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It dawns on me that some of my readers may be too young to recall the days in which obscene phone calls were a thing. The world was full of anonymous pay phones, and caller ID didn’t exist, or it was a premium service with an extra monthly charge that many people didn’t pay. Go far enough back, and “tracing the call” was something that had to be done by a live human “operator” at the phone company while the call was in progress. That pretty much meant that an obscene caller faced no repercussions whatsoever, unless they were foolish enough to harass the same party repeatedly, to the point where the police became involved.
I’m not actually old enough to remember when obscene phone calling was still the favorite activity of boundary-pushing perverts, but when I was a younger person, it was still a vivid part of the cultural history and memory of all the adults I knew. It was so common, people made comedy about it.
Thus it is no surprise that a stroke book from the 1970s opens with a description of a fictitious obscene call:
“Damn it! If you don’t tell me who’s calling I’m going to hang up!”
Harry Appleton smiled obscenely as he listened to the irritated female voice at the other end of the telephone. He was sprawled in an old overstuffed chair, the telephone cradled between his check and shoulder, one long leg hooked over the chair’s dirt-encrusted arm. In his left hand he held a tattered copy of a magazine that was open at the centerfold. His avid eyes scanned the glossy color photograph of a naked girl kneeling on the floor, her heavy breasts pressed flat against the carpet while her fingers reached around her body to pull her pendulous buttocks apart and expose her puckered little anal opening. His other hand lovingly massaged the swollen cock that jutted out from his unzipped jeans.
“”George, is that you?” the woman on the telephone asked, a note of fright creeping into her voice and replacing the previous irritation. “Is this another one of your jokes, George?”
Harry smiled again and cleared his throat. He could tell that the nervous woman was about to hang up on him and he didn’t want to loose the connection.
“Is this Miss Watkins? Sarah Watkins?” he asked, pitching his voice low. There was almost no chance that she would recognize his voice from their one brief meeting, he knew, but he was going to take no chances.
“Yes, this is Sarah Watkins,” the woman answered, a little puzzled now. “Who’s calling, please?”
“You don’t know me, Sarah,” Harry said quietly, without a trace of emotion even though his heart was thudding wildly in his chest. “No, you don’t know me at all.”
He choked down a lewd laugh as he stared at the photograph of the obscenely posed girl in the magazine. When he let his mind roam freely, as he often did, he could almost imagine that the girl was here in the room with him, moving her luscious ass around in provocative circles while she begged him to shove his lust-hardened cock up into her tightly-puckered asshole. His fingers grasped his penis in a vice grip as the woman on the telephone interrupted his obscene reveries by speaking again this time more urgently.
“If you don’t tell my what you want right now, I’m going to hang up!”
Harry threw the magazine onto the floor and sat up straight, a fierce glow in his eyes. He licked his dry lips with his tongue as he cleared his throat again.
“I want to fuck your asshole, baby!” he almost screamed into the telephone. “I want to shove my cock up into that tight little hole and make you scream for fucking mercy! And I’m going to! Just you wait and see!”
From Anal Rampage by Paul Stone (certainly a pseudonym), published by Blackpool Library (BL-119, 1970s).
I’m pretty sure the iconography of the US flag is not supposed to be used like this, but, hey, fuckit, I do not care:
Happy patriotic holiday, hope there will be well-filled bikinis in yours!
Overheard: “She’s sitting on a treasure, and she knows it! Turns out, she’s also got a whole lot of gold, too…”
Fantasy pirates are always glamorous. You know why? Because some really bad things happen to pirates who fail. So a pirate, by definition, is pretty much always on the top of his/her game: a good ship, a taut crew, plenty of loot, pretty captives to torment or ransom, lots of time for drinking and screwing around.
The biggest problem of a really successful pirate is burying all your treasure without the crew knowing where you put it. This isn’t made a whole lot easier when you insist on bringing along an artist to make portraiture of your triumphant glamour poses, but what’s the use of wealth and beauty if history doesn’t remember any of it?
This kind of behavior created enduring legends about treasure maps and buried doubloons. The legends are so persistent, they’ve become cultural building blocks, available to be grabbed and used for all kinds of projects. Thus ThePornMap.com — a site that strives to find and link the best porn sites — uses a glamorous lady pirate with a spyglass in its logo. That’s universal shorthand in action: “Use our pirate map to find the porn treasure you are looking for.”
People need to understand, though, that being a successful lady pirate wasn’t an endless routine of standing around in dramatic poses, looking smug with no panties on:
On quiet nights in the captain’s cabin, there’s plenty of time to grab one of the nice young noblemen from the brig where the ransom clients are kept, and give him some “exercise”:
Then, too, even the most successful lady pirates can have a bad day. “Row me ashore on Kraken Island”, she demanded. “But what about the Kraken?” “He’s a myth, you timorous fool!” The bad news is, it turns out the Kraken’s a very horny myth, with a lot of inquisitive tentacles. Oopsie!
