Merry Christmas – “Santa Baby” by the most sexual, sensual Eartha Kitt

Eartha Kitt – model of sexy / sensual at any age, it is definitely a state of mind.


“I used to have a lotta fun with this song…then Madonna sang it,” Eartha Kitt

Let’s Put The X Back In Xmas – Candye Kane & Country Dick Montana

Merry Christmas to all who celebrate this holiday. Candye Kane sent this video via facebook and I just had to share. Even if this is not your holiday, think you will enjoy.

Bio – Candye Kane – Still the Toughest Girl Alive

Superhero is the name of Candyes� original song and the title of her latest CD for Los Angeles based label, Delta Groove records. It is also an apt description of the jump blues singer, songwriter and mother from East Los Angeles who has earned this moniker the hard way. Nominated for four National Blues Foundation Awards (Best Contemporary Blues Female 2011) starring in a sold out stage play about her life and beating down pancreatic cancer in the last two years, Kane is one tough cookie. She has performed worldwide for presidents and movie stars but her path to success was not always glamorous or easy.

Raised in a dysfunctional, blue-collar family, Candye became a teenage mother, a pin up cover girl and a punk rock, hillbilly and blues-belting anarchist by the time she was just 21 years old. Ten cds, six record labels, millions of international road miles and countless awards later, Miss Kane has proven to be a true survivor as she scrambled her way to the top of the roots music heap, creating a world renowned reputation that has spanned two decades.

A colorful mixture of the traditional and the eclectic, Kane cut her musical teeth in the early 80�s onstage with Hollywood musicians and friends, Social Distortion, Dwight Yoakum, Dave Alvin, The Blasters, X, Fear and Los Lobos, to name just a few. While raising two sons, this role model for the disenfranchised, championed large sized women, fought for the equal rights of sex workers and the GLBT community and inspired music lovers everywhere. Her fans are a mixture of true outsiders: bikers, blues fans, punk rockers, drag queens, fat girls, queers, burlesque dancers, porn fans, sex workers, rockabilly and swing dancers, grey haired hippies, sex positive feminists and everyday folk of all ages, flock to see Candye and hear her musical messages of love, hope and empowerment.

Kanes� live shows are the stuff of legend. She honors the bold blues women of the past with both feet firmly planted in the present. She belts – growls – shouts – croons and moans from a lifetime of suffering and overcoming obstacles. She uses music as therapy and often writes and chooses material with positive affirmations that leave the audience feeling healed and exhilarated. A show that is part humor, revival meeting and sexuality celebration, she’ll deliver a barrelhouse-tongue-in-cheek blues tune or a gospel ballad like Jesus and Mohammed, encouraging audiences to leave behind religious intolerance. She�ll slay the crowd with her balls out rendition of Whole Lotta Love or glorify the virtues of zaftig women with 200 pounds of fun. She often says she is a “fat black drag queen trapped in a white woman’s body” and she dresses the part. Bedecked in bright colored feathers, sequins and rhinestones, Kane’s performance is Mississippi by way of Las Vegas with a quick stopover in San Francisco.

Kane�s tenth CD release, Superhero debuted at number nine on the Billboard Blues Charts. The cd continues to receive amazing reviews worldwide and was the first team effort by Kane and 27 year old guitar virtuoso, Laura Chavez who also plays in Candyes live band. Audiences love seeing two curvy gals onstage together grooving on each others vibe and Candye and Laura love to deliver the goods. With scorching, yet understated guitar work and empowering, healing and sometimes funny lyrics, Kane and Chavez are the feminist fireballs of the future. They enter the studio again in May 2011 to record Kane�s eleventh cd. This CD will be full of the songs of triumph and empowerment that have made Kane a favorite with enlightened congregations everywhere.

Candye has been included in countless Blues and Jazz Anthologies including the Rolling Stone and Musichounds Guide to Jazz and Blues and Dan Akroyds� 30 Essential Women of the Blues. In addition to her music successes, she is an activist and philanthropist. In August 2009, she appeared in Dublin, Ireland for the World Congress for Downs Syndrome with her United by Music charity ( This project provides performance opportunities, blues history lessons and songwriting instruction to young people with disabilities, encouraging them to write their own blues songs to help them overcome their daily challenges.

A fighter par excellence, Candye�s authenticity, determination and optimism keep her shows passionate, honest and irresistible. One evening with Candye will keep the crowds happy, hopeful and coming back for more!


