Porn Stars Can’t Kiss
Having been single now for four months, I’ve finally found the time to reconnect with my adolescent joy of pornography. Now, before you judgmental fucks fly off the handle about my supposed misogyny or begin implying desperation, remember that porn and I have a much longer, deeper relationship than I have ever had with any of you. We go back, way back to a time when I was... happy.
Unlike all of the mythic beings our friends spoke of in junior high, like the guy that could suck his own cock, the cheerleader that blew the football team, or your buddy’s girlfriend in “another town”, porn stars were the real people that lived these nutty tales. One twenty-two minute video provided evidence to all of those nonsensical claims and fueled the tank for more.
My relationship with blue movies was slow to form, suffering the heartbreak of laws that kept me from my passion. Through friends, online, and thanks to a grizzly sixteen-year-old beard, I began accumulating my library, courting the likes of Chasey Lain, Nina Hartley and P. J. Sparxx. After high school, the bond grew stronger as I enjoyed great conversions and performances in person with Ginger Lynn, Raylene, and even Jenna Jameson.
My reasons for abandoning porn in the first place were both noble and inevitable. Steady sexual relations kept me busy time-wise, but I also grew angry with the continued lack of sexual education in America. I have said from day one that pornography is only dangerous when in the hands of the uneducated, just like cars, guns and drugs. This prophesy took life, however, when I began seeing its toll on American etiquette; surrounded by guys who learned about sex from porn and women who felt victimized by the disassociated, sometimes hostile, sex life it created. This left me no choice but to wean myself from its presence, which I had grown quite accustom to, and delve further into the personal relationships I was forming.
In retrospect, my eschewal of smut may have been the downfall to my affairs, leading me straight back into its loving arms. Perhaps the prurience was what kept me balanced as a mate; like Samson, I sheared my X-rated mane only to succumb from the lack of support it had enriched me with.
As I have consumed the many videos and movies available to me lately, I’m finding that the older me just might not be able to enjoy porn anymore. With all my historical and technical studies of the industry, I satiated my need for knowledge but simultaneously took a lot of fun out of it. Worse than that, even, is my disgust with the current state of premium adult entertainment. It appears that the “quantity before quality” creed is running even more rampant than when I left.
When viewing sex through youthful eyes, I saw magic and beauty, desire and possibility. It was like Harry Potter for horny teens and my imagination was unstoppable. Now I only see the bruises and tacky background sets. I fast-forward past scenes where the woman is taken from behind to avoid witnessing her saline implant sloshing back and forth in the gathering of stretched skinfolds where a normal boob once hung. I see someone’s estranged daughter or sister being dominated on-screen, only to leave the set and return to the frightening entropy that is a nineteen-year-old’s life without direction.
It reached a turning point when I watched a male actor in a soft-core porn flick kissing his female lead, and he was fucking it up bad. I understand that most performers won’t really kiss, relegating them to that awkward tongue-jousting action. But this guy was really bad. They were actually trying to kiss passionately, but he couldn’t find the rhythm or land both of his lips on hers at the same time. I liken it to making out with the opening of a jar.
Then it occurred to me that porn stars have no actual lovemaking skills. Like how actors lack commonsense and geniuses are socially inept, these poor pillars of sex do not have the ability, or perhaps have never learned how, to be a real lover.
I know that if I’m going to rekindle this relationship with porn, it’s going to be on my terms. No more bad sex just for the sake of getting it over with. No more tasteless themes. No more poorly written situations. No more empty promises about how great it’s supposed to be. I have to start again from the ground up, a grass roots kind of wanking. I found a way, and even if it doesn’t work forever, it’s a start.
It’s a site where real people submit their own videos; voyeurism in its truest and most legal form. Although the actors are not outwardly stunning, their mission is pure: getting off for us gets them off. It covers the gamut of mediums, from high-end equipment to cell phone video, and fetishes, from lingerie to orgies.
I realized that it is more erotic for me to see genuine folk enjoying sex, people that live in our neighborhoods and work with us, than it is to watch the professionals. Just like how college football differs from the NFL: the players put more heart into the game. You see that in the faces of excitement and hear it in the real moans of joy. And the best part is that the kissing is legitimate.
We all get off differently - that is what makes sex beautiful. But it is time to strip away the misinformed logic that bad porn has ejaculated onto the psyches of America. We need to remind folks of some basic ideals, such as, love is not sex and sex is not intimacy. Average men and women don’t really look like the people in the movies. Sex should be about both partners reaching orgasm and making it happen regardless. Porn is not misogynistic, but misogynistic porn is. And most importantly, learn how to kiss well and become a real lover. It can only lead toward a better life.
