Finding the DVD, streaming video, or porn site that turns you on and gets you off is no easy proposition, even if you already know what you want to see. Porn is a vast genre with many subgenres, full of its own language and customs, confusing labels, and misleading titles-plus a whole lot of bad grammar. What's worse, many retailers (online and off) treat their stock with carelessness or even distaste, cramming porn together with no discernable sense of order. Alphabetical order is not invited to the party, Dewy decimal has left the building. And each website seems to have its own organizational logic. It would make a librarian homicidal. Even a naughty one.

In a lot of ways, finding the right porn is much like seeking out a Hollywood movie-you're really on your own to find it. But in a genre of film that has no road map, you'll need to know not only what you want and where to find it, but also the different types of porn available.

Start by creating a picture of what you hope to find in your porn, just as you'd order a meal in a restaurant. What are you hungry for? Small breasts, big butts, women in charge, realistic plots, blow jobs, two gals and a guy, male anal penetration, rough sex? This may not be your menu, but you get the idea. The important thing is that you make a list of all the qualities you hope to find in an adult video. Then make a second list of things you don't want to see. Do you get turned off by fake breasts, hairy men, rimming, toe-sucking, facial ejaculation, two women together, or watching group sex? These are just examples to get you brainstorming about what you think will send you over the edge-and what you think you'll want to skip through. As you watch porn, you'll probably find more to add to (or subtract from) either list, because sometimes we find things that turn us on or off that we didn't even know about.

Excerpted from The Smart Girl's Guide to Porn, written by Violet Blue and published by Cleis Press.

The book is on sale at Amazon, both as a paperback and e-book.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Violet Blue.

If you're an author or a book publicist and you want to participate in the Fleshbot Book Club, send email to Lux Alptraum.

The Symbiots used to freak us out pretty badly. It was a retarded gentleman and his nephew – or, as we feared, his "nephew". They did have IDs with the same last name, but it was a pretty common one and we were worried we had some kind of chickenhawk situation on our hands and didn't know what to do about it. The nephew was too young to go downstairs (it wasn't ridiculously creepy – he was maybe 18) but was caught down there with the uncle and rousted several times.

The problem with rousting the nephew was that the uncle couldn't pick out porn by himself. Every time they came he went though the entire gay porn section one box at a time.

He couldn't remember what he'd seen before. He couldn't remember that you bring up the tags and not the boxes. He couldn't spot the difference between the for sale stuff and the rentals. He couldn't remember that you only get to check out six movies at a time. He only wanted the cheaper old releases, but couldn't distinguish the old and new release sections.

It would take him hours, and he usually got something wrong and had to go back down. We actually debated saying screw it and letting the nephew, who was of normal intelligence, go downstairs to expedite things, but our manager nixed it.

Finally he'd get back upstairs. The nephew would help the checkout go smoothly; his job was to make the world easier for the two to negotiate.

Then we got to the uncle's half of the relationship: He had the money. He had all the money, and what's more, he knew it was the source of his power and kept a pretty tight rein on it. Occasionally the nephew would pick out a video from upstairs, but his uncle had the account, so he had to check it with him first.

The whole thing freaked all of us at the store out very, very badly.

There were a lot of worried clerkly notes on the file. We didn't know what was going on, just that it was creeping our shit. Were we supposed to do something? There was an ongoing debate as to who was taking advantage of whom.

I served the Symbiots several times and, though nobody at the store agrees with me, I came to the conclusion that it wasn't a sexual relationship. I'm even pretty sure that they really were uncle and nephew. I think they had somehow discovered that they were both gay and formed an interesting team – separately, they couldn't get porn, but together they were unstoppable.

Unfortunately, sometimes our mentally challenged customers cover so well that at first glance they come off as dirtbags. It's hard, in a quick transaction, to tell the difference between someone who is genuinely confused about the rules and someone who's trying to get around them. I usually slip a note on the file suggesting that the customer in question may need some extra assistance, but there's only so much that can do.

It can get frustrating, and I worry that I'm not doing enough. That's why I try to do my best: at least that way whatever else happens, at the end of the day I can rest secure in the knowledge that I have done all I can to make sure that every adult has an equal shot at renting Fuck Pigs 5.

Excerpted from True Porn Clerk Stories, Ali Davis's tales from her days as a porn video clerk.

The book is on sale at Amazon, both as a paperback and e-book.

Hear Ali tell her story on "This American Life" here.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Ali Davis.

