Dinosaur Erotica, Literal Ants in Literal Pants and Other Seemingly Undesirable Objects of Desire

(Yes this is a rerun, but I have two new things on the way including a contest so there's that. But for now you get this. Again.) 

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It probably doesn't speak horribly well of me that not one, but three readers (thank you Eric, Leah and Amy!), saw articles about dinosaur erotica and yes...thought of me.

At first I was kind of like, eh. I mean, after already writing about snowman erotica, horny leprechaun erotica, and Santa Claus erotica, there really couldn't be that much more to cover re: people fucking weird-ass things.*

And dinosaurs? Seemed like the options ranged from clawy scratching to hideous mauling, with all in-between combos also un-good.

But everything has its own life lesson to offer and dinosaur erotica was no exemption. I learned plenty of interesting stuff like:

--Scientists haven't found any fossils (soft tissue doesn't generally fossilize well) but speculate that dinosaurs probably had huge wangs, like 6ft long. The kind of hugeness that could really change the tenor of the exhibits in the Natural History Museum.

--No one is sure how dinosaurs had sex (rear entry position on sexy spiky lady Stegosaurus = instant castration.) 

--Scientists are hard at work (er...) rigging up computer simulations of which positions dinosaurs used to fuck to avoid the castration issue.  "These prickly dinosaurs must have had sex another way," said Heinrich Mallison, who is considered an expert, despite using the term "prickly dinosaurs."

--These phrases appear in Ravished by the Triceratops, according to someone who actually read it.

--I looked into the creature's eyes and saw the rage there, but I saw lust as well.
--I decided that I probably could get all this meat in me.
--I couldn't believe this was happening — I had a ten-ton monster licking my ass!

However, for me, the salient point in all this was:  the two chicks who are churning out all this dino ass-licking erotica started making enough money to quit their day jobs in one month!

This is their career advice:

If you find a market that is underwritten or doesn't exist, populate it.

Not to be mean, but their books aren't even good--not even cheapo niche erotica good--and they're really short, like 29 pages.

So of course, I started searching for an "underwritten market." It was surprisingly difficult.

Satan erotica?  Taken. "Gingerbread man erotica"? Taken.  Clown sex....at the Republican National Convention....with spanking?  Taken.

Finally I hit upon "ant erotica"

Maybe! There are no books about it and an interest, by these three dudes at least. Here's what one guy said on an ant erotica page that was pleasingly listed under the subhead of "romance and relationships."

"For over 10 years I have loved the feeling of ants crawling over my penis and balls....It started when I rented a house that had large secluded greenhouses which were unused. In these greenhouses large black plastic sheets had been put down to stop plants growing. One day during summer I lifted one of the sheets and found the whole ground covered in a moving mass of ants and ant eggs. I couldn't resist touching the mass which instantly crawled up my arm with a tickling, biting feeling. I brushed them off but the erotic feeling I had made me go back again next day. 

I stripped off, pulled back the sheet and gently lay down in the ants up to my shoulders and head. The feeling was amazing. Like a slow creeping tickling sheet being pulled over my body. There was no biting until they reached my cock and balls when I started to get lots of nips. This made me very erect and the more my foreskin pulled back the more they seemed to bite. it was divine. I was brushing them away from my face and at the same time twisting my nipples really hard. After a few minutes I had to masturbate and came all over the ants. After I had brushed off the ants and replaced the sheet I found my scrotum and foreskin were very red with small spots of blood over them. They swelled up over the next hour or so but not too much. Probably the acid in the bites. I rubbed some antispectic cream on and in a day or so I was reasonably back to normal. 

Needless to say this became an almost daily experience and sometimes up to three times a day."

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"Needless to say" (!)  Exactly. Who wouldn't be right back out there the very next day (and sometimes up to three times a day)?

Anyway, is this a book?  "Fucking the Ant Hill"? Or maybe "Ants in My Pants: Literally. I mean there are seriously ants in my pants, biting my cock and balls, and I'll be back out there tomorrow. Needless to say"? Too wordy?

At the bottom of the ant page, I saw some promising links to "Fun with crickets" and "Slug fetish" which--needless to say--I clicked on immediately.

Under "fun with crickets," some guy named Don wrote this about some photos of him fucking (getting fucked by? making love to/with?) a couple bags of crickets.

I went out to the local pet store, and picked up a bag of 36 medium crickets, and another bag of 60 small cricket. I started out with putting cooked hot dog juice on the cock to be eaten, and started out with the small crix. I wasn't to please with the amount of munching that I received. So, I pulled the old tool out, cleaned it off, and applied a nice thin coat of peanut butter. Then I added all of the crickets to the container. The feeding frenzy was in full swing, and I was receiving a good bang for the buck. 

