provided birth control and abortions I participated in dozens of clinic defenses. When the 1992 Casey Supreme Court Decision chipped away at the legal precedent of Row V Wade, I joined with Act UP and other groups in shutting down the Holland tunnel. A civil disobedient, I got arrested and went to jail.
In other words, I was then and remain now that particular breed of male who prefers sexual intercourse with women and yet has repeatedly been called a faggot by many of the Neanderthals with whom I share a sexual orientation.
Yet now, at the age of forty, I am having a hard time getting offended by this American Apparel Campaign. I enjoy looking at those asses.
That is not so say that I don’t enjoy and support the clever counter attack, launched by the Anti-Porn Activist Network, wherein women write slogans on their skivvies and upload them to the American Apparel website. Among my favorite slogans written on the anonymous Asses of angry women include “fuck you, you misogynist asshole”, “American Apparel Stinks”, and “American Apparel isn’t worth my shit stains.”
To a thinking man like me, a women who puts a little bit of her brain in a clever slogan on her ass and uploads that picture to the web and her who uses her ass to protest, well, I enjoy looking at those asses as well. Are these women then exploited? I’m sure they would say no, and cite as the reason that they have defined the terms of their exposure for themselves.
Fair enough. But isn’t this a case of free speech for me and not for thee?
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I do not understand people that refuse to take available seats on crowded buses. Asses are not gluteus non grata. Seats are not objets d’art that are to be seen but not touched. Rather, they were specifically designed, and installed, to accommodate riders’ rears. This concept, however, escapes many of my fellow transit patrons.
Having a regular 9-6 occupation, I am part of the commuter class. Squeezing into crammed buses during both rush hours is part of my daily routine. Because I live at the bus route’s halfway point, the chances of procuring a seat are slim; so to me, these are prized commodities.
Sitting on the bus is essentially all upside. You don’t have to move when other people get on. Flipping through books or magazines is easier. Plus, worries about having strangers’ asses or crotches rub up against you are significantly decreased (this is only a plus if you’re not into that. I’m sure there are people for whom bus booty bumpin’ is their only source of physical contact – and welcomed). Sure, by sitting you expose yourself to an eye-level view of front and backsides (again, some might be into that) and chances are it won’t be a pretty sight. However this can be easily avoided by reading.
The only thing worse than people that refuse to sit are people that forego the seat and say, “oh no, it’s all right. I sat all day at work.” Sitting at work doesn’t foreclose further sitting. I talk, type, smoke, eat and urinate at work, but that doesn’t stop me from engaging in those activities in a non-work environment. Asses are for sitting, not for talking out of.
It is proven fact there was no sex prior to June 3, 1962. Well, there was no sex prior to that date in my life. On that memorable day I found a copy of Lady Chatterly’s Lover in my grandparent’s study. The night I found the book I was reading the “dirty parts” in bed when I… Well, I leave the details to your imagination. At first I thought I was dying, but then I couldn’t wait to do it again.
In honor of that momentous event in my early teenage life, I’ve put together a Flickr gallery of vintage sex kittens from the forties, fifties and early sixties. Enjoy!
On a magical Saturday night, her car truly was the Happiest Place on Earth…
I don’t remember which dating website I met her on. I don’t remember her name and I remember very few things about her. I do remember what I was doing when we arranged our date and I remember what she was, or rather wasn’t, wearing when we met for our one and only date. I do remember when I was talking with my friends I referred to her as The Disney Chick. That much I’m sure of.
We traded a few e-mails and talked on the phone once and were going to try and go out on a Saturday night. I don’t remember when it was, but I spent the day in the backyard cutting down a medium sized tree by myself and doing some other yard work, so I’m guessing it was probably spring.
She called one morning and asked what I was doing that night. “Nothing,” I told her. Just chillin. She said that she wanted to go out with me and that she would try and get a sitter. “No promises,” she told me. “But I will try.” Drama Queen was spending the night at grandma’s place, so I was totally free until early Sunday afternoon.
Around 3 PM she called back to say that she found someone to watch her kids and if I was still up for it, she wanted to meet for a couple of drinks. I said that I was available and we decided on 7. She asked about meeting at Downtown Disney since it was halfway between her place and mine and because it was a Saturday night it would probably be pretty happening.