If you're an author or a book publicist and you want to participate in the Fleshbot Book Club, send email to Lux Alptraum.

A few nights ago in Chicago, the Naked Girls Reading group sat down to read the classic tale of ghosts and giving, and they plan to repeat the event every year. Yay for new holiday traditions! You don't have to like Christmas, Santa Claus, or even hot chocolate, but everyone loves the promotion of naked literacy.

·: More photos at Naked Girls Reading: Photo gallery (timeoutny.com)

Burlesque performer Jonny Porkpie wrote the pulp tome (we covered Christa Faust's "The Money Shot" last year) and the book will be feted at the fetid Bleecker Street Theatre on November 21 and 28 with a stage presentation of "Corpse"'s plot performed by burlesque hoofers Dirty Martini, Jo Boobs, Madame Rosebud, and Clams Casino, as well as the book's cover models, Nasty Canasta and GiGi LaFemme.

When is the last time you saw one of your favorite storybooks enacted on stage? And was there almost-nudity in "Shrek On Ice"? No there wasn't.

· Lurid Lunch (pinchbottom.com)
· "The Corpse Wore Pasties" (hardcasecrime.com)

It's books like these that really reinforce the importance of the fight for literacy...after all, if children never learn to read well, how on earth will they ever be able to appreciate the seductive curves of these sultry women? And what a tragedy that would be...

· Tricia Helfer Nude in Sante D'Orazio: Barely Private (egotastic.com)

The book captures the "sexy and carefree and wild" lives of boys and girls (mostly girls) living in Brazil. The notable nudes include Gisele Bundchen, Isabeli Fontana , Emanuela De Paula, Fernanda Lima, Aline Moraes, Ana Beatriz Barros and Guisela Rhein. So grab copy of the book, slip into a Speedo, and take that Brazilian vacation you've always wanted to.

· Brazilian celebs pose naked for Mario Testino's new book (nudography.com)

The following excerpt is from "Clean and Pretty," by Donna George Storey.

My intercom buzzes again for the fifth time tonight-or is it the sixth?

I wipe my oily hands on a towel, slip on my cotton robe and press down the button.

Hiro's husky voice slithers into my ear. "Jenny-san? You've got another customer. He's ordered ‘Virgin's Forbidden Pleasure' and ‘Breast Soap Show.' Oh, and he says he wants ‘Total Satisfaction.' "

"Don't they all?" I turn toward the security camera and grin. I can't see Hiro, but I can imagine his lips stretching into a wry smile, like we're laughing at the world together.

His voice softens. "Are you tired? You are very busy tonight."

"That's because I'm so clean and pretty. Or at least that's what the expert tells me." I say this all in English and strike a vamp's pose.

He laughs, a low chuckle that twines itself around my chest and squeezes. Time stops, suspended in the hot, damp air. My belly contracts, a sharp sexual twinge. But this is business. As much as I try to forget this, Hiro never does.

"Your customer will be there in a few moments. Thank you again for your hard work," he adds in brisk Japanese. The intercom goes dead.

I'm alone again. But that's my job⎯to be a woman alone with her fantasies.

I lean into the shower stall and start the water. Steam rises up over the glass walls, which don't quite reach the ceiling. In no time, the small room will be thick with mist. It won't be too thick, however, to obscure the figure of a naked woman washing herself for any observer who may have slipped into the room. The careful placement of the spotlights guarantees the honorable customer gets what he's paid for.

I shrug off my robe and hang it on the hook embedded in the mirrored wall. The place really does look like some posh hotel in miniature. Hiro told me he pays special attention to detail for the design of each new club. Reality is the essential foundation of every fantasy, he said, and this was every man's dream, to spy on a girl making herself clean and pretty in a lavishly appointed bath. I'm not sure if it's true, but I do know bathing is an important ritual in Japan, a form of purification that dates back to ancient times. With separate facilities in most public baths in hot springs and inns, the thrill of peeping in on the ladies was no doubt a potent taboo. Hiro readily agreed with my theory, but when I asked if he personally had a thing about watching a girl masturbate in the shower, he only smiled.

The intercom buzzes a brief warning, and I move into action, stepping under the spraying water, my eyes half-closed. The door clicks open. I see a sliver of light from the hall widen then disappear with another click of the latch. Of course, I give no sign I know I'm being watched.

But I do know. It's time for the show to begin.

