Em & Lo's RSS Feed Em & Lo's Daily Email Feed Be Our Facebook Friend! Follow Us on Twitter!

Good Vibes Summer Lubes

Buy on Amazon Kindle!

Amazon's Sexy Spring Dresses


Archive | Pop Culture RSS feed for this section

Why Lo Won’t Watch “Game of Thrones” Anymore

June 9, 2014

0 Comments

Lo wanted to pen a smart, thoughtful piece on all the serious, misogynistic, pro-rapey problems with “Game of Thrones” that have made it unwatchable for her, but after reading Bethany Jones’ piece ‘Game of Thrones,’ Sex and HBO: Where Did It Go Wrong For TV’s Sexual Pioneers? over at Indewire’s “/bent” blog last week, there was no point: Jones nails it. At three pages, it’s a tome of an internet article, but it’s so worth it! The piece is funny, erudite, well-researched, and spot on. It should be required reading for any GOT fan.

Here’s one small taste, in which she uses one of our favorite philosophical party tricks to expose just how fucked-up the “sex” scenes in Game of Rapes, er, Thrones are:

So let’s imagine another scenario. Let’s imagine that in the background of most episodes of “Game of Thrones” we saw dark-skinned semi-naked people casually or brutally humiliated because of their race: lynchings, gratuitous beatings, n-words thrown about, all the horrible theatre of race-hate, say. Imagine that the incidental exposition scenes of “Game of Thrones” didn’t take place in a brothel but in a slave market, for no real reason. And in a slave market where the slaves showed signs of contentment and arousal at the point of sale. Imagine that in the background of incidental scenes of “Game of Thrones” we saw dark-skinned people being tarred and feathered, or whipped, or branded, just incidentally. And imagine that the camera dwelt lingeringly on the small physical details of these acts, just for the hell of it. And then, as a finishing touch, imagine that all of this was done spuriously, as a departure from the source material and for no meaningful narrative gain, but just to spice up the action, to show some pecs and tits, to give an impression of grittiness, to get some people off. Imagine a non-white person was subjected to the most violent instance of racial hatred, and then appeared to forget about it in the following episode. Imagine if having resisted being beaten, and imagine whilst saying ‘no, no’ to their abuser, they shifted their body in an ambiguous way, a way that could have been interpreted as inviting further punishment but could also have been seen as self-protection. Imagine if this meant we were told it was no longer an instance of racial hatred but a mutually consenting act.  Imagine we were asked to forget all we know about the historical and contemporary power dynamics that structure and inform racial violence.

Would you think that was ok, HBO? And how many people would think that was ok?

If you read only this, then you are doing yourself a disservice: you’ll miss the exact moment Jones declares that HBO jumped the sex shark, how ill-informed about and indifferent to rape the director of one now-infamous GOT rape scene (pictured above) is, and how a 1976 BBC production featuring a young, mad, sadistic king who trusses up a naked woman and kills her (sound familiar?)  is less sexist than this “modern” HBO show. This is the stuff brilliant PhD dissertations are made of — except, lucky for us, Jones gets to use phrases like “frathouse flatulent ether” here. Sanity is coming!

 

MORE LIKE THIS ON EMandLO.com:



Blog Snog: How to Be a Feminist When You’re a Man

June 6, 2014

0 Comments


photo via Nerve.com



The Best Wedding Photos from Getty Images

June 5, 2014

0 Comments

It being the month of June, we thought we’d continue our superlative series of Getty search images around the topic of weddings. Can you hear the church bells ring? Here are some of Getty’s best wedding photos to have and to hold:



New Beach Read: Social Death (With Naughty Bits!)

June 4, 2014

0 Comments

When we asked our friend Tatiana Boncompagni whether her new novel, Social Death, had any “dirty-ish parts” to it (hey, two sex writers have to ask), she responded that there’s no “ish” about it. The novel is a mystery about the murder of a Manhattan socialite who dies with a scandalous secret — in other words, Gone Girl meets Gossip Girl. (Hello, beach read!) The story is narrated by Clyde, a veteran news producer who is called to the scene of the murder, only to discover that the victim was her best friend (oh, and the victim just happened to be heir to a fortune of billions, too).