I think I may try meal worm, next, since I have yet to use them. 

One more thing about the crickets, I tend to swell up after a good feeding frenzy, and end up looking a bit like franken cock, if you know what I mean.

I actually don't know what he means about "franken cock" and I am evenly split over whether I actually want to know. However I do love how unerotic his story is, like Don's some guy hanging around the hardware store talking which tools he used patching up the old fence. I also love that Don decided that others would want to see pictures of the crickets eating (oh God) hot dog juice off his wiener. And the best part is, others did want to see the pix!

Like commenter David who had nothing to say about the hot dog juice, the wiener or the crickets, but commented: "Great job! Nice clarity on the container. What is the container, and where did you get it?" 

Which leaves me confused. To write for a market, you must understand it and I'm not yet there. I think I would be focusing on the slow erotic slathering of hot dog juice over my swollen hard cock, or maybe the smoldering lascivious look one of the crickets gave me as it started feeding on my balls, which were pulled tight to my body, as I tried desperately not to come all over those slutty, slutty crickets (medium-sized).

But clearly, I would need to focus on...the container.  And its clarity. And the fact that it's from Target, as Don later reports.

So, for now, my day job stays.

xoxo
jill

*Not judging as much as being completely completely fascinated.

Okay, ONE more thing about vaginas. Then I'm done. Possibly.

I was recently dog sitting at a friend's house and, to my credit/surprise, I didn't swim naked in her pool, find her dog using my favorite vibrator as a chew toy or have an inadvertent fellatio experience with her dog (on me, it was...complicated).  

However I did tart up her Apple TV by putting THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES on her "recently watched" queue, there for anyone to see.  

(In related news, I am available for dog sitting! I don't charge much, but on the other hand, I am not that good at it.)  

It was actually the first time I'd seen The Vagina Monologues performed, but it reminded me of this post on the book from waaaaay back in 2012, a time when young, innocent us knew little of what complete assholes some of our fellow humans were.  

Take my hand, will you, and travel back to that sweeter time when we could just hang out and talk vaginas.  

(And if you're wondering, I still have a weird prudishness with the word "vagina."  It's okay. I don't feel that bad about it. Even Eve Ensler, Little Miss Vagina Monologues, wrote "Doesn't matter how many times you say it, it never sounds like a word you want to say." Which, yeah.  I'm tentatively testing out "pussy" but it feels weird and obvious every time I say it, like "I am saying 'pussy' and we are all uncomfortable now.")

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Today I'll tell you a quick story from the book I just read which is--this will come as no surprise to you--The Vagina Monologues.

I'm telling you the story because it's just so fucking heartbreaking but also to remind us (me) why it's important to talk about this $%$# even though some people (well, this one dude on reddit who said I'm like a 12 year old boy) think it's unladylike. (Motherfucker calling me unladylike! What the fuckity fuck?....oh...yeah...I see.)

In the story, Eve Ensler interviews an old lady from Queens who was extremely hesitant about talking about her "down-there." "What's a smart girl like you talking to old ladies about their down-theres for?" she barks. After much prodding, she finally tells about the last time she ventured down there, in 1953. The woman--let's call her, oh, Agnes--tells about a date she had with Andy Leftkov, a real catch, a cute tall boy who asked her to take a drive in his new Chevy.

She and Andy were sitting in the car, recalled Agnes when "he just kissed me in this surprisingly 'Take me by control like they do in the movies' kind of way. And I got excited, so excited, and, well, there was a flood down there. I couldn't control it. It was like this force of passion, this river of life just flooded out of me, right through my panties, right onto the car seat of his new white Chevy BelAir."

Instead of realizing he'd found himself one hot little number, Andy was horrified. He said she'd stained the car seat and that she was a "weird, smelly girl." Agnes tried to explain that the kiss had caught her off guard and that she normally wasn't like this, but Andy drove her home in silence and never spoke to her again. "When I got out and closed his car door, I closed the whole store. Locked it. Never opened for business again. I dated some after that, but the idea of flooding made me too nervous. I never even got close again," said Agnes.

Years later Agnes got cancer and the surgeons pretty much cleared out her reproductive system, thus ending any worries about flooding ever again.

When Ensler asks Agnes a typically squirm-inducing Vagina Monologues-esque question, "If your vagina wore something, what would it wear?" Agnes replies, "It would wear a big sign: 'Closed Due to Flooding.'"

As the interview ends, Agnes says, "You happy? You made me talk--you got it out of me. You got an old lady to talk about her down-there. You feel better now?" [Turns away; turns back.] "You know, actually, you're the first person I ever talked to about this, and I feel a little better."

Knowledge is power, brothers and sisters.

xoxox
jill

(photo source)