And you will understand just how normal this situation must be for women who are even considering getting into porn. In addition to this rather deep and astute criticism about the nature of the porn business, this video kills for humor alone. And for making you think about Louis C.K. and a parrot-dick.
In an Op-Ed in today’s Times, David Brooks discusses the very contemporary problem of our crazed, over-sexualized, under-satisfied market for poon. He inspects last week’s New York Magazine’s feature story on their own “Sex Diaries” and finds it all just a cum-soaked horror story.
First of all, anyone who could call his/herself even a casual reader of “Sex Diaries” understand that each contributor is pulling each and every one of those maniacal sexting, bjs in the cab, hour-long orgasms with the showerhead stories straight from his/her well-waxed ass. For those who have never read one of these, I’ll give you a taster. FYI: this is a dramatic re-enactment.
T.M., 24, Manhattan, ribbon salesgirl
8am: Wake from sex dream starring the muy caliente guacamole-mashing waiter at Rosa Mexicano which is down the block from the ribbon shop. Get out my vibe and go to town on my own avocado nut.
8:45am: Have several ceiling-shaking orgasms, eat my own pillow to prevent roommate from hearing. Shower.
9am: Back in my room, dressing, and notice soaked through mattress. Realise belatedly that I’m a squirter.
9:30am: Hustle mattress down five-floor walk up and throw on street. If it’s going to be all water-sports all the time now, I’d best get a rubber inflatable. Since I ate my pillow and threw out my mattress, I have no where to sleep tonight. Better get sexting!
Noon: Slow day in the ribbon trade… sext Married Man, a slowburn hook up who is 70 but hung like a dromedary.
12:15pm: Tie myself to a chair and manage to spank myself. Have four epic orgasms.
12:30pm: Throw away chair, carpet and my clothes.
1-5pm: Construct an outfit made entirely of ribbons, realise I’m going to have to cut myself out of it later when I meet up with Married Man.
7pm: Married Man and I meet at the Carlyle and drink appletinis — I told you he’s spry.
8pm: MM cuts off my dress and pounds me until I beg for a sports drink. So much fluid loss today from all these orgasms!
8:30pm: MM falls asleep as I’m going down on him. That’s cool, I need some rest too.
8am: Wake up from avocado man sex dream with MM’s penis in my mouth.
AND SO ON, AND SO ON. It’s a farce. Brooks tries to be so horrified by all the wantonness and bad behavior, but you get the sense that even he isn’t buying his ridiculous nostalgia for a time of “certain accepted social scripts” aka: “dating, going steady, delaying sex.”
He even whips out a “Happy Days” reference, as though things were actually better back in the 50s and early 60s when gays were called fags and queers and got the shit beaten out of them, women had secret, illegal abortions, and cancer, rape, and interracial relationships were all verboten to even be spoken of. Hasn’t Brooks even seen Mad Men?! Does he think things were better back then before the “post-feminist” agenda fucked everything up?
The best aspect of Mad Men isn’t it’s throwback design sense or guilty pleasure chauvinism — it’s that the show presents just how limited female life was. Against the household that Betty Draper runs, you can see what a fucking revolutionary thinker the other Betty (Friedan) actually was. Poor Joan actually has to marry Dr. All-Thumbs even after he’s raped her on the floor of her workplace because the humiliation of rape is just about on par with the humiliation of being an unmarried 35 year old woman.
So, I don’t even want to hear about how things were a little bit “more clear” when we had some stricture in our social lives. Let it loose, bro. If Brooks is sucking his teeth at the Sex Diaries, let’s all just try to keep Craiglist’s Casual Encounters page from him, mmkay?
What’s the deal, Rivers? You taken a leaf from Speidi’s book of image management? To think that you would descend to the level of irritating people just to remain famous… once Weezer’s collaborating with Kenny G means we’ve moved to a laugh-at situation, not a laugh with.