I arch my neck, letting the water stream over my face and hair. The pose alone suggests innocent wantonness. My lips part, my breasts tilt up and out in offering. The man steps closer. Even through the glass, I can feel the air between us thicken.

I spend a few moments luxuriating in the warmth of the water, then turn and squirt some foamy white soap from the dispenser into my hand. I slowly lather my arms, my shoulders. Timidly, my hands fall to my breasts.

Excerpted from "Peep Show," an anthology edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel and published by Cleis Press.

Donna George Storey is the author of Amorous Woman (Neon/Orion). Her fiction has been published in numerous anthologies, including Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories and X: The Erotic Treasury. She writes a column, "Cooking up a Storey," for the Erotica Readers and Writers Association.

The book is also on sale at Amazon.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Rachel Kramer Bussel.

If you're an author or a book publicist and you want to participate in the Fleshbot Book Club, send email to Lux Alptraum.

· Dania Ramirez Naked in Room 23 (egotastic.com)

After the bright moonlight of the roof the inside of the house seemed absolutely black, and Melody eased herself down to the floor cautiously and in complete silence. As her feet touched floorboards the lights came on, startling her despite her knowledge of more or less what was going to happen. She froze, allowing the man who had been waiting to one side of the window to catch her easily, twisting her arms behind her back and quickly cuffing her as he spoke.

‘What have we here then, a burglar, and a girl at that to judge by the feel of you.'

He had taken a grip on the back of her mask, which was pulled roughly down, and as Melody turned her head she found that she was looking up into the face of a tall, dark haired man in full police uniform with a sergeant's stripes on his sleeve. A badge gave his name – Stern – and she immediately thought of the brat spanker of Metrocity. Not that it mattered who he was, because she was helpless, while his voice had been cool and amused with not a hint of mercy. Already her choice seemed insane, and yet her body was responding for all the rapidly building emotions in her head.

‘Let's have a look at you then.'

She was hustled into the middle of the room, an attic completely bare save for a plain wooden chair set close to one wall. Melody swallowed, already sure of its purpose and her bottom cheeks tightened in anticipation of a spanking. He had folded his arms across the breadth of his chest as he stood back, his mouth flickering into a cruel smile as he took her in.

‘Well, well, very nice, and so young. This is your first offence, I suppose?'

Melody managed a weak nod and he went on.

‘I guessed as much. No need to make this formal then, I don't think. In fact what a young girl like you really needs is a good old-fashioned spanking, which is exactly what I'm going to give you.'

She tried to answer, but all that escaped her lips was a whimper. He wasted no time, stepping forward to take a powerful grip on her elbow. Cuffed and helpless, Melody could do nothing to resist as she was frog-marched to the chair and placed across his lap in spanking position. She'd known it was going to happen, and she'd known she needed it before her fucking, but now that she was going to get it her stomach was fluttering and her muscles were twitching in apprehension as he laid one huge hand across the seat of her cat suit.

‘Yes, a good old-fashioned spanking, and then …'

He didn't finish the sentence, but Melody knew what he meant and a sob escaped her lips at the thought, her bottom spanked pink before his cock was inserted between her rosy cheeks, only not up her bottom this time, but into her virgin sex. Not that he was in any hurry, fondling her cheeks through the taut material of her cat suit and applying only the occasional gentle slap to make her cheeks wobble. Suddenly her legs had been hauled wide, to show off the bulge of her pussy, every detail of her lips outlined in tight, wet, black cotton. A finger touched and he'd begun to trace the outline of her sex, setting her gasping and wriggling in helpless response. He gave a low chuckle.

‘Horny little one, aren't you? But you needn't think you're going to get away without a spanking.'

Melody shook her head, very sure she would be spanked, and hard. Again he began to caress her bottom, and to smack, only harder now, with firm, stinging slaps that made her yelp and kick her feet. She knew she'd soon be over the pain, her bottom hot and ready, but that did nothing to dilute it, nor her sense of humiliation as he spoke once more, his hand now resting across the meat of her cheeks.‘

Excerpted from Slave to the Machine by Aishling Morgan, published by Xcite Books.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Aishling Morgan.

If you're an author or a book publicist and you want to participate in the Fleshbot Book Club, send email to Lux Alptraum.

Short of that, though, we're pleased to see that photographer Rankin has chosen to celebrate Heidi in an upcoming photo book, "Heidilicious." Though it won't be out until next month, you can catch a sneak peek in the trailer above. Short of our aforementioned museum idea, we can't think of a better celebration of Heidi's beauty (unless maybe it were also a scratch and sniff book?).

