-
Game On
This is adorable. F*Bomb wants to play a full length game about safe sex. Or maybe the next Grand Theft Auto game should just make you pay child support payments to all the hookers you bang in the back seat unless you stop at the 7-11 first.
-
Fast Food Nation
This Wednesday, F*Bomb will be leaving the comfy, cum-soaked confines of our subterranean blog-quarters to venture out into the real world for a rare live action performance. Fellow perverts/Word Press enthusiasts Bedpost Confessions invited us to speak at their excellent literary erotic spoken word series and we said yes because who would say no to a cabal of attractive lady bloggers? Not F*Bomb, that’s for damn sure.
So if you live anywhere near the Austin area, please come out on Wednesday night to hear a live reading of F*Bomb’s newest salacious, salvatious sex story. Here are the event details, the Bedpost Confession flyer, and some more info on the piece we’ll be performing after the jump.
WHO: F*Bomb motherfucker!
WHAT: Reading a dirty ass story w/ some erotic performance art accompaniment
WHEN: Wednesday December 15 8PM-10PM
WHERE:(Right next to Spider House) at
US Art Authority
2906 Fruth Street
Austin, TX 78705WHY: ????
Even though we already know you’re going to come, if just to see how horrible and disfigured we are in person (the answer is very. Think Rocky Dennis, Eric Stoltz’s character from the movie Mask), here is a little info about the piece we’ll be performing to sweeten the deal. Of course, we’re very anti-spoiler here at F*Bomb so, as not to ruin any surprises, the following is a pictographic summary of what will be a spoken word performance. See you there.
Okay so someone that looks like this will be standing on a stage. He/she/it will be reading aloud about…
Camaros…
Mall security…
Pepperoni pizza…
Awesome boobs…
Nacho Cheese Gorditas…
Hand jobs…
and Dairy Queen Blizzards.
Needless to say, it’s going to be awesome.
-
Yippie kay yay Mr. Falcon!
Despite the fact that we’re a blog, F*Bomb generally doesn’t care for the Internet. Aside from looking up movie times and playing Farmville, the world wide web is generally one big waste of cyberspace. We know, we know, everyone loves how free and plentiful porn is on the Internet, but trust us, it was way more fun back in the day when you actually had to work to get your hands on some circus themed interracial CFNM.
Of course, every once in a great while we stumble on a website that gives up hope for humanity. Eroticfalconry.com is one of those sites. Nestled amongst the giant Googles and Amazons of the web, like a sea hawk’s nest perched high a top an oceanic cliff, EroticFalconry is as noble and humble as the birds of prey it seeks to honor. The site’s design is sparse, its content minimal, but what is there is a glory to behold.
Their brief introduction describes their feather fancy better than we could ever hope to paraphase:
“Where’s the perversion in loving another one of God’s creatures? Where’s the deviance in wanting to pull feathers rather than blond hair? What’s abnormal about wanting to see your wife take a three-inch beak instead of a 10-inch African American phallus or a silicon, injection-molded forearm? How can a human vagina or anus even compare to hollow bones or a molty egg-hole.”
Our thoughts exactly. F*Bomb feels such close comradery to our fellow birds of a feather at EroticFalconry, that we thought today we would offer up some of the site’s many highlights in lieu of an original post of our own. Please enjoy.
Who knew birds, boobs, and boners was such a winning combination? F*Bomb is now starting a write in campaign to New Sensations, the company that makes those “A XXX Parody” videos, to make a “The Birds: A XXX Parody,” because who wouldn’t want to see a Tippi Hedren look alike suck a dick in a phone booth while hoards of birds peck at the glass?
Please print out and mail the following form letter to:
New Sensations
21345 Lassen St # 100
CA 91311-6842
Dear New Sensations Porno Makers,
I, ________, am writing to request that for your next erotic parody title, you make a pornographic version of Alfred Hitchcock’s classic 1963 thriller, “The Birds.” As you may or may not know, a sizable portion of the American pornographic market finds sexual imagery involving birds to be very arousing. I believe that if you capitalized on the well known title of Hitchcock’s film and used it to make an orniphilic porn film, you would earn your company hella loot. I understand that these films are made on small budgets and you will most likely use CGI effects for the big scenes with lots of birds, but please try and use some real birds in some of the sex scenes. A shot of a bird pecking a nipple or perching on an erect penis would be ideal. Thank you so much for your time.
