Something’s rotting in our Intertubes today, preventing access to a number of sites — including ours! So the Porn Post needs to be iPhone-brief tonight: Imagine a very naughty tryst between Celine Dion and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

You got a problem with that? Fine. Fix our Internet, and we’ll put out.

Can you spot the missing detail?

1. Return home after drinking.

2. Commence oral sex.

3. Start hitting each other.

4. Call the police.

Sharp-eyed readers will have immediately noticed the gap between #2 and #3:

But moments later as Bowers and her spouse, Delou, engaged in the act, she began biting down hard enough that Delou Bowers asked her to stop, the report says. When she refused, Delou Bowers started punching Charris Bowers in the head and face until she finally let go.

And there you have it: She bit his johnson because she didn’t want to have sex. Thanks for playing!

Biting during oral sex results in battery charge [Daytona Beach News-Journal]

In tonight’s episode of Medical Condition or Woody Allen Movie? comes the explosive discovery that some people habitually sneeze after sex.

In other words: Be careful which Kleenex you use to wipe your nose.

Although the reflex condition is rare in the medical literature, British researchers suspect it’s more prevalent than anyone cares to admit. So they visited some online chatrooms to gather field reports:

This highly unscientific survey identified 17 men and women who reported sneezing immediately after having sexual thoughts and three people who sneezed after orgasm.

That’s right: the mere thought of sex is enough to set off sneezing fits. And when you consider how frequently everyone entertains pestorking fantasies, we’re surprised the entire race doesn’t come down with lethal hiccups.

Sneezing uncontrollably after sex may be more common than realised [Guardian UK]

We weren’t aware until now of what must be the charming Italian tradition of setting off fireworks during Christmas season. We’re not exactly sure what it represents — the sound of being pestorked by an angel? — but it certainly sounds more lively than draining the power grid so God can see your three-stage Santa display.

Still, fireworks are fireworks, and Italian officials must have their hands full keeping fingers from being blown off. So in Naples this year, women are pledging to withhold fireworks from the bedroom if their men indulge themselves on the streets:

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With our economy in a shambles, you would think innovative home businesses would be encouraged. And by all accounts, the Dallas-area Cherry Pit has been a roaring success:

Police documents seized in a pair of July raids show that the weekend parties in the home were lucrative. Mr. Trulock and Ms. Norris had taken in at least $102,000 in donations from attendees during a 16-month period. The weekend parties drew hundreds of people, and parking overflowed into the street.

College kegger? Hardly. The Cherry Pit is a “swingers” club, a quaint throwback to the days when you could use that word without erupting in an orgasm of giggles. For fifty bucks you can cross the threshhold into a world of bad Seventies midnight movies, featuring a dance floor, profoundly well-stocked bar, and a six-way bed with what appear to be fresh sheets. Single gals welcome!

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We hate to serve up sloppy seconds the day after Thanksgiving, but just look at the slim pickings out there:

• Japan workers told to go home and procreate [Guardian UK]
• Even sex can’t sell in this economy [Boston.com]
• ‘I’m 35 and have never had sex’ [GoodToKnow UK]
• Everything You Need To Know About Hitler’s “Missing” Testicle [Slate]

Pitiful. So here goes:

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The UK Literary Review’s annual “Bad Sex in Fiction” finalists have been announced, but unfortunately nobody’s posting excerpts yet. (Shout-out to John Updike for Rabbit is Flaccid The Widows of Eastwick, however.) So we’ll just have to make do with horny moments from last year’s finalists. Because while good sex may last all night, bad sex is forever.

Jeanette Winterson, The Stone Gods: I start to slip off my jeans and I feel her gaze as I stand in my bra and pants. Why am I embarrassed about taking off my clothes right in front of a robot?

Richard Milward, Apples: She had on no knickers, and my heart went crash-bang-wallop and my eyes popped out. She hadn’t shaved, and her fanny looked like a tropical fish or a bit of old carpet.

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