We’re thrilled to present an excerpt of the novel today — and yes, of course, it’s one of the dirty bits. You’re welcome.

On my way back to the ballroom, I made a bad turn and ended up down a hall of small meeting rooms. I heard a voice, then a giggle, and being the nosy journalist that I was, couldn’t just forget about it and continue on my way like a normal person. Crouching low to the ground, I stuck my nose around the doorframe.

The overheads were out, but there was enough light coming from the windows for me to make out Sabine’s face and Alex’s profile. From my vantage point, I could see that he had her up on the table, his face buried in her neck, his hands working beneath her short skirt. Sabine’s dress fell off her shoulder, exposing a grapefruit-shaped breast. She whimpered with pleasure as his mouth found her nipple. The next thing I heard was his zipper.

I slipped back out, praying neither of them had seen me, wishing I hadn’t seen what I did as I stumbled back down the hall, passing the doors to the kitchen. A waiter burst through, carrying a tray of Champagne glasses. I sped up and pilfered two of them. Then I went into the bathroom and downed them both, one after the other, the bubbles tickling the back of my throat, tasting like heaven, warming my belly. I wanted more.

“OK, so what happened?”

Georgia and I were downstairs, waiting in line at the coat check. Husband No. 4 had left midway through the filet mignon, mumbling something about a conference call with Hong Kong, and Diskin and his wife had taken off immediately after the crème caramel. We were all free to go. “You look like a pig at a Memphis barbecue,” she said accusingly.

I threw my hands up. “What does that even mean?”

“It means, sugar pie, that your face is redder than the blood that used to come out of my hoo-ha every goddamn month and your breath smells like the peppermints they got in the ladies’.”

I’d grabbed a handful of them in the bathroom after downing the Champagne. Then I’d hit the bar, sucked down a vodka tonic and a glass of red abandoned on a table in the reception area.

“What the fuck just happened?” Georgia asked.

“Naomi Zell and I had a tête-à-tête. I’m off Olivia’s case, and I’m not allowed to get within ten feet of any of the Kravises. The network is hiding something. Or they’re afraid I’ll uncover something that will mess up the merger. Why else would she pull me off the case?”

Georgia took off her glasses. “You told her to stuff it, I hope.”

“But I thought you didn’t want me on this case either.”

“That ain’t the point.”

Phil draped Georgia’s chinchilla cape over her shoulders. The fur was overkill given the evening’s mild weather, but Georgia flaunted her furs whenever possible. “That it?” She gave me a knowing look.

I handed Phil the claim ticket for my black wool topper. “Would you mind?”

We watched him file back into the coat-check line. Georgia linked her arm in mine and lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “Fess up, child.”

Sometimes I loved that nothing got by her, other times, not so much. “If you must know, I caught Alex and Sabine going at it in one of the meeting rooms.”

Georgia planted a hand on her hip, her eyes two thin slits. “Christ in heaven, you are so much worse off than I thought.”

“She’s my assistant. I’m his producer. It’s normal for me to be weirded out.”

She clucked admonishingly. “You drinking tonight?”

“Everything OK?” Phil asked as he helped me into my coat.

I shot Georgia a pleading look.

“This girl is a workaholic. I’m always telling her she needs to get a life outside the office.”

“Point taken,” I said.

“Get her home safe,” Georgia said, giving Phil a meaningful look before leaving us to find her Escalade.

“What was that all about?” he asked.

“I think she just really likes you,” I said lightly as Phil led me to his Town Car. In the backseat, I slid a little closer to him, pressing my back against Phil’s body. “Thanks for coming tonight. I owe you one.”

“No problem.” He gave my leg a fraternal pat in return. “Georgia’s a hoot.”

I reached for the inside of his thigh.