Sincerely,
_________
-
XXXMas Gift Guide
Ho ho ho loyal readers. This week on F*Bomb In Print, we convince the UWeekly art department to print a color photo of dildos and a Predator mask in a giant stocking! Hopefully our message resonates with the UT readers and by spring semester, boyfriends are bent over with their butts plugged all across campus. Click the stocking to see what’s inside our festive gift guide!
Click the photo unless you’re a Grinch with cold black genitals three sizes too small.
Also, while we’re on the subject of subverting Christmas spirit for our own sexual delights, Austin Santa Rampage is NEXT weekend. For those not in the know, Santa Rampage (also called Santacon, Santarchy, and Fuck You Christmas!) is a high spirited, Santa-themed drunken bar crawl through the streets of Austin. For adults who don’t like shopping and hate Jesus, Christmas is normally a pretty shitty time of the year. That’s why it’s nice to escape the cacophony of awful holiday music and thinly veiled commercialism by taking to the bars with several hundred like dressed alcoholics. The bars they visit tend to suck, but like SXSW, it’s a great way to see places in Austin you would never otherwise set foot in. Also, 400 Santas in an unsuspecting bar is total chaos, so it’s pretty easy to sneak in a bottle of schnapps and get your Christmas cheer on the cheap.
Click the marching Santas to visit the Facebook event or check out their shoddy website http://hatehappy.com/ for more info.
-
Big in Japan
Japan is crazy. Maybe it’s a cultural side effect from the nuclear fault, maybe they were always this way and the rest of the world just didn’t know, either way, Japan is a weird, weird place. You know what else is a weird, weird place? The Internet. So it’s no wonder that when you combine the two of them, you come up with tentacle monster CGI rape, eel fucking, and pregnant ladies giving birth in pornos. Those are all real things. Here is a picture of the box for that last one.
However, since we don’t speak Japanese, care for digitally censored genitalia, or have a big enough porn budget to cover importing costs, F*Bomb doesn’t pay much attention to Japanese pornography. Yes, we’ve heard all about how you can buy dirty underwear out of vending machines in Tokyo, but we live in America damn it. We know how to get dirty underwear for free by dumpster diving Goodwill.
Still, even though Japanese genitalia measuring gameshow hardcore (another real thing) doesn’t really do it for us, the country does have a rich history of cinematic greatness. From Kurosawa to Miyazaki, Godzilla to Mecha-Godzilla, Japanese film ranges from slow-paced, heart felt social dramas to ultra-violent, hyper-stylized yakuza flicks. And then there’s the sexy movies.
Below are three films that represent some of the unusual and unique ways Japan approaches and discusses sexuality. This isn’t meant to be any sort of essential guide or Intro to Japanese Sex Film primer because we’re not a grad student with manga characters on his shirt trying to get a degree by watching every Takashi Miike film. These are just a few, out of many, nutso Japanese sex films.
HANZO THE RAZOR
Hanzo the Razor is a trilogy of samurai films based on manga by the same artist that did Lone Wolf and Cub, starring Shintaro Katsu (who also played Zatoichi for the nerds in the room) as the titular Hanzo. Hanzo is an honest samurai cop in a dirty feudal era who uses his sword to fight for truth and justice. And by sword, we mean huge fucking dick. Don’t get confused, Hanzo does have a regular sword that he cuts fools up with on a regular basis, but he also has a big ass cock he keeps wrapped up under his samurai man diaper. When Hanzo encounters a lady with information he needs, which happens surprisingly often in these films, he uses his tool to interrogate her.
As excellent as these movies are, Hanzo’s police tactics are very… well, for lack of a better word… “rapey.” Of course, as he interrogates them they get super into it and fall in love with him and want to help him fight the bad guys, and the politics of consent for that scenario are incredibly iffy, but if you overlook that detail, Hanzo is a super tough, dick slinging samurai cop and that counts for something. He trains his mighty wang by beating it with a hammer, his henchman help him fuck babes by dangling them over his dong in a net, and the whole series has a killer seventies funk porno soundtrack. Great films… if you can deal with the not-so PC premise.
S&M HUNTER
Shiro Shimomoto is S&M Hunter, an eye-patch wearing, rope tossing, bondage bad-ass who helps some schmuck take revenge on a sexy all girl gang for reasons unimportant. What is important is all the stuff about eye-patches and rope tossing bad assery. Again, this film promotes a “No” means “Yes I secretly love it!” sort of attitude, but isn’t that what consensual BDSM is all about? The plot is non-existent, the film is barely feature length, but there is a scene where the S&M Hunter ties a girl up in a spider web of ropes that tighten when he shoots the ropes with his gun. Logical? No. Awesome? Yes. Also, Nazi uniforms.
