Looking at Dirty Pictures

You know how there’s some stuff that looks great in porn, but the real thing sounds repulsive? Getting pissed on, for instance. It looks dainty by sunlight, like a natural fountain. Droplets and rainbows, all that sort of thing. But Jesus H. Motherhump, keep your waste off my face. That’s just unpleasant. The toilet’s next door.

BDSM’s another one. I used to think I’d be into that—red wax and black leather, bare skin, tortured bodies. But I only like to look. I don’t want to hurt anyone, and I’d hate to be hurt. I’d not be a Master, and never a slave. Bondage only interests me if I get to take pictures, and if I’m not expected to engage in any sort of…I don’t know, any roleplay, or whatever you do. Do you chat, is that it? Debate this and that while you rig up the ropes? Surely it’s not done in silence. It seems like it’d take a while, those elaborate setups. You’d have to pass the time.

Know what else bites, for real? Shower sex and bath sex and lake, sea, and river sex, anything underwater. In the bath, you don’t fit. In a hot tub, you float away. In the shower, you get spray up your nose. You sneeze and there’s snot, and your hands slip on the condom, and it’s all just annoying, not sexy at all.

I’ve been writing too much romance lately. You hit this point, y’know, you’ve done all these sex scenes, and you start to think, oh….

When I first started doing them, I didn’t give it much thought. The sex was just, I don’t know. One more coathanger for the plot. Lemme jack you off while we plan the big heist. Oh, that feels good? Well, here’s what I’m thinking….

Sorry. Where was I? You’ve written all this porn, and your next brief comes in, and it’s like could we get some more car sex? We got great reviews there. And if you’d throw in a shower scene, and something with a blindfold. PS – less of that voyeur crap. Get straight to the action!—so you get that, and you wonder, why car sex? Why shower sex? Why not the voyeur stuff? Do people prefer their porn on the improbable side?

I could see that, I suppose. You read some sweet shower scene, all slick and all bubbly and hoaching with orgasms, and you’re not comparing it to that disappointing tumble on the couch last night, and you’re not comparing it to anything, ’cause you hardly remember your last go in the shower. It was ages ago, half-forgotten, nothing like in the book. Shower sex is fantasy. Escapism. That has to be it.

Wouldn’t it be hilarious if we’re all doing it wrong? If folks are gagging for indifferent sex and lazy sex and roll over, love, let us in there, and nobody’s writing that?

(I mean, I can’t imagine they are. Not in the romance genre. Why would anyone dream of…ha, ha, ha! Though, I don’t know. Maybe there is a market for cosy familiarity. Like in How Late it Was, How Late, where the main guy says how he likes to cup her fanny once they’ve shagged, hold it and protect it, some silly shit, but nice. That’s not a romance novel, but that line’s romantic, or I thought it was. Isn’t it? I mean, you keep going back to it the whole time, ’cause he doesn’t get any of that, any gentleness, any peace. You keep thinking back on that, how he once had that haven, someone who didn’t mind.)

I wasn’t watching porn, by the way. I was writing a romance novel. Just in case anyone’s reading this, thinking I went on some Redtube binge. Maybe I checked out a pic or two. But I wasn’t…I mean, I live on the fifth floor, massive window-walls overlooking a busy street. Anyone could see me, if I…so I wasn’t. I didn’t. Bog off.

Tomorrow’s sci-fi day. I think I’ll read that book I’ve been saving, ah, The Songs of Distant Earth, get myself in the mood. Wouldn’t do to mix genres, no, no. Not at all.

Zombie. Aouuuuu.

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