I agreed and finished with the tree, then went inside to take a long, hot shower to relax my tired muscles. Once done in the shower I found a pair of jeans that made my butt look its best (years of soccer and hockey got it looking good and I figure that you should accentuate your best feature), grabbed a shirt, threw on some shoes and headed towards Disneyland.
I found a decent parking spot and headed towards House of Blues and Tortilla Joes Cantina. Ironically, that was the same Tortilla Joe’s Cantina where two years later The 36-Year-Old Virgin and I would have our first date.
The Disney Chick was already waiting and she looked pretty good. We hugged hello and decided to walk around a bit before we got a drink. We chatted about this and that and looked at who was coming to the House of Blues in the next couple months and shared our musical interests. We popped in and out of shops and spent a lot of time in the World of Disney store, laughing at the tourists buying their overpriced, lame souvenirs and we tried on crappy hats that we had no intention of purchasing. We finally decided it was time for some alcohol, so we exited the store and made our way back towards the booze.
We decided on Uva Bar because it was outside and we could enjoy the nice weather, talk and continue laughing at tourists. I’m not sure why it’s so much fun to laugh at the Disney tourists, but it is. I don’t remember what she ordered but I do remember it was hard liquor. This chick was definitely not a wine sipper. I liked that.
The drinks arrived, we clinked glasses and continued to talk about the usual first date stuff—job, kids, etc. She worked for a large food company doing marketing. I think it was a poultry company but I’m not sure. She had two kids who were slightly older than Drama Queen. She also seemed to have a bit of drama in her life, which I wasn’t overly thrilled about, but it was too early to judge.
About 30 or 45 minutes into the conversation we ordered another round–probably our third. Maybe the fourth. We were having fun. She and I were sitting at the bar and it was a bit crowded, so we were pretty close to each other. I know that our legs were touching and that on a couple of occasions she had leaned over to grab something off the bar and her rack brushed up against me—on purpose I’m pretty sure. As I recall, she had a nice set. Not overly impressive, but nice nonetheless. For the record, I wasn’t complaining about them brushing up against me.
When the bartender delivered the aforementioned drinks she took a sip, looked at me and asked me what kind of underwear I was wearing. I gazed at her, took a long, slow drink of my Jack and Coke and said, “Boxer briefs. Why? What are you wearing?”
“I’m not wearing any,” she replied. I looked at her for a moment and said “bullshit.” She then proceeded to stand up, push herself against me, unbutton the button on her jeans and grab my hand and move it down the side of her leg. “Holy crap,” I thought. She isn’t wearing any.
She slowly moved my hand back up (she still had her chest pressed against me) and quietly asked if I was sure that I was wearing boxer briefs. “Pretty sure,” I told her, with a gleam in my eye. She stared at me with a mischievous look and whispered, “Let me check.” And with that she stuck her hand down the back of my jeans and grabbed my ass.
I think it’s safe to say that the flirting was on! We kissed a few times, had a couple more drinks and she asked me where I was parked. I told her that I had a pretty good spot and she said, “I guess we can go to my car. I purposely parked way in the back.” I got the bartenders attention and paid the check. She grabbed my hand as we left the bar, passing all the families with screaming kids as we headed towards the parking lot.
This night was nothing like I had pictured when I was at home. I’m not saying that I was totally opposed to the direction it was heading, I’m just saying that when I was walking towards the House of Blues, this is NOT how I figured the night would end.
We got about halfway through the lot and she started fumbling through her purse. After a couple moments I asked her if she was having a hard time finding her keys. “Nope,” she replied. “The keys are right here. I’m looking for a condom.”
Let’s just say that I learned a few things that night: First is that the back seat in a Dodge Grand Caravan folds pretty flat and that it’s actually kind of comfortable. I wouldn’t want to sleep on it, but I wasn’t sleeping. Second is that the tinted windows work pretty well—especially at night. Third is that I was actually a bit more flexible than I thought I would be after cutting down a tree all day.
We talked on the phone once or twice after that but never did go out again. My early suspicions were confirmed; The Disney Chick had a lot of drama in her life and no matter how much fun that first date was, dating her was not going to be worth the headache.
Not going out again was no big deal, because on a magical Saturday night, her car truly was The Happiest Place on Earth.
by Davis Fleetwood 
On a magical Saturday night, her car truly was the Happiest Place on Earth…