By the way, S&M Hunter is what is known in Japan as a “pink film,” which is a lot like the softcore nonsense you’d find on Skinemax except with an interesting plot and rad shit like dudes in eye patches or women pretending to be cows. The history and scope of Japanese pink films is better left for nerdy ass Asianphile grad students looking for obscure dissertation topics, but PinkEiga, the company that released S&M Hunter has put out other films that look intriguing to say the least. You can check them out here: PINK EIGA. Any company that puts out movies with titles like “Sexy Battle Girls” is more than alright in F*Bomb’s book.
VISITOR Q
It would be hard to call Visitor Q a “good” movie. It was made as the final film for the Love Cinema, a series of straight-to-video films aimed at showing off the possibilities of low budget film making and digital video. Takashi Miike, director of other “Holy shit you have to see this dude!” Japanese extreme films like Ichi the Killer and Audition, probably realized that since he couldn’t afford the intense gore he normally desires, he’d have to get his shock from a different subject matter this time around. Like the works of the Marquis de Sade and Warren Ellis, Visitor Q is more of a check list of sexual and societal taboos than it is an engrossing work of cinema. However, it is quite the list of taboos.
The movie begins with incest and then goes downhill from there; Rape, murder, necrophilia, more incest, scat, lactation… etc. Basically, it’s the Japanese film version of the Aristocrats joke. It’s shock value for its own sake, and while that can often be rather dull (cough cough Human Centipede), it’s nice to know that somewhere else in the world, people are fascinated by the same dirty dirty things we are in America. Only with more eels.
-
The Hottest Australian Dude Ever Takes His Shirt Off
Jack Riley was the hottest dude in Australia. Maybe the world. It’s hard to say for sure because what makes an Asian dude or an Irish dude hot is different than what makes an Eskimo dude or a Russian dude hot. But in Australia, where male hotness is defined by a standard metric, he was the hottest by far. Even if you counted the Aboriginals, though no one did.
Jack Riley had been hot ever since he could remember and was pretty sure he had still been hot before that. His parents told him how people used to come up to them and comment on what a sexy baby he was, even though that’s a super weird thing to say to a baby’s parents. But they understood. He was sexy. Even when they had to wipe his tight little bottom because he’d crapped all over himself, which babies are known for doing, they were surprised by how much dignity and poise he managed to retain in such a compromising position.
As Jack Riley got older, his parents found it hard to keep a babysitter. The teenage girls that would come over to watch him would inevitably start calling at all hours of the night, asking if they could talk to Jack or if he needed to be babysat right then. His parents were obviously unnerved by such behavior and so none of the sitters lasted very long.
When Jack Riley reached his teenage years, things got absolutely nuts. Wherever this little Adonis went, girls and gay dudes were falling over themselves to talk to him. Who could blame them? Physically, he was just perfect. He had the chiseled features of a marble Mark Ruffalo, and his voice sounded like a Brawny paper towel dipped in honey. Everything about Jack Riley was perfect, except one tiny little thing: He never took his shirt off.
Now everyone has been around people that won’t take their shirts off. Normally they’re fat kids at swimming pools, people with obvious third nipples, or girls that don’t give a fuck about getting Mardi Gras beads. But those are all pretty understandable reasons to not want to take your shirt off. But what was up with Jack Riley? What was he hiding under there aside from a lean, mean six pack and some perfect nickel sized nipples?
Naturally, once Jack Riley turned 18, he was instantly hired on at Australian’s top modeling agency. He was like Zoolander, except handsome and not a troll like Ben Stiller. He became not only the hottest dude in Australia, but also the most famous. Even though that’s not much of an accomplishment because Australian only has like, 400 people living there, Jack Riley was still a big deal down under.
But with fame comes attention and eventually people started to realize Jack Riley never took his shirt off. Most male models don’t even own shirts, but Jack Riley was always covered up up top. Even at the beach, where Australians spend 99.9% of their time, he would be wearing a t-shirt or a wetsuit.
The paparazzi started coming up with wild theories. Maybe he had a birthmark shaped like something weird, like a pretzel or a country? Maybe he did have three nipples? Maybe four? Why wouldn’t he take his shirt off? The controversy raged across the tabloids.
