The Law Of Accumulating Returns
Addiction to porn - and with the internet, the easy access to internet porn - is a real problem. It's an endless and bottomless hole. It's like being addicted to free pussy. And at a certain point, when is too much enough?
(This sounds like a rhetorical question.)
You could type in your fetish and spend hours, not to mention days, clicking on every link and every image, looking for the exact permutation of what you think will get you off.
It's the new version of a mid-life crisis. You don't have to go out and find a young secretary to express your waning but desperate sexuality. You don't have to go sit in stripper joints wondering why you aren't getting enough... don't know how to get enough, or where.
The tease online is irresistible, and there's always more. And it is never there the way you want it. So you go just a little bit more. Show me just an inch more, baby.
But it's not entirely what it seems. The sites - all 100,000 on "cum-covered pussy" - are actually clones and links to a recycled collection of links to pay sites. These link-pages are good to kill a couple hours, investigating every "free" gallery, clip, and story, but they're actually hosted by the pay sites themselves, or the people running them get a sawbuck for everyone that goes and signs up with their credit card. You can only go so far without paying.
And after a while there comes a sudden moment when I'm reminded of my pitiful "get a life" status. How many times have I gotten hot looking at these links, and what they promise if only I pay, I sign up, jerk off to the first movie I download, and immediately cancel 15 minutes later?
But sometimes, if you're patient, you actually inadvertently stumble upon something wonderful and amazing. It may be a "true" amateur site, with pictures you don't see on all the others. It's possibly really free. It might be Russian, or some other spin on a kink that sends you to the next new unexpected and horny level. Now that you've become an expert on how many of the scenes and pics are recycled ("Oh, that's from Brazzers. Big fake tits on the 'porn' milf." "Oh, it's Bangbus; probably has a condom."), an unexpected find is rewarded.
I used to go into adult bookstores, and have the same sense of being a kid in the candy store, with infinite treasures within my reach. The promise of pleasure behind only a plastic wrap, one-half hour of time to myself, and a credit card slip signed off.
But there was always a risk. And on the internet there is an anonymous ability to go whereever you want, or can. For however long you have the time and inclination for. So if you do stumble upon something like sex with dogs... you can click on it, just for a moment. Is that interesting to someone? Is it interesting to you?
How 'bout horses? How about pissing? Hey, you can look at whatever you want and no one is looking over your shoulder.
No one sees you go into the bi or black section. Or both. That thought crossed my mind once... You can look and satify your curiosity for as long as you want until you've had enough.
Or realize you might want more. The roads and the branches off are endless. So every so often all those hours and pop-ups pay off. The web cloud of smut has raised its dress to give you a glimpse of the treasure still hiding, still promising. Something you indeed did not know would make you feel that way.
I try to avoid the feeling that I need a stronger, more bizarre kick, and keep my interest to simply wanting to be thrilled by the unknown pleasure I always knew I had within me. Just the one I could not otherwise (in the real world, or on the well-travelled, well-linked, corporate sites) have stumbled upon.
This unexpected and positive feedback makes me keep going, surf a little longer, click more often, looking for the hidden Easter eggs.
(This sounds like a rhetorical question.)
You could type in your fetish and spend hours, not to mention days, clicking on every link and every image, looking for the exact permutation of what you think will get you off.
It's the new version of a mid-life crisis. You don't have to go out and find a young secretary to express your waning but desperate sexuality. You don't have to go sit in stripper joints wondering why you aren't getting enough... don't know how to get enough, or where.
The tease online is irresistible, and there's always more. And it is never there the way you want it. So you go just a little bit more. Show me just an inch more, baby.
But it's not entirely what it seems. The sites - all 100,000 on "cum-covered pussy" - are actually clones and links to a recycled collection of links to pay sites. These link-pages are good to kill a couple hours, investigating every "free" gallery, clip, and story, but they're actually hosted by the pay sites themselves, or the people running them get a sawbuck for everyone that goes and signs up with their credit card. You can only go so far without paying.
And after a while there comes a sudden moment when I'm reminded of my pitiful "get a life" status. How many times have I gotten hot looking at these links, and what they promise if only I pay, I sign up, jerk off to the first movie I download, and immediately cancel 15 minutes later?
