“Do you know any hangover cures?” she groaned.

“The only one that ever works for me,” I said frankly, “is sex.”

We don’t care what kind of periscopes, hidden cameras, or thermal imaging goggles you have, nothing will ever replace the hole in the wall as king of voyeuristic mediums. It worked for Peeping Tom and Lady Godiva, it worked for those brats in “Porky’s,” and it continues to be the number one tool of not-so-stealthy perverts around the world.

You want to look? Sure. Grab a boob to haggle down the price of cigarettes? Everybody does. Using your binoculars to see what’s in Juno’s room? You wouldn’t be the first. Trying to see what’s up with Juno’s bethonged ass? You’re a straight-up perv. Cut that shit out.

We can think of basically no one else we’d rather have guiding, fapping, and serving as general convoy for our slam session than the lovely and talented Jiz Lee. Joanna Angel and James Deen are a lucky twosome! This is like having Tom Colicchio look over your shoulder as you’re making a tomato sauce, like Man Ray helping you develop your photos, or like Mr. Rogers directing your puppet show. Jiz, more than supplying the joy of their foxy face upon the scene, also imparts wise ways — look at them mbate like a champ. They’re like a maestro conducting this sexy symphony with but a fingertip. We give it a standing O.

Hey, there are worse qualities in a maid than being perverse. There’s slovenliness, annoyingness, talking back, and sloth. When faced with these vexing possibilities, yeah, we’d take a pervy yet effective maid any day. In fact, as far as characteristics in people in general go, that’s sort of a boon. Though they may be the help, we don’t mind if they’ve got a little naughty streak and know how to use it.

Who watches the watchers? On tumblog Watching You Watch Porn–a collection of erotic photos of people enjoying adult material–the answer is apparently us (or anyone else who happens to stumble upon the blog).

These pictures of Geri Halliwell in her translucent bra in a dressing room make us feel like we’re looking at some old school peeping tom stuff–real mirror-on-the-shoe type voyeurism–and though we can’t exactly tell what the environment is or how the shots were taken, we’re quite impressed all around.

Just when we thought this Kate Middleton sunbathing business was dying down, another magazine publishes more pictures of her and gives us a glimpse (albeit a very blurry one) of the Duchess of Cambridge’s undercarriage. Yes, that’s Middleton muff right there, courtesy of a Danish gossip magazine.

As her mind wandered down into the streets and the stories there, her eye caught a light in the building directly opposite. The building was as old as Marco and Julie’s, but while theirs had been converted into affordable apartments with cheap fixtures, the building opposite was one luxurious loft to a floor, inhabited by those bankers and lawyers on the opposite end of the tax bracket. Now she realized that the fifth-floor penthouse, with its plate-glass windows (and the roof garden above with its subtle lighting), was directly in their line of sight. The cavernous central room was brightly lit tonight, as was the adjacent bedroom that also looked out onto the street. In the main room an elegant couple was sitting at a large wooden table, apparently just having finished what Julie imagined had been a sumptuous dinner. Not omelets, in any case. A slim maid was clearing the dishes from the table as the woman leaned back in her chair and lit a cigarette. The man stood, came around the table, and placed a hand at the back of the woman’s neck to gently massage it. At this small show of intimacy, Julie realized that she was staring and was suddenly conscious that if she could see the couple so clearly, then surely they could see her too. She moved to hide herself behind the wall between the apartment’s two small windows, then felt doubly foolish for catching herself at being such a voyeur. That’s when the slim maid came out again and said something to the couple. “Will that be all, Mr. and Mrs. Something?” Julie murmured under her breath. And no – apparently that would not be all.

“If you fondle, he will come.” This scenario is almost like the 1989 fantasy-drama “Field of Dreams”, but instead of building a baseball diamond over cornfields, it’s setting out a lesbian fondle picnic across fallow ground. And instead of the ghost of Shoeless Joe Jackson appearing, it’s some creeper voyeur dude who likes to fap and watch. So, you know, basically the same.

While I was away, I peppered J with emails and text messages promising lots of hard use and abuse when I returned. I told him I’d hood him, bind him, abuse him, and use him to the point of exhaustion. I wasn’t sure that I’d be able to wait until we got back to the house–night after night, while I laid in an unfamiliar bed, I fantasized about seeing him at the airport, dragging him to the parking garage, and fucking him in the back seat of his car.

Hey hey, all you Peeping Toms and Tammys, today we’re going to be talking about one of the cornerstones of pornography: voyeurism. It’s much more than the other half of exhibitionism! It’s a way of pushing desire through your eyeballs and splashing it against a screen; it’s vicarious living and secret thrills! It can be pretty negative at times, but as far as porn is concerned, we think of it as a neutral-to-positive force.

She greeted me in a spangly white tank-top, with shimmering silver panels, her copious cleavage barely contained by the cotton of the shirt. She wore a tight black miniskirt, her round, meaty ass almost visible at its bottom, her chunky, muscular thighs inescapable from view. And brown leather boots stretched up her calves, almost to her knees.

If we’re reading Margaux Chatelier’s body language correctly, it seems like that was a good time to peep on her taking a shower. The wooden privacy slats divided her body into little visual morsels, each more delicious than the one before it, and all was silently observed and absorbed. However, that doesn’t mean you should join her in the shower. Then you’re just making things awkward.

I’ve  had a weekend of cock fever.

Saturday I went for a brief few hours to the Masturbate-A-Thon (strictly as a representative of the CSC).  While masturbation is certainly a pleasure I partake in often– masturbating in front of a group of people is not something I would say I am into. For an hour or so,  I stood on the outs, looking in– a giant room of men, there was a serious lack of women– or they were just all in the Women’s only area– but when a friend of mine arrived I joined him in the main room.

And we’re not talking about alcohol consumption! One of the first things we learned about Shauna is that she’s extremely comfortable going nude at the beach, so these photos of her sucking and riding her man aren’t that surprising; they are, however, incredibly hot and adorable.

She’s been a nurse, a reporter, a reality star, a glamour model, an author, and a stage and television actor. The woman is thirty-six years old, gorgeous, and she can use her delicious cleavage as a distraction during the poker tournaments she competes in. Clearly, Abi Titmuss needs a moment to be herself, to sit on the curb, have some crisps and a soda, and gaze at wonder upon the world while her vagina has a breather.

Within hours, Mona had responded to my dare to strip in front of a window. Even though it was Mona, I was still surprised to see her name in my inbox (as ‘Simone”, which she’s calling herself, though I’ll call her by the pseudonym my wife originally gave her). My

One of two things is happening right now. Either there are wind wizards working for/as celebrity stalking paparazzi, or one lucky photographer happened to snap a picture of Eva’s beautiful backside just as the breeze lifted her skirt. Your thoughts? We’re going to go with the wind wizard option because

Being Mr. X has its advantages, but then so does being my wife’s husband. As Mr. X I knew all about my wife’s (near) flashing in our local café, and I knew she was out confessing some of this to a friend (likely Mona, I knew). But when she returned