Stick me in any bachelor's pad, I used to think, and I could find the porn stash in thirty seconds. But these days it's not even stashed. Bigger than rock. Beyond Hollywood. It touches the porn-chic highstreet. But not overground. Too big an industry to call it underground. It's in the adult zone. The uberground. I judge not lest I am judged but here's what I see when I see porn, Pornboy. Back to basics:
Yup, guys are aroused visually and, nope, you don't need to be a quasi-autistic curtain-twitching geek spook who had his head blown off with the ugly cannon to be 'between relationships' and, yup, you're a post-feminism kinda guy who doesn't like seeing women as sex objects but your underpants beg to differ.
And sex is an act of love between two people. A betrothal. Come again, Pornboy? You're absolutely right - acts of love are special. Sex isn't special in Pornland (unless the stunts are, like, totally radical) Everyone's at it. Morning noon and night. Every which way but loose. In Pornland. Even TV land. Even in real world, it's rude not to these days. And anyway everyone agrees that as an act of love, there's better than the bunk-up. Believing. Being there. Keeping that glass they drank from untouched for days. Remembering. Realising you even love their handwriting or waiting wishing hoping for that textmessage. Giving. Giving it up. Giving over. One day I hope to treat another fine woman to a distinct lack of all these things. When the Show is over. I'm sorry Ms Jackson I am 4 real.
Special. So it's two people having fun and games with each other's bodies. When people aren't special then the games start to adopt that role. And sex in Pornland is A Boys Game. They set the rules as the consumers and producers and it's take it to the limit one more time. Girls are, of course, centre stage for cash and attention but they'd better not be whiners, scaredy-cats or special cases. It's a level shagging field, and there's a little ritual or two before you can be approved as one of the gang. Pump them up. Beg for it. Harder.
This Is Hardcore. Bundled under your vision when you watch two people screwing, unless you're bisexual, is either a feeling of alienated voyeurism or that of watching a woman you're attracted to involved with another man. In a sense you are watching erotic depiction of infidelity, gangbang, rape. Or you become an infant catching its parents at it. It's not you engaging. It's Another. Bundle under envy, spite, satisfaction-is-always-somehow-seemingly-elsewhere and you've made your bed now wank in it.
Hardestcore porn is increasingly pushing taboos into the areas of disgust and humilitation, controlism, debasement. In a sense it's just admitting what's bundled under and bundling it over. Who knows where this will take you, Pornboy? I'm not out to stop you. Perhaps that weak or absent pop of yours left a gap where jousting and sparring and usurping the Big Man to feel king of the hill is replaced by a lot of bitchin and ho-ing at Authority Mom. And level shagging field makes a woman just someone who happens to have something you, little Robin Hood of genetics, want to reclaim. A resource you demand your fair share of. Or you'll scratch her like a midnight nail along a BMW. Or you feel you deserve the same kaleidoscope of mattress madness your gay pals yarn about. Equal but different. Flick of the hair, turn to camera - "Threesomes. Because I'm worth it." Give it an extra zing. Spice it up. There's the rub. Spices specially imported in from far along the trail of subconscious desires and suddenly it's a different game with different players. Maybe you're testing to see if you can trust. Love me now? The pisser. The fister. The candlestick-inserter? Still love me? The hogtier. The hairpuller. The namecaller? Still love me now? Mommy loves you baby. Need something to master? Something to beat? Whittle out a crib like men have done for centuries. Statue, chest of drawers, puzzlebook, a discipline, a decent bridge from G sharp to F minor and the hand that rocks the cradle rocks your world.
Pornland is a wild recipe book offering (mostly) men superfuelled spice. "Once they've dipped group sticks into bondage fondu they won't fancy missionary egg and chips much." Who knows, Pornboy, self discovery is probably a good thing, better out than in. Women have subconscious spices - maybe they surface through sex less. So less perverts, less abusers, less consumers, less greed, less off in Pornland.
Equal but different. "Women need to feel loved to have sex, men need to have sex to feel loved," my oldest pal Ian once cried out through a spliff-haze of enlightenment. If wild generalisations sort out the spice rack, these concentric desires do, in fact, nest. Thank you, Dougal. No problem, Ted. Now which Prisoner episode shall we watch for the ten thousandth time? The one where he goes fucking nuts. Fallout. Endgame. DP3.
Going fucking nuts. Rocco Siffredi. The James Bond of porn. The man's man. Wonder did Guy Ritchie name his son after someone who flushes women's heads in toilets? The James Bond of porn. Lord of the mummy's boys, wearing the pants with their pants round their ankles. In umbilical limbo on her majesties secret spicy service. And I've made up my mind I'm keeping my baby.
In real world games start with the wonderful hide-and-seek sparkle of early love which is the best thing you'll ever feel. A precarious exhilerating round of tag might follow. Your turn to phone me. Might do. A backseat leapfrog. A delicate operation. Kerplunk. Buckaroo. Maybe the trivial pursuits of domesticity might monopolize you, sink your battleship - roll over and turn out the lights Cluedo. Miss Scarlet's shattered. Professor Plum's fucked. Relight that fire. Give it extra zing. Jazz it up and maybe end up different players altogether. Lady Strap-on twatting Reverend Scat Fan across the ballroom with a lead piping.
But it's not just love gone ho-hum on the home stretch anymore. I have at least two teenage girl friends whose boyfriends told or texted them that it "wasn't working out" not long after they discovered they weren't gaining access to wherever or film you-know-what or involve serious amounts of whooaa-there. You know, the pro-celebrity stuff. Sex is A Boys Game. Give Me Friction. Because I'm worth it.
But don't worry Pornboy, deep down sex is a good, positive, pleasant addition to the world and, consenting adults 'n' all that, there's intrinsically nothing wrong with documenting that in pictures. It's a political debate too- the exploitation, the damaged pasts, would you like your son or daughter doing it. Pornboy gives a toss. He really does.
No - from warning sirens over dribbling paedophiles on every estate to jaw-dropping net porn circus acts, the next generation of kids are going to get a strange first glimpse of sex. I hope they remember that it's essentially a good, positive, pleasant addition to the world. That doesn't get a lot of press.
Just don't trust anyone who waves porn as a badge of liberty, like people do with beer when it's, well, just a beer. Exercise your charm as much as your wrist and if you must walk through Kleenex Valley try the pleasing sweep of Softcore Road. Picture you yourself engaged with a nice normal woman on your side whom you might actually meet, looking you in the eyes with a smile on her face. Not some Spectre double agent double-diddled and gurning through a Jackson Pollock of drinking yoghurt. It's cuckoo-land for the geek spooks. Fantasy spice on loveless islands. It's all fantasy, sure, but happy bachelors keep it real.