Slate – The Secret City: Inside the Vatican’s Pornographic Bathroom

Erotic frescos by the Renaissance master Raphael adorn the Papal apartments. Probably easier to view than magazines or computer for titillating erotica. You don’t even have to spend time finding the write picture to turn you on, they are write in front of you and you even have two hands free :-)

This bathroom reminds me of an elderly couple, long time friends of my family, who covered their tiny bathroom in erotic pictures cut from magazines and postcards collected throughout their lives together. It was the last thing I expected to see as I entered to use their facilities and of course left with a smile on my face.

“The Secret City: Inside the Vatican’s Pornographic Bathroom

Rumors that the Vatican is filled with perverse artworks are as old as the palace itself. Most of the stories are fabrications. But one is not: In 1516, the Renaissance master Raphael decorated a bathroom within the Papal Apartments with erotic frescos. Today, the wicked gallery is called the Stufetta della Bibbiena, the “small heated room of Cardinal Bibbiena,” after the worldly official who commissioned the work. It was, of course, a different era, when Bibbiena, like most papal officials, was a patron of the arts more than a servant of God. He was also the author of risqué plays and an erudite man-about-town. Like his peers, Bibbiena was entranced by the ribald pagan imagery that was being unearthed in Imperial Roman ruins. He asked his friend Raphael to decorate his lodgings in the fashionable classical style, complete with naked nymphs being spied upon by lusting satyrs, with no anatomical detail hidden.

Subsequent residents of the Vatican Palace were unimpressed. The Stufetta has been defaced, whitewashed over, and even turned into a kitchen before a Catholic art expert rediscovered it in the mid-19th century. But access remained limited, to say the least—largely because, after 1870, this section of the palace was turned into the pope’s own residence, and Cardinal Bibbiena’s ancient bedroom was used for official diplomatic meetings with visiting heads of state. Stories of the restored bathroom filtered out amongst the cognoscenti, but only the rarest visitor was permitted a viewing.

It was my greatest challenge.


I sent out emails to every department in the Vatican I could think of, trying to find out who might grant me a viewing. I asked Italian art academics. I quizzed Dr. Giovanni Maria Vian, erudite editor of L’Osservatore Romano, the Vatican newspaper. I presented myself to the Secretary of State as a scholar studying “the pagan influence on Renaissance art” —which, of course, was quite true.

And then, out of the blue, I received two conflicting emails. When I opened the first, I gave a shout for joy: It was from the State Secretariat, giving me an appointment to visit the Stufetta the following Monday at 4.30 p.m. “I hope you enjoy the visit,” it concluded amiably. The second informed me in no uncertain terms that the Stufetta was closed to outsiders. End of story.

I decided to print out the first email and turn up anyway.

But there were even more complications. On the day of my appointment, I received another email at 1 p.m. saying the visit was canceled, with no reason given. I shot back begging for a rescheduling. At 2 p.m., a monsignor telephoned me to say, va bene, the visit is on again. Apparently an Italian Minister was scheduled to meet the pope in his audience room. But if I turned up on time, they could slip me into the bathroom just beforehand during a 10-minute window.

By the time I turned up at the Vatican gates, I was a nervous wreck.

This time, the officials who grant entry permits at Checkpoint Charlie were perplexed, since they’d never even heard of the Stufetta. Who was I to be going into the Papal Apartments, the inner sanctum of the Catholic world? I sweated in a corner as calls were made, conversations carried out in hushed tones. The ancient clock ticked.  Luckily I had noted down the name of the monsignor who had telephoned me that afternoon, the only human contact in the whole bureaucratic process. He confirmed my unlikely story. I was handed a different, magnificently embossed pass and told to hurry to a far courtyard.

From here, the visit unfolded in a dreamlike pace, as I was ushered into ever more obscure realms of the Vatican. I was escorted into a mahogany-paneled elevator, which rumbled upward into the Papal Apartments. At the top floor, the doors ground open to reveal two halberd-bearing Swiss Guards in their ceremonial plumage of orange and blue, who escorted me along a magnificent sun-filled corridor. On one side were giant picture windows with a sweeping view over Rome. On the other loomed giant antique maps of the world, with caravelles on the waves and the most of the Americas still missing.