Image credits, top to bottom: Smug pirate showing off her treasure-pussy is by Personalami. The drunken femdom pirate orgy is by Iron-Dullahan. The plumed-hat treasure-burying topless pirate is by ZaftigBunny. The pirate woman who just had a happy wank in her own loaded treasure chest is by R Ex. The pirate dominatrix putting a tied captive through his sexual paces is by Felox08. And the intrepid but unfortunate pirate getting tentacle sexed by a Kraken after losing a longboat full of rowers is by an artist who is apparently not known to the internet.
There are an infinite number of ways to perform the Lady Godiva character. But apparently the horseback traditionalists aren’t too impressed by the noisy upstarts who prefer motorcycles, at least not judging by the amount of side-eye on display here:
Art is by the famous British comic and pinup artist Norman Pett.
Remember when I made that jokey post about the 100-year-old “Peddie” school advertisement for the education of “manly boys”? Only to be informed by my readers that the school is still a well-respected going concern?
Well, it turns out that somebody else had about the same reaction I did, upon being confronted by a school bus in the Peddie livery. So they posted it to Reddit with an insincere warning:
A school needs a bus. It stands to reason this was out there. But I do feel some empathy for the children who have to be seen riding around in it.
Here’s another fun story before I move on from my spurious 1970s “almanac” of sex trivia. Has anybody heard of the Konstead dildo collection? No, I didn’t think so. Google certainly hasn’t:
The largest collection of dildos, privately owned, belongs to Seymour Konstead, a forty-three year old man living in Paris. Mr. Konstead began collecting the phallic objects as a youth.
Mr. Konstead’s collection dates back to the year 85BC and that particular item is a fifteen inch tool with a five inch handle grip made of polished wood and having been determined to be a standard piece of paraphernalia for that time period in Rome.
The most valuable tool in Konstead’s collection is a rather ornate St. Georgian piece studded with diamonds and emeralds and running in the top portion nine inches long and four inches wide. It’s been nicknamed by the collector Alexander’s Triumph.
Mr. Konstead’s collection ranges from the ornate to the ordinary. He includes in the Parisian museum where his tools are on display every sort of phallic device ever invented by man. Where the thing itself no longer exists, Konstead has had another made to match written descriptions. He has battery-operated silent vibrators sitting alongside hand-operated machines more than a thousand years old.
The entire Konstead dildo collection is valued at somewhere around three million dollars.
It is becoming better known, these days, that genitalia aren’t quite as standardized as most people assume. It’s also a sad truth that infants born with equipment that doesn’t conform to the assumed standard often suffer brutal rearrangement under a surgeon’s knife. But even so, I think this particular anecdote should not be given very much weight, except for any entertainment value it may offer. It’s from the so-called 1977 World Sex Almanac, which billed itself as “a handy-dandy catalog of odds and ends about strange orifices and appendages.” The publisher was Circle Library Editions, better known for such stroke book titles as The Naughty Nun and Lust Letters To The Editor:
According to confirmed reports from two eyewitness females, there lives a man in San Diego, California, a Mr. Jack Hornbelt who has not one organ, but two, completely functional, fully capable penises. The two phallic appendages share a single scrotum and they operate independently of one another.
At the point of attachment, the two penises are less than an inch apart. They point away from one another at a nearly ninety degree angle.
One of the women who made her report to our editors claims to have seen the man during a state of sexual arousal: “It was quite remarkable. After all, how often is it that you see two dicks, side by side, on the same man, fully erect. But there they were, both of them, standing up proud as day like a couple of flag poles. They’re both circumcised, and I’d say the combined length, if you could lay them end to end, is somewhere around ten or twelve inches — you know, average. Same for thickness, too. I suppose he could fuck two very skinny girls at the same time if he really wanted to.”
She also reported that the two organs looked normal when considered separately.
Mr. Hornbelt himself tells most of his friends when they ask: “With me it’s normal. I mean, I always get two erections, I never thought it was anyway different for all the other guys till I was around four. It don’t matter to me. I always get just one orgasm anyhow. Don’t ask me why.”
When asked if he ever considered surgery to make himself “more normal” Mr. Hornbelt shook his head sadly. “Wife won’t hear of it, you know. Just doesn’t want to listen to any kind of talk like that. Don’t ask me why. Just won’t hear of it.”
Although I don’t trust this particular source as far as I can throw it, diphallia is a real thing, albeit quite rare. There’s a current fellow running around who seems to be the real double-dicked deal. He calls himself DoubleDickDude, he shares photos, and he did a big Reddit Ask-Me-Anything a while back.


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