I’m pretty selective when it comes to watching porn. First of all, the timing has to be just right. I usually wait until I can’t take it anymore, and I just want to get it over with — watch it and relieve myself, that is. The feeling usually swims inside me when I’m alone, and my femininity is pounding at the floodgates.
I guess I wait because masturbation is not at the top of my priorities. It was at one point, but then I started coming up with excuses not to enjoy my body, and instead wear it down with despair and worry. Plus, I have a boyfriend. (“Isn’t that, like, his job?” I’ll internally complain.)
Anyway, it’s always a light bulb reaction. Like watching porn is the smartest idea I’ve ever come up with. And I skip around my room, brimming with excitement. I check to see if the coast is clear, then open up the laptop and type “porn” into Google quickly and secretly, like it’s my social security number. I click on the first link that pops up, which I’m sure a good majority of people know is Pornhub. I scan the first page or two, check the percentages of enjoyment and hover my mouse over anything that especially catches my attention, which is usually nothing.
I go to my default category — gangbang or orgy — because I like a lot of people and parts in my porn. Or at least that’s what I thought I like.
I browse for a good 15 minutes. My eyes catch the featured video clip in the sidebar, some light speed fuck fest or something else. (Today, it was a giggly blonde woman wriggling out of a frilly thong.) I scroll through no more than two pages, trying to stay clear of things that say, “Dirty whore takes two cocks…” and instead looking for titles like “Two friends share…” as if the more gentle of wording makes a difference.
I can get nitpicky. I check to see if a woman is wearing any sort of oversized jewelry or distracting platform shoes. If she is sweating her eyeliner. If there’s a questionable looking mole or formation on a dude’s ball sack. If the faces are scrunched up too tightly, I’m gone. If the moaning is distracting, NEXT. If it looks like the woman is in any amount of physical pain, forget it. If the guy bellows dumb shit like “aw, yeah take it, you bitch,” consider me a ghost.
When I finally land on something, I skip to the penetration. I usually mow right through the oral sex. The choking sounds and gagging make me uncomfortable. I watch for a couple of minutes just to make sure that there’s a good amount of fucking going on. Because the worst thing of all is climaxing while they’re adjusting or swapping out ponies in the show.
Once I come, I don’t want anything to do with what I’m watching. I can’t stomach to think about watching any of this stuff without being remotely turned on. I slam the computer shut and pretend that it never happened.
If you can tell by now, I don’t like to really like the porn I watch, or the tacky, poorly scripted, not-true-to life fucking the Internet calls real sex. I just read David Foster Wallace’s “Big Red Son” for the first time, which is a true account of the adult film industry, and it’s pretty spot-on how put-on everything is. The essay pokes fun at the grubbiness of it all, the money it generates, and its denigration of real life sex. It is one of the funniest and most heavily researched essays I’ve ever read. If you haven’t gotten the chance to read it, please do.
I bring up Wallace’s essay because it confirms the shiver I get every time I watch porn on the Internet, or on rare occasions, splurge and purchase one on Comcast. And it points to the need for real time sex and love and hunger and humanity and all that inside the relationship and beyond. Because let’s face it, humans like to watch each other have sex. And I’m not above that.
I guess I’m just complaining that there’s no real artistic version of porn. Or at least I haven’t been brave enough to go looking for it. Until today.
So let’s talk about today. I go through the motions. Shut the blinds. Hit up Pornhub. Scroll and scroll. And then I stop. I backtrack. I type into Google: “porn for women.”
The first thing that pops up is a Refinery29 article, “Porn that’s Good for Women,” and I roll my eyes because I’m not interested in reading. Where da porn at, I think. But I read through the article. It gives a shout out to progressive adult filmmaker Erika Lust and her take on adult entertainment for women.
I read on. Lust has made 10 films so far. Her ultimate goal is to create porn that illustrates “all the intimacy, beauty, and joy of sex,” featuring people who “truly enjoy themselves.” Lust goes on in the article to say that the enjoyment will not be “at the expense of women.”
Lust captures some of the same thoughts and modes of shame I’ve had about porn since I started watching it when I was 13. “Part of me was like, ‘Yeah, it’s somewhat of a turn-on,’ but another side of me thought, ‘What the hell is this sexist bullshit?’” says Lust in the Refinery29 article.
Needless to say, I’m more than a little intrigued looking into Lust’s films. The one I choose to watch is “Female Fantasy,” which looks and feels like an Indie flick.
It’s about a woman masturbating to her own fantasy. The first thing I think about doing is skipping to the part with all the dicks. But I don’t because no part like that exists in the film.
The film starts out with a man at a bus stop. He’s sitting alone and smoking a cigarette. He has an angular jaw and a pair of icicle blues. He musses his shaggy hair. A woman walks by. She sits down next to the man. She smiles, but not directly at him. Their legs touch for a couple of seconds. Before she gets on the bus, she squeezes his bare leg.
On the bus, the woman begins touching herself over her clothes. She puts her leg up on her seat to conceal what she’s doing. She looks around.
This woman arrives home and slinks into her bed. Her hair is tangled, and she’s braless. She rolls off her socks and peels off her skirt, throwing them to the floor. She begins pleasuring herself. She’s wearing gray underwear, and her pubic hair leaks from the sides. She has a small bruise on her left thigh and a gap between her teeth. The filming is different from anything I’ve ever seen. Instead of focusing on solely the vagina and breasts, it captures other things. Like the woman’s throat. You can visibly see the rotations, the pulsating knots of pleasure moving around in her throat. And you can hear her. She’s breathing in uneven breaths.
It switches to her fantasy. The woman is straddling the man on the bus stop bench. She grabs his hips and lifts his shorts. They kiss each other deeply.
And this is how it continues, toggling between the fantasizer and the fantasy. And the fantasy escalates. The man licks the woman over her underwear, which forms a dark spot from his saliva. He doesn’t go underneath with his tongue. He’s gentle and focused. She runs her hands through his hair. The couple begins to fuck at the bus stop in broad daylight — faded passersby in the background. The sounds are amazing. There’s no talking. You can hear the slapping of skin, the wetness. Faint, airy strings play. The sound of a heartbeat fades in and out. And then they come. No screams. No contrived moans. Only quick breathing, anticipant and then resolved.
I’ve never watched any porn the whole way through before this. At the end, the girl is alone at the bus stop. She is panting, and she has this look on her face like she can’t fucking believe what just happened. She smiles. Then she looks directly into the camera with a smoldering stare. Pure contentment.
I shut my computer. I lift up my shirt and pull off my pants. I grab for my vibrator, my purple best friend. Outside my window, the wind sputters and the sun pours into my room, warming my face. I smile at the sunshine, and feel myself loosen. I begin to create this scene in my head about being alone and naked underneath the willows outside my house.