He pulled away. “I think you and I are in different places.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He took a breath, adjusting his glasses. “You’re beautiful, Clyde. And smart, and passionate about what you do, but I just don’t see this working out.”

I couldn’t believe he was rejecting me. I pictured Alex and Sabine, remembering the sound of his zipper and her moans. God, how I missed that kind of sex. Urgent. Dirty. Dangerous. I looked out the window, suddenly furious. We were at a red light and about to turn down Park Avenue.

“Look, if things change—”

“Don’t hold your breath.” My voice was jagged and sharp. I opened the car door and jumped out. Then I slammed the door behind me and ran for the curb.

I stood there, angry and horny, an old, familiar feeling stirring deep within me, a hungry recklessness that had been lying there blessedly dormant. There was only one place I could think of going. Crossing Park Avenue, I hailed a taxi. “I’m going uptown. But first, I need to find an open liquor store.”

Andrey opened the door to the Haverford. His jacket was off and shirtsleeves rolled up. I took his arm, tracing the scales of his tattoo.

He smiled. “Looks like someone’s been having fun.”

Not nearly enough. “I handed him the open bottle of vodka in my hand. Is there somewhere we can go?”

“Not here.”

I took the bottle back, pouting. “Fine. I’ll go then.”

He pulled me back into to him, his hands pressing my body into his so I could feel that he was already aroused. “It’s not that I don’t want you,” he said.

“Quickly then.”

He took a key from his pants and bolted the front door. In the elevator I felt his lips on mine, his hands all over my body. We reached the basement floor. He pulled me into the hall, unzipping my dress to my waist, liberating my breasts from the satin cups of my bra. A second key led us to a small, pitch-black room. It smelled of WD-40, dust, and men’s cologne. Andrey pushed me down on a couch and stood over me. I reached for his belt buckle, dropped his pants, taking his cock in my mouth. For the next few minutes, I was happy. This is what I’d come for, what I’d wanted. But when he bent back down, stripping off my wet panties, positioning himself to enter me, I pressed my hand firmly on his chest. “Aren’t you going to use a condom?”

“What?” His brow was slick with sweat, his breath loud in my ear.

“A condom,” I repeated, but the moment was already over. I couldn’t do this. Not here. Not like this. Not even drunk as I was. Andrey was involved in my best friend’s murder. Even for me, this was too far over the line. What the hell was I doing? I maneuvered out from under him, adjusting my dress. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

“You sure?” he panted.

I nodded. “Maybe another time.”

He stood to buckle his pants. Then he walked a few paces in the murky darkness and flicked a switch, flooding the room with fluorescent light. I rubbed my eyes, which were struggling to adjust to the light, and realized that Andrey had taken me to the super’s office. There was a desk and a computer, a shelving system lined with toolboxes and toilet plungers, and at the back of the tiny chamber, where I was sitting, a silk-upholstered couch that had probably once belonged to one of the co-op tenants. It had seen better days.

Andrey couldn’t bring himself to look at me, and I got a flash of the man who looked so vulnerable in the coffee shop, talking about how Rachel had left him once Michael filed for divorce. “Take your time getting out of here,” Andrey said, gesturing to the small fridge under the super’s desk. “There’s water in there if you’re thirsty.”

“Thanks.”

“Just do me a favor and close the door to the office when you leave.” He pivoted on his heel, gave me an awkward salute, and was gone.

I’d had more humiliating moments in more unlikely places. And yet sitting there, half-drunk, half-exposed, my bare ass on a ratty old couch I wouldn’t want to touch with a gloved hand, I felt incredibly ashamed and disappointed in myself. I’d worked so hard for my sobriety. Damn it, Clyde.