But sometimes, if you're patient, you actually inadvertently stumble upon something wonderful and amazing. It may be a "true" amateur site, with pictures you don't see on all the others. It's possibly really free. It might be Russian, or some other spin on a kink that sends you to the next new unexpected and horny level. Now that you've become an expert on how many of the scenes and pics are recycled ("Oh, that's from Brazzers. Big fake tits on the 'porn' milf." "Oh, it's Bangbus; probably has a condom."), an unexpected find is rewarded.
I used to go into adult bookstores, and have the same sense of being a kid in the candy store, with infinite treasures within my reach. The promise of pleasure behind only a plastic wrap, one-half hour of time to myself, and a credit card slip signed off.
But there was always a risk. And on the internet there is an anonymous ability to go whereever you want, or can. For however long you have the time and inclination for. So if you do stumble upon something like sex with dogs... you can click on it, just for a moment. Is that interesting to someone? Is it interesting to you?
How 'bout horses? How about pissing? Hey, you can look at whatever you want and no one is looking over your shoulder.
No one sees you go into the bi or black section. Or both. That thought crossed my mind once... You can look and satify your curiosity for as long as you want until you've had enough.
Or realize you might want more. The roads and the branches off are endless. So every so often all those hours and pop-ups pay off. The web cloud of smut has raised its dress to give you a glimpse of the treasure still hiding, still promising. Something you indeed did not know would make you feel that way.
I try to avoid the feeling that I need a stronger, more bizarre kick, and keep my interest to simply wanting to be thrilled by the unknown pleasure I always knew I had within me. Just the one I could not otherwise (in the real world, or on the well-travelled, well-linked, corporate sites) have stumbled upon.
This unexpected and positive feedback makes me keep going, surf a little longer, click more often, looking for the hidden Easter eggs.
Love Muscle
Love-making is often an agressive act. There's thrusting, grabbing and humping.
Banging and slapping.
I've often wanted to feel what it would be like to be truly submissive. As the female laying under the erect man, with legs open, being penetrated.
Don't read too much into this. I often do most of the work, as my rising horniness and natural male libido force me - instinctually to do. To go after the girl, to reach down and test and grab her pussy, and massage her tits to make her feel better.
To open up.
I often fantasize what it would be like to let someone pound at me. If the person I was with was stronger, and could actually kick my ass if I got out of line.
I'd like to be at her mercy.
The Aesthetics of Mediation - four
This rather formal exercise creates new questions as to what is mediation. If "nothing" is happening with the camera work.
The camera work includes the framing and the structured cutting from one inclusive closed frame (complete in showing the subject - she/they don't get cut off by the composition) to the other. It is mannered and therefore formal. Formalism may seem to mask the mediation, but this examples shows how it actually forgrounds the apparent "lack" of mediation.
While other mediated texts may be aestheticaly motivated by subject or narrative or other diagetic context (see previous posts in this series, in which the subject and her production strategy becomes text as well as subtext), a formalism is mannered as objective. It is a rigourous and "stubborn" refusal to demonstrate mediation - it is invisible.
There is something awesome about the initial shot, of the girl sitting down and beginning to watch some porn, and opening her pants. The shot to the front, a change in angle, suddenly creates a new relationship between the subject (her masturbating) and the viewer (us), anonymous but now involved.
It forces confrontation with the viewer on a theoretical level, and unlike an "anonymous" or directorless spectacle, which may emphasize content (and may have no choice), it distances content from form by making form influenced by it.
The edits here - arbitrary but definitive - create an aesthetic which only emphasizes the invisible mediator while it pretending to be uninvolved. Additionally, the "staged" elements in the mise-en-scene, including the curiously anachronistic but charming use of a VHS tape, with a remote to f-f through to her "favorite" bits, and the pictorially-placed burning candle, complete with wax spills on top of the player, further distract from an anonymous and "invisible" mediator.
The piece has been "framed," and works aesthetically differently than one less pre-meditated.
The camera work includes the framing and the structured cutting from one inclusive closed frame (complete in showing the subject - she/they don't get cut off by the composition) to the other. It is mannered and therefore formal. Formalism may seem to mask the mediation, but this examples shows how it actually forgrounds the apparent "lack" of mediation.
While other mediated texts may be aestheticaly motivated by subject or narrative or other diagetic context (see previous posts in this series, in which the subject and her production strategy becomes text as well as subtext), a formalism is mannered as objective. It is a rigourous and "stubborn" refusal to demonstrate mediation - it is invisible.
