Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Nothing signals the apocalypse like me tiring of porn
For anyone whose parents talked to them about the birds and bees, I can just imagine a sweating and stammering mom or dad desperately trying to mask their frustration over the tediousness of using clinical terms when words like "cum" and "Cornhole" would have easily sufficed - I, unfortunately, never had that awkward bonding experience that scars most people for their rest of their lives. As blunt and straightforward as my mother is now, attempting to take on a topic like sex back when I was a prepubescent was the furthest thing from her mind. Ever since she caught me stroking our next door neighbor's legs when I was a toddler, a spunky pre-teen named Shelly who was whiter than a republican convention, I guess she felt that any informative sex discussion at that juncture would possibly wake some sleeping deviant inside me. My father on the other hand talked about "pussy" so often, his rhetorical flourishes about the beloved vagina would make both gynecologists and longshormen blush - he probably thought that his tales of overseas perversion served as proverbial cliffs notes to his young son ignorant in the ways of punany slaying. To be quite honest with you, I got my first introduction into the wonderful world of sex from all the 70's era porn tapes that I swindled out of my father's closet.
Because those dated tapes played the mentoring Yoda role to my shrug-worthy Padawan on a penis, I still struggle with some sexual quirks to this day. For example: 1)I sometimes don't mind a woman who can easily style her public hair. 2) I sometimes require a woman on the business end of my unimpressive penis to hold up a fist and say "Power to the people" as soon as I ejaculate. 3) I can't maintain an erection unless nondescript funk music is playing in the background. I'm dead ass serious.
To be quite honest, my lifelong affection for pornography as a whole has inspired some pretty eyebrow raising behavior in general from your favorite blogger's favorite blogger. For one thing, I know the government names of my favorite erotic actresses, which is creepy enough. Also, I keep accurate baseball card-like statistics in my head about ever seductive temptress that I've ever jerked it to: "She's real lazy, has a trick left knee and boring sex banter - but she can suck a basketball through a straw!" Lets just say that I had a serious addiction. At least that was until recently.
Maybe its just me getting older, but seeing a woman getting filled out like an application no longer has the same appeal. I don't find myself mercilessly stroking it to weird porn titles like "Dyslexic Asain Midgets" anymore. At one time I had a collection of pornographic filth so vast that when I opened up the cabinet doors an extremely bright light and a chorus of angels singing would burst through the doors. Unfortunately, those special effects started malfunctioning a while ago. Here are a few reasons why I have completely soured on porn.
The unnecessary back-stories: Granted, most storylines in your standard porn movie is of the pedestrian variety - usually having something to do with a horny gentleman equipped with a camera who happens to find a perfect stranger willing to fuck him in a van. A maid of Spanish decent who is willing to blow an occupant of the hotel she works at for a few extra greenbacks. Touching tales about a guy's best friend's mother letting him fuck her god forsaken tits off. Standard porn stuff. But I guess the writer in me finds this stuff intellectually insulting, and the raging pervert in me finds the entire charade of a storyline a considerable waste of time. That's probably why I could never be a porn director: Every scene would be purely sex, no dialogue - and if some disgruntled actress came up to me and asked for some lines to deliver, I'd give her an entire booklet with a shitload of "ooohs" and "ahhh" attributed to her name.
The pre-sex interview: I never found anything wrong with the pre-sex interview before now, where the cameraman asks the woman about to get stuffed like a Twinkie some pretty intimate questions. Of course I'm aware that many of the answers the woman gives are fictitious, verbal fluffery about her first sexual experience that gets the viewer even more excited about the prospect of her having fresh produce shoved up a miscellaneous orifice. But now that I'm older, interview answers about broken homes, the prostituting mother, abusive father, pre-teen sexual experiences - it just makes me extremely sad and depressed, even if the claims are fictitious. Talk about a major boner shrinker.
Three's a motherfucking crowd: The reason why I don't have any "..and then me and my homeboy started fucking the shit out that chick" stories is because when I have sex, I don't want another penis within a square mile of my own. Maybe its because I'm a germaphobe, but any time one of my friends ever invited me to consensually ravage some low self esteem having woman simultaneously I always politely declined - and then proceeded to vomit inside my own mouth. Its weird that I never felt the same way about porn until now, but I do. I'm not homophobic, but there is something inherently gay about two penises being in such close proximity - regardless if they're both inside a woman or not. Even in some cases, when the woman wants to pull off something that I call "The double Dizzy Gillespie", the two men in question actually crossing swords. Yuck.
Now if I can only stop giving preferential treatment to strippers on my backseat, or get rid of the glory hole in my house - I'll be completely cured.