Social Death by Tatiana Boncompagni is on sale now at Amazon.com

MORE LIKE THIS ON EMandLO.com:



Top 10 Love Lessons from The Bachelorette (Andi, Ep 3 & 4)

June 3, 2014

1 Comment

photo courtesy of ABC/David Moir

  1. On a date, do not go on and on about what a nerd you were in high school — that’s a story best told after they’ve fallen in love with the totally rad person you are today.
  2. That said, do wear cool, memorable pants.
  3. Never underestimate the power of unexpected flowers and a sweet note.
  4. Never airbrush on a six-pack (we’re pretty sure the producers insisted on “enhancing” Marcus’s).
  5. If you have something on your mind that’s bothering you, you owe it to your date to let them know so they don’t take it personally. No need to go into great detail, just give them a heads up that you’re having an off day.
  6. Men, follow the example of this season’s group of bachelors: they’re affectionate (not just with Andi but with each other), they talk about their emotions easily, they’re not afraid to cry, etc. After all, it’s alright to cry, crying gets the sad out of you…
  7. “Not everything happens for a reason.” Finally someone said it! Thank you, Marcus!
  8. If your natural serious face makes you look like you’re smelling something really bad, you might want to work on some alternative expression with practice in a mirror.
  9. If you don’t feel chemistry with each other, don’t try to force something that’s not there. Just walk away from the relationship with grace and dignity.
  10. If someone you dated very briefly dies, don’t go on and on about how hard it is for you.

MORE LIKE THIS ON EMandLO.com:



Blog Snog: In Defense of Keeping Nude Photos of Exes

May 30, 2014

1 Comment

photo via Nerve


Tags:

The Weirdest “Sex” Photos from Getty Images, Part 2 (NSFW)

May 29, 2014

0 Comments

 
When you do a search for “sex” on Getty Images, you get a lot of interesting results — so many, in fact, that we were compelled to create a superlative series of Getty “sex” search images. Today’s installment highlights the weirdest — actually, there were so many we had to present them in two installments (Part 1 is here). And to be clear, we do not intend any judgment by our use of the word “weird,” we simply mean unusual, unexpected, curious, silly and/or wonderful. Enjoy!
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Highlights from #YesAllWomen

May 28, 2014

8 Comments

The Twitterstorm known as #YesAllWomen that’s blown up over the past week — in response to both the misogyny-fueled killing spree at UCSB last Friday and the misguided hashtag “NotAllMen” that took off shortly thereafter — has shined a bright light on how much more work needs to be done dismantling idealogical sexism. Here’s a round-up of just a few recent gems from the more than million tweets on this topic in rotation:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Top 5 Love Lessons from “The Bachelorette” (Andi, Ep 2)

May 27, 2014

0 Comments

photo courtesy of ABC/Todd Wawrychuk

  1. Don’t let your snowboard instructor (ballroom dance instructor, pottery instructor, etc) touch your date more than you.
  2. Don’t show your date your anus on your second date, whether accidentally or not.
  3. You can ask your date “What’s the worst thing about your parents?” as long as A) you’re not wasted, B) you’re not being filmed, and C) you seriously want to know and it wasn’t just the first question that popped into your drunk head.
  4. We’ve said it before, and we’ll say it again: don’t get blotto on an early date. That said, in the same vein, don’t be such an uptight wet-noodle that you poop all over the party when someone who’s had a stressful day (becoming a professional stripper competing with some of the most ripped torsos in America on national television) overindulges at said soiree (where he’s being plied with drinks and underfed while continuing to compete with these Adonises) — you don’t have to give a bro a rose, but give a bro a break.
  5. Date Fashion-Don’ts: A) Don’t get dressed up fancy when the majority of people where you’re going will be wearing sleeveless tees, camo shorts and sneaks. B) Don’t wear anything you don’t feel comfortable in. Case in point: Andi was walking around with shoulders hunched up like Quasimodo in an attempt to avoid a wardrobe malfunction at her rose-ceremony cocktail party. And finally C) Don’t over-mix-and-match. For example, you can mismatch your shirt and tie, and you can mismatch your shirt and socks, but you can’t mismatch all three (that’s overkill, Marquel).

MORE LIKE THIS ON EMandLO.com:



Blog Snog: 15 Crazy Facts About Kissing

May 22, 2014

0 Comments