Freeze-Dried
I had to download some porn today. Pulled it off the internet. I'm picky. I look at pictures and thumbnails, scrutinizing position and facial expression. What kind of kinky shit is she going to say? or Is he going to get that whole thing in there? These are important questions. I don't watch porn to see day-to-day menial fucking. I'm looking for the exotic. Creativity. These people are like graphic designers for coitus. They ought to surprise me.
Like, for example, this one time I downloaded a bunch of porn with some attractive, if not spellbinding ladies, and found myself not exactly looking forward to it. I can do that in my head, and I have better hand control when I'm scoring the flesh pounding on my own. But what did I find? They were all Canadian. Damn, I thought, I never would have thought of that. Somehow, just the bare notion that they were Maple Leaf Hotties, and not plain old LA bleach-blonds somehow made each stroke a little more enthusiastic. A little more furtive.
Surprise is the essence of of the orgasm. Show the glands what they expect, and release will come, assuredly, but with all the savoir faire of a UN Peacekeeping force. The twist, the thing that someone shouts at just the right time, like, “I think you hit my liver,” or “I'm your cousin,” can turn that into the thundering advance of a Mongolian horde.
So I download this video, and the girl is a ho-hum, Aaron-Spelling-platinum teenage advertisement. An Abercrombie and Fitch catalog getting flogged by someone who might as well be her dad. “Ooh, you have a tattoo,” was about the height of dialogue here. And you know what? The orgasm was an orgasm, alright—and I never complain about those—but it was unflattering. I know I can do better. This was like frozen chicken wings. Like someone seasoned up a pretty good orgasm, cooked it in an industrial oven, then froze it solid for seven weeks. I pretty much took this orgasm out of the freezer, microwaved it for four minutes, turned it over and then ate it alone in the dark watching reruns of The X-Files.
I don't know why I thought this was relevant, but I did.
Like, for example, this one time I downloaded a bunch of porn with some attractive, if not spellbinding ladies, and found myself not exactly looking forward to it. I can do that in my head, and I have better hand control when I'm scoring the flesh pounding on my own. But what did I find? They were all Canadian. Damn, I thought, I never would have thought of that. Somehow, just the bare notion that they were Maple Leaf Hotties, and not plain old LA bleach-blonds somehow made each stroke a little more enthusiastic. A little more furtive.
Surprise is the essence of of the orgasm. Show the glands what they expect, and release will come, assuredly, but with all the savoir faire of a UN Peacekeeping force. The twist, the thing that someone shouts at just the right time, like, “I think you hit my liver,” or “I'm your cousin,” can turn that into the thundering advance of a Mongolian horde.
So I download this video, and the girl is a ho-hum, Aaron-Spelling-platinum teenage advertisement. An Abercrombie and Fitch catalog getting flogged by someone who might as well be her dad. “Ooh, you have a tattoo,” was about the height of dialogue here. And you know what? The orgasm was an orgasm, alright—and I never complain about those—but it was unflattering. I know I can do better. This was like frozen chicken wings. Like someone seasoned up a pretty good orgasm, cooked it in an industrial oven, then froze it solid for seven weeks. I pretty much took this orgasm out of the freezer, microwaved it for four minutes, turned it over and then ate it alone in the dark watching reruns of The X-Files.
I don't know why I thought this was relevant, but I did.
posted by Maximillian @ 11:41 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home