Sparks Fly Out
Warning: vaguely adult content ahead. Nothing graphic about me, though.
I downloaded a particularly ridiculous pornographic film a few weeks back from the lovely people at Falcon: Big Dick Club. I don’t even really know why; I must have been bored at 3am or something. It’s not as if I have an infatuation with abnormally engorged genitalia; if anything (and I’m likely in the minority here), I’ve always found larger members to be more of a nuisance than anything else. No one needs their mouth, vagina, anal cavity, etc. to be stretched out that much. And yet, I (subconsciously?) clicked the buttons that delivered it to my computer, and found myself in yet another poorly acted, badly lit (no supple shadows in porn) idea of a fantasy.
“You like big dicks, little boy? Yeah? We got the biggest dicks here.”
“Yeah, you love big cock, hehe, yeah!”
And here’s what happens: the big muscular man shoves the diminutive adolescent down onto his knees in front of the glory hole, out of which emerges something alien and not even all that pretty. And the big man whispers vaguely menacing things into the boy’s ear and it just plays into all the tired labels of gay culture. It’s same-sex gender stereotyping.
I love amateur porn wherein beautiful, ripped, shaggy, muscular men take it from lean, petite, streamlined young men. That’s the hottest thing for me. Secretly, I really want to direct my own porn film someday. I’ve got the same dream as Boogie Nights auteur Jack Horner: “a real film.” All cinema is voyeurism, all actors are prostitutes, so why settle for mediocrity? Sex can be artistic, and stories about sex can be emotionally fulfilling, intellectually stimulating, and visually arresting (also arousing).
“But Max, I just want big dicks.”
Well, I want theater. I want high-brow characters. I want Jon Hamm in glasses and a tight t-shirt sitting at a table reading Faust, starkly lit from above. I want a well-acted, believable love story with a beginning, middle and end. I want tender, tear-stroked caresses in the rain. I want my two leads to screw for the first time to that pretty Chopin nocturne I like. I want bondage in act three. Emotional and intellectual power shifts. And maybe a tragic ending. But with lots of hot sex. But then, that’s life, isn’t it? That’s a love story. Maybe I should just hold tight with all this sexual frustration teeming around me as the weather gets warmer and warmer, keep my loins in check until a really great guy comes my way and I can let nature take its course. I can control the music and lighting like I always do, and it’ll be just like in the pictures. Or at least my head. Maybe it’ll be better.
I downloaded a particularly ridiculous pornographic film a few weeks back from the lovely people at Falcon: Big Dick Club. I don’t even really know why; I must have been bored at 3am or something. It’s not as if I have an infatuation with abnormally engorged genitalia; if anything (and I’m likely in the minority here), I’ve always found larger members to be more of a nuisance than anything else. No one needs their mouth, vagina, anal cavity, etc. to be stretched out that much. And yet, I (subconsciously?) clicked the buttons that delivered it to my computer, and found myself in yet another poorly acted, badly lit (no supple shadows in porn) idea of a fantasy.
“You like big dicks, little boy? Yeah? We got the biggest dicks here.”
“Yeah, you love big cock, hehe, yeah!”
And here’s what happens: the big muscular man shoves the diminutive adolescent down onto his knees in front of the glory hole, out of which emerges something alien and not even all that pretty. And the big man whispers vaguely menacing things into the boy’s ear and it just plays into all the tired labels of gay culture. It’s same-sex gender stereotyping.
I love amateur porn wherein beautiful, ripped, shaggy, muscular men take it from lean, petite, streamlined young men. That’s the hottest thing for me. Secretly, I really want to direct my own porn film someday. I’ve got the same dream as Boogie Nights auteur Jack Horner: “a real film.” All cinema is voyeurism, all actors are prostitutes, so why settle for mediocrity? Sex can be artistic, and stories about sex can be emotionally fulfilling, intellectually stimulating, and visually arresting (also arousing).
“But Max, I just want big dicks.”
Well, I want theater. I want high-brow characters. I want Jon Hamm in glasses and a tight t-shirt sitting at a table reading Faust, starkly lit from above. I want a well-acted, believable love story with a beginning, middle and end. I want tender, tear-stroked caresses in the rain. I want my two leads to screw for the first time to that pretty Chopin nocturne I like. I want bondage in act three. Emotional and intellectual power shifts. And maybe a tragic ending. But with lots of hot sex. But then, that’s life, isn’t it? That’s a love story. Maybe I should just hold tight with all this sexual frustration teeming around me as the weather gets warmer and warmer, keep my loins in check until a really great guy comes my way and I can let nature take its course. I can control the music and lighting like I always do, and it’ll be just like in the pictures. Or at least my head. Maybe it’ll be better.