· Buy "Rankin's Heidilicious" (amazon.com)
· Heidi Klum shoot with Rankin (youtube.com, via nudography.com)

The following excerpt is from "Urgent Message," Rachel Kramer Bussel's tale of inflight cybersex.

Brandon brings out the dirty girl inside me, the girl my straight-A, choir and track team member former self could never have imagined. Even now, I retain so much of my good-girl polish, at least on the outside. Before Brandon, I dated guys who would never think of wanting a lady on the streets and a whore in the bedroom. "Whore" probably wasn't even in their vocabulary, whereas Brandon loved to taunt me with it, whispering it in my ear as I teetered on that perilous, wondrous brink of orgasm, knowing that the prospect of being a woman of the night would send me crashing over the edge.

Where are your panties, young lady? was blinking on my screen-in red. Next thing I knew, he'd be going to all caps.

Just a sec, I typed, feeling a rush of wetness soak said item of clothing.

My panties were already skimpy to begin with; I like to travel wearing my sexiest undies to remind me that while I may not have my man with me, I have something to look forward to when I go home. In fact, most of my plain-Jane, boring cotton panties have gone by the wayside in favor of silk, satin, lace and mesh in a rainbow of colors. Brandon has made his mark all over my body, and in my dresser drawers.

I pondered how best to go about this. Removing my bra in the locker room in college without showing my tits was easier than this maneuver would be. I placed the laptop on the tray in front of me, then undid my seat belt, trying to be as silent as possible so as not to attract attention. I reached into the waistband of my skirt and pushed one edge of my panties down one hip, then did the same with the other.

I had to get them down far enough so that I could wiggle them the rest of the way with my legs. My face was hot, and surely blushing, as he continued to type away, the screen refreshing as I squirmed. I wish I could see you slithering out of those panties, wish I could see between your legs to what they were covering. Even though I just tasted you this morning, baby, I miss you already. It's just not the same without you, but I'm trying.

Tell me what you're doing. I have my panties halfway down my thighs, I typed back in a flash, grateful for all those years of temping that had gifted me with the ability to type one-hundred words per minute, or one-handed, if need be. I wiggled against the seat, shifting one leg and hip, then the other, as I felt my panties move slowly down my legs.

Excerpted from "The Mile High Club," an anthology of plane sex stories edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel and published by Cleis Press.

You can read reviews at Erotica Revealed and Adult Friend Finder.

The book is also on sale at Amazon.

Copyright (c) 2009 by Rachel Kramer Bussel.

If you're an author or a book publicist and you want to participate in the Fleshbot Book Club, send email to Lux Alptraum.

Buy Scott Caan Photographs (amazon.com)
Lake Bell Gets Naked For Scott Caan (egotastic.com)
Buy Scott Caan Photographs (amazon.com)
Lake Bell Gets Naked For Scott Caan (egotastic.com)
Buy Scott Caan Photographs (amazon.com)
Lake Bell Gets Naked For Scott Caan (egotastic.com)

We Did Porn

"Then I would call it 'Who Killed Tina DiVine?' or 'Who Killed Max Clamm?' and all my observations about porn could be wrapped around that death and loaded with the sexy intensity of true crime," Smith writes.

Tina DiVine, who shares certain characteristics with Joanna Angel, is one of dozens of second degree pseudonyms Smith employs in the book. He uses this method, he explains, to remind readers and himself that "there is probably more to them than I managed to see or record."

But, save for some anonymous porn performer in Berlin, no one dies in this book, and so the reader struggles with Smith (nom de porn: Zak Sabbath) on an as-it-happens examination of this "detour" through the pornimondes of Los Angeles, Brooklyn, Vegas, Berlin, and Barcelona, as the narrator serves up judgment on what he's figuring out.

Smith's perspective as a porn tourist (we are all porn tourists unless we are Jack Fuchsmore/Max Hardcore) is one of such precision, wit, and education that one can coast through most of "We Did Porn" before realizing that it can be as heartless and passionless as an episode of "Family Guy" or a fucking machine.