Ladies started coming forward claiming to have boned Jack Riley. A lot of them were lying because when you’re the hottest dude in Australia, lots of ladies like to say they tapped that, but some of them were legit. What would be the point of being the hottest dude in Australia if you didn’t tag some tail now and again? Jack Riley was a stand up guy, so he wasn’t all over the place like some sex crazed George Clooney clone, but he did date and his exes started talking to the press saying things like, “You know what? Now that I think about it, you’re right. He never did take his shirt off. Not even in the shower. God, how did I not realize that when we dated for two years?”
Finally, the government got involved and issued an official edict declaring that Jack Riley must come to a special government tribunal and take his shirt off. Australia does stuff like this all the time. They don’t even let their kids play Grand Theft Auto. True story, but what would you expect from a country whose water goes down the drain backwards.
Jack Riley didn’t want to get a booting (the punishment for non-compliance) and so he showed up at the designated time and place. His only request was that no press or outsiders be admitted. The tribunal agreed because Jack Riley is so hot that he gets whatever he wants basically all the time.
The tribunal was three decent looking middle aged ladies. They had used all of their political power to get on the tribunal because Jack Riley was so hot, they were literally dying to know what was under his shirt. Literally dying. They had all developed stomach cancer.
Jack Riley entered the room and took a seat before the panel. His hotness hung thick in the air like blunt smoke at a Snoop Dogg concert. He waved his sandy blonde hair back with his hand, his well manicured fingernails glinting in the light, and looked up at the ladies with his deep ocean blue eyes. He cleared his throat, causing the tribunal to squirm in their seats, and said, “G’day ladies. Is there any way we could not do this?” They shook their heads no. “Crikey,” he said.
He sighed helplessly, causing the tribunal to squirm more, and then shrugged and took his shirt off.
All three members of the tribunal barfed. They barfed hard. Right there on Jack Riley’s chest was the nastiest little midget baby creature they had ever seen. It was as if someone had pickled Danny Devito and then covered him in movie theater nacho cheese. The snotty little goober looked up at the tribunal with its dead milky white eyes, and barfed. The tribunal barfed again. Everyone barfed.
Jack Riley didn’t barf. He put his shirt back on, and then looked up at the tribunal, throwing them the sexiest model stare he had in his arsenal. They froze. He calmly explained that it was a rare birth defect but plenty of people still had little disgusting mutants living on their chests and it wasn’t a big deal. He asked that they keep it quiet and said that in exchange, he would bone each of them.
The tribunal talked it over. That boogery pusball had been pretty gross, but now the shirt was back on and they really couldn’t even see the bulge anymore. And Jack Riley was there, offering them the sexual experience of their lives. And he was hot. Hell, he was the hottest dude in Australia, if you didn’t count that… that thing. They said deal.
The tribunal made an announcement the next day that Jack Riley had a perfectly normal human chest and that if anyone in Australia ever bugged him about the shirt thing again, they would get a hard boot to the dingo.
And that was the one, and only time, the hottest Australian dude ever took his shirt off.
THE END
-
The Genesis of Pandrogyny
When most people decide to abandon traditional gender roles, they strike out on their own, off into the unknown. Societies like nice, tight little well defined boxes (but who doesn’t like a tight, well defined box, right?) and when an individual decides to identify as something other than heads or tails, that generally means they’re going to be separated out from the herd, defining themselves distinctly as “not like everyone else.”
But that’s not the Genesis P-Orridge Pandrogyny plan. Rather than strive to be unique, P-Orridge’s made achieving total sameness his life purpose.
Born Neil Andrew Megson, Genesis P-Orridge grew out of the British avante-garde, intellectual occult art scene that sprang up in the 1970s. John Cage tracked down and rereleased his first record (because the initial release had been limited to a single copy), William S. Burroughs and Byron Gisin taught him about magic, and his band, Throbbing Gristle, are considered to be the forefathers of everything from industrial to noise music. In the eighties, he toned down some of the harsher elements of Gristle and formed Psychic TV.
God, that song rules. Anyways, the chapter of P-Orridge’s life that we’re interested in began when he met his second wife, Jacqueline Breyer, also known as Lady Jaye. Genesis and Lady Jaye fell into the sort of all consuming, intellectual, emotional, artistic relationship that weird ass artsy types get into sometimes. Think John and Yoko without all the lying about in bed, breaking up the Beatles, and rambling endlessly about “love” parts. And with way more plastic surgery.