After cooling my heels in a waiting room—repeating in my head all the learned observations I would make about “the pagan influence on Renaissance art” —the door suddenly opened and in strode Monsignor Peter Wells, one of the top figures in the secretariat. He is originally from Tulsa, Okla. “Real sorry about the mix-up on times today,” he said. “Hopefully we can get you in and out in a few minutes.”

We passed through Bibbiena’s original bedroom, now a sanitized meeting room, and stopped in front of a small wooden door. Poised with the key, the monsignor was momentarily perplexed. “We open up the Stufetta very rarely. Almost never.”

But then we were inside. That tight, vaulted room—twice as high as its 8-foot width—was covered with cavorting naked deities. Raphael had designed his frescoed panels like a graphic novel, recounting the adventures of Venus, the goddess of love, and Cupid, the god of erotic desire, for Cardinal Bibbiena to admire as he lounged in his hot tub. At knee level, the original silver faucet was crafted into the face of a leering satyr. One panel showed the naked goddess stepping daintily stepped into her foam-fringed shell. In others, she admires herself in a mirror, lounges between Adonis’ legs and swims in sensual abandon. A couple of the frames, even more risqué, have been destroyed. One, recorded by an early visitor, showed Vulcan attempting to rape Minerva.

Embarrassingly, I had to ask the monsignor to stand aside, so I could get a proper view of the most notorious image, of the randy goat-god Pan leaping from the bushes with a monstrous erection. I was shocked to see that the image had been vandalized. Someone had etched out Pan’s manhood and filled in the gap with white paint. This, of course, made the object even larger and more noticeable—another parable about the futility of censorship.

Soon I was back outside, heading for the exit. I was so elated, I felt like high-fiving the Swiss Guards at the gates. I’d beheld the fabled Stufetta and lived to tell about it. The images hardly qualified as jaw-dropping porn, but erotica is all about context. To find them buried deep in the Vatican, still surviving the centuries of guilt and repression, gave them a charge no click of the mouse could ever achieve.

To this day, I’m still not too sure why they let me in. Over pasta and wine a few days later, my Vatican correspondent friends suggested it was part of a grander plan. “They must have decided it was better to show you the Stufetta than keep you out,” said one old hand. Sometimes even the Vatican has to confess, and maybe I was the right candidate for the job.

As it says in the gospel of Luke: “For nothing is hidden that will not be made manifest, nor is anything secret that will not be known and come to light.” It may take a few centuries longer than expected, but the Vatican is on a different clock than you and I.”

Slate, by Tony Perrottet/ posted Dec. 9, 2011

The Masochism Tango (Parody on BDSM) – Tom Lehrer

My Father used to play Tom Lehrer records when I was a teenager, never listened that closely to the words of this particular song. My what I missed! Great parody on BDSM.

Below are the lyrics and a link to a video of a Lehrer performance.

The Masochism Tango

Another familiar type of lovesong is the passionate or firy variety, usually in tango tempo, in which the singer exhorts his partner to haunt him and taunt him and, if at all possible, to consum
With a kiss of fire. this particular illustration of this genre is called the masochism tango.

I ache for the touch of your lips, dear,
But much more for the touch of your whips, dear.
You can raise welts
Like nobody else,
As we dance to the masochism tango.

Say our love be a flame, not an ember,
Say it’s me that you want to dismember.
Blacken my eye,
Set fire to my tie,
As we dance to the masochism tango.
[ Lyrics from: ]
At your command
Before you here I stand,
My heart is in my hand. ecch!
It’s here that I must be.
My heart entreats,
Just hear those savage beats,
And go put on your cleats
And come and trample me.
Your heart is hard as stone or mahogany,
That’s why I’m in such exquisite agony.

My soul is on fire,
It’s aflame with desire,
Which is why I perspire
When we tango.

You caught my nose
In your left castanet, love,
I can feel the pain yet, love,
Ev’ry time I hear drums.
And I envy the rose
That you held in your teeth, love,
With the thorns underneath, love,
Sticking into your gums.

Your eyes cast a spell that bewitches.
The last time I needed twenty stitches
To sew up the gash
That you made with your lash,
As we danced to the masochism tango.

Bash in my brain,
And make me scream with pain,
Then kick me once again,
And say we’ll never part.
I know too well
I’m underneath your spell,
So, darling, if you smell
Something burning, it’s my heart.
Excuse me!

Take your cigarette from it’s holder,
And burn your initials in my shoulder.
Fracture my spine,
And swear that you’re mine,
As we dance to the masochism tango.