There is something awesome about the initial shot, of the girl sitting down and beginning to watch some porn, and opening her pants. The shot to the front, a change in angle, suddenly creates a new relationship between the subject (her masturbating) and the viewer (us), anonymous but now involved.
It forces confrontation with the viewer on a theoretical level, and unlike an "anonymous" or directorless spectacle, which may emphasize content (and may have no choice), it distances content from form by making form influenced by it.
The edits here - arbitrary but definitive - create an aesthetic which only emphasizes the invisible mediator while it pretending to be uninvolved. Additionally, the "staged" elements in the mise-en-scene, including the curiously anachronistic but charming use of a VHS tape, with a remote to f-f through to her "favorite" bits, and the pictorially-placed burning candle, complete with wax spills on top of the player, further distract from an anonymous and "invisible" mediator.
The piece has been "framed," and works aesthetically differently than one less pre-meditated.
Finger fuck
The way we find out about sex, and about the opposite sex, is a unique and very different story for all of us.
But I think most of the stories are very similar in feeling if not in specifics. I slowly but intensely learned about the opposite sex by grabbing and feeling every girl I went out with, which admittedly wasn't more than a dozen during my high school years. I was a horny teenager, and would take every opportunity to touch and feel up my date. I once got slapped in the face in public for moving my hand too far down a girl's waist onto her ass.
That got everyone's attention, especially my own. If nothing else, it impressed upon me the pain, public humiliation, the absolute value and prized commodity that was the private parts of the person you were trying to get physically close to or into.
I felt pussy with my hands more than maybe I've seen it with my eyes. I was able to touch and fingerfuck girls who wished to remain chaste, or even later, women who didn't want to go all the way. Not now. Not tonight. Not yet. Not here. But allowed my fingers to rub up and down their clits, move back and forth in their pubic hair. Under their panties.
The feeling of pussy on my hands and on my fingers only got me harder and harder. There but for the grace of god would my loins be soon. (But never as often as I wanted.) I educated myself on how to make the girl next to me feel good by my gentle, but exploratory and insistent massages upon her nether folds.
I knew that was often as much as I would get. I learned to enjoy that moment. That digital intimacy and trust she had handed over to me, without servicing my own cock. But letting me finger her and get her wet.
And the smell of her vaginal juices on my hand would last for hours, after I got home, and at night as I laid in bed,would breath deep into them and rub some more.
A Little Drinky Poo
The party's over. I remember when the party never ended.
There was a time, around college, or later, when I should have been going to college, when the people at work were always getting drunk. We'd collect at the bar 2 doors over, and have coffee drinks, which kept us up later and kept us more frisky than we would have been - had we been drinking straight gin or scotch.
We were just getting past beer, and into the "adult" phase of mixed drinks. Rum and coke would make us all loopy and sloppy, and start to play grabass with each other. All in good fun, of course.
There were times when I ended up making out with some girl that was too drunk to stop me, and I was thinking only with my dick. You'll make out with anyone when you're drunk, it seems. I got a couple pieces of pussy that way, being a little too friendly and slipping my tongue down her throat. Then my hand down her pants.
Meg was one who never really fucked me back. We ended up in the bedroom at a party, and our pants around our knees. It was a quick exploration and she was kinda giggly and didn't take the whole thing seriously. Because I worked with her, it was something I didn't see as serious, and when I became aroused I got it out of the way quickly. I came half inside her, half on her stomach. I had been drinking scotch, and the orgasm seemed to get me drunker. I don't remember the rest of the party.
Cindy was someone I remembered one New Year's Eve. We were at that bar and kissed when the clock struck midnight. There was a homely aspect to her and she seemed to take everything very seriously. No jokes for her, yet she let me kiss her and walk her home. At her apartment, we kanoodled for what seemed like 40 minutes before I finally got my pants undone and down. Which she let me do.
Erection city. I reached for her pants, but she pushed my hand away and undid them herself. I entered her and about 10 seconds later I felt her tense up. She pushed me out and we sat, having another drink, without talking about it. She was right. It wasn't the right thing to do in the long run, it was just New Year's Eve coming over us.
She let me lick her nipples and she rubbed my erection - I guess to make me feel a little better about not getting to fuck her more. I told her it was okay, and it was. I was drunk enough to think I might have another chance.
The next time we worked together she made it clear that it would never happen again.
That was fine.
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