While mystics talk about being one with the universe and couples talk about being one with each other, Lady Jaye and Genesis decided to take those concepts to the next level. Through out the late nineties and early oughts, the couple underwent a series of surgeries designed to unite them as a single gender destroying hyper-sigil named Breyer P-Orridge, aiming to be as identical as was physically (and metaphysically probably) possible. Here’s Genesis talking a bit about the process.
“I guess I’m dedicated to breaking every inherited mould I can in my private life, and I am blessed to work with a partner who is prepared to be involved in that process too. We both went and got breast implants on the same day, on our 10th anniversary, and we woke up in hospital holding hands. By chance, we have the same size shoes, but now we can also share lingerie as well!”
It’s funny how often the most extreme body modification enthusiasts overlook plastic surgery. They consider sticking some metal through their cheek to be far out and over the top, but having ass skin grafted on to your face is something only some shallow L.A. sell out would do. The two bodied beast known as Breyer P-Orridge didn’t happen to share that view point however, and so over the course of almost a decade, the two of them underwent a long process aimed at unification as a single physical presence and destroying the world’s gender barriers through occult practice. Here they are explaining the concept in their own fancy, fancy words.
How cute are those matching shirts? Having a threesome with them was probably nuts! Or even better, look at this surgery chic get up.
It’s like a fucking Aphex Twin video!
Unfortunately, Breyer P-Orridge’s pandrogynous union wasn’t to last forever. On October 2007, this announcement appeared on his website:
“Lady Jaye died suddenly on Tuesday 9 October 2007 at home in Brooklyn, New York from a previously undiagnosed heart condition which is thought to have been connected with her long-term battle with stomach cancer. Lady Jaye collapsed and died in the arms of her heartbroken “other half” Genesis Breyer P-Orridge.”
Ugh, so sad. Genesis continues to perform art and music, though it seems that his plastic surgery phase is over. In an interview with Blurt Online, he explained he and Lady Jaye’s unique interpretation of relationships and reality.
“… she proposed that after death, the final result is that, post mortem, we both evolve, after death, the two merge consciousness, absorbed into a new spiritual unit; each other’s half. She always hated titles like wife, girlfriend, even partner. She preferred to call me her “other half.
She’s already gone into the next phase. We had worked it out to be able to contact in case of death, and she’s contacted me already.”
R.I.P. Jacqueline Breyer aka Lady Jaye aka Breyer P-Orridge.
Long live pandrogyny!
-
Trans Facts
This week’s “F*Bomb in Print” confronted college student’s gender concepts, effectively shattering the false dichotomy of binary male/female categories. We expect to see the University of Texas’ student body blossom into a pandrogynous hive of sexual ambiguity any day now. Maybe they’ll event elect Leslie Cochran as the next UT President. Fingers crossed. Click Pat to read the column.
Click Pat!
Add now for some cross-dressing, gender-blending rock & roll clips!
-
Black on White
Most pornography connoisseurs generally agree that the industry first started to go downhill with the introduction of video. Once expensive (and gorgeous) film stock was no longer needed to make a dirty movie, suddenly everyone with a camcorder and access to naked coke heads was calling themselves a pornographer. Story and budget went out the window, and almost all the art left the adult industry.
F*Bomb agrees that technological advancements are the bane of good pornography, but we think the smut business went to seed long before VHS reared its ugly head. If you ask us, pictures of naked chicks and dicks just don’t look as good in color. Obviously, motion pictures signified the biggest drop in quality, but even before that, Maxwell’s three color process had put a hard hurt on good porn.
Thankfully, photodorks recognize this downgrade in quality and purists and monochrome revivalists are hard at work, rendering dirty deeds in the wonderfully limited grey scale palette where it belongs. F*Bomb would like to salute these noble by declaring November 15 to be Black and White Blowjob Photo Day. Enjoy these 15 photos, spread the meme, and maybe in a few years Americans will be taking this day off of work in order to suck some dick in front of a Nikon.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
Happy November 15 everyone!!!
-
Knock Knock
Open up!
This week in the continuing adventures of F*Bomb in Print, we find our brave hero promoting the tenents of polyamory as a source of inspiration and education to the monogamously inclined couples of the world. I wish my editors hadn’t subtitled it “Why an open relationship might be right for you” since, well, that’s not what the column is about at all. Oh well, so be it. Click here to read all about how being open “might be right for you!”
After all, doesn’t this look like more fun…
…than this?
Yeah, we thought so. Anyways, who cares about humorous Internet jpegs when we could be hearing what former The Who guitarist Pete Townsend thinks about it.
Well said Pete, well said.