Take this observation of attendees at the annual Adult Entertainment Expo:

These bumblers in lines, programmers, two-handed clutchers, these bloggers with their pictures near breasts, these meatstacks, sad-sacks, these weezing mouth-breathers, nodding Cro-Magnons, ghost-costume-sized hip-hop shirt roamers, these collectors, these enthusiasts, pederasts, Ozzytees, these waist-touchers, wasted brokers, jokers, grinners, tit-seekers, watchers, these bulky humans and beanpoles processed in bulk, these barn-door-sized target audiences, these red bosses and red employees and simultaneous electronics-convention attendees, these men, these fat-ass motherfuckers in their bloatiness and massy fat pants. Whatever, civilians.

Smith spends most of a wildly entertaining discourse on porn and art and pornographers and/as opposed to artists masturbating over the heads of masturbators with deft references to Cthulhu, Boba Fett, and "Blade Runner."

It is only as Smith/Sabbath encounters - and falls in love with - Candy Crushed/Mandy Morbid and Osbie Feel/Benny Profane, and learns to admire the work of Gina Giles/Kimberly Kane and Rob Chuckle/Bob Coulter that we find a little humanizing joy in that (as Smith describes a late night Vegas Coco's discussion with fellow travelers such as Auspicia Clay/See If You Can Guess) "sauna of listless hate" that might have been this book.

Not that a memoir of a pornographer's life should be touching. "We Did Porn" accurately describes America in the Zeros for a lot of people, and Smith can go from macro (the 2008 election) to micro (naked girls on his collapsing bed suggesting goddesses of a 1500-year-old sculptor's wet dream) as fast as the burst of pleasure and relief that is the backbone of an industry that employs thousands and serves millions.

"We Did Porn" is a satisfyingly weighty 500 pages of Taschen-textured text and art that name-checks (sort of) many people beloved of Fleshbot readers ("Tasha Rey," "Monty Pentagram" - I was there for Smith's first movie) and does a great job explaining Zak Smith (and his friends; remember the "We" in the title) to himself and their world to you.

· Zak Smith (zaksmith.com)
· Buy "We Did Porn: Memoir And Drawings" (amazon.com)

(Don't worry, we'll have a review of the book for you soon. The porn monkeys are feverishly digesting their copies as you read this!)

· Barely Legal Whores Get Gang-F***ed (therumpus.net)

Often found on the walls of London's iconic red phone booths, these advertising cards have been around since the 1980's—and have evolved over time, as changes in printing technology have allowed them to become more sophisticated and complex. "Tart Cards" has collected more than 350 of these works of art, providing some background on how they came about, how they've evolved, and what, exactly, "a-levels" refers to. Curious? Take a sneak peek inside in the gallery below.

Buy "Tart Cards" (amazon.com)

Mark Batty Publisher (markbattypublisher.com)
Buy "Tart Cards" (amazon.com)

Mark Batty Publisher (markbattypublisher.com)
Buy "Tart Cards" (amazon.com)

Mark Batty Publisher (markbattypublisher.com)
Buy "Tart Cards" (amazon.com)

Mark Batty Publisher (markbattypublisher.com)
Buy "Tart Cards" (amazon.com)

Mark Batty Publisher (markbattypublisher.com)
Buy "Tart Cards" (amazon.com)

Mark Batty Publisher (markbattypublisher.com)
Buy "Tart Cards" (amazon.com)

Mark Batty Publisher (markbattypublisher.com)
Buy "Tart Cards" (amazon.com)

Mark Batty Publisher (markbattypublisher.com)
Buy "Tart Cards" (amazon.com)

Mark Batty Publisher (markbattypublisher.com)

Based in Melbourne, Prior travels to international burlesque shows and photographs the dancers on and offstage, capturing the joy of performance as well as the athleticism involved in keeping those pasties from launching into the crowd.

His new book "Titzen Blitzen!" is an available-light travelogue through London's week-long Burlesque Festival, which drew an international roster of dancers. Sado vamps to naughty maids play to crowds that range from elegant to rowdy, which says a lot about burlesque's place as a living art form, as a "body type"-neutral treat, and as a mirror of class structure.

And that's all well and good, but I liked the women.

Prior's site also contains a wealth of studio shots of burlesque performers without those awkward nipple-obscuring impediments.

· Michael Prior (michaelprior.com)

No, you're not imagining things: you've just entered the world of furries, documented in Michael Cogliantry's "Furverts," a whimsical board book with twelve photos of hot fursuit action. Depending on your inclinations, the book is either an amusing look at an oft misunderstood sexual subculture or a Kama Sutra for the furry set; either way, we invite you to take a peek at the action inside.

· Buy "Furverts" (amazon.com)