Pet Porn Peeves of Captain Glow-Pants.

You can’t tickle yourself, but at least you can masturbate.

High again and writing. Higher again and thirsting for porn. All of it aims at maintaining whatever vague semblance of sanity I have managed to retain. Its a psychological survival strategy.

It is sort of like tickling yourself when you think about it, though. Call it rubbing out the tickle from inside the pickle like a highly-determined and thoroughly-caffeinated soul aiming to conjure the genie out of the lamp.

While we’re on the topic, passion is understandable. In anything, really. But being a messy eater is nowhere near as gross or, for that matter, as potentially disastrous in social situations as being a messy beater. Genie of the Weenie stains, after all, and this is a fun-fact that one would serve oneself best to remember — preferably before failing to put on a pair of clean pants that fine evening you went Cosmic bowling with some girls from work. They’re always so damn heavy on the blacklights, you know? I had the worst case of glow-pants.

Research suggests that men masturbate because they need to unload dead sperm. Look at it as a sort of spring cleaning for the ding-a-ling lingering, sandwiched between your sweaty inner thighs, all to make room for the new glob of pre-life destined for those old pair boxer shorts.

Men’s own fantasies get boring when they aren’t having sex, so they turn to porn. Maybe soft porn at first, and we’re talking really fluffy — like a cloud orgy in the bright blue sky of a delightfully warm and sunny day. Like the rooms full of daily housekeeper-pampered pillows in the world’s loneliest hotel. Like an afghan rabbit fresh out of the dryer. You know. But before long that’s gotten boring as well. He has desensitized himself to it due to over-exposure. He must up the ante a bit at the very least. Soon enough, that, too, gets boring.

Stuck now, sinking in quicksand on the grounds governed by the Law of Ever-Decreasing Returns, he evolves in dark twists and turns, his wicked tastes mutating into the increasingly kinky and ever-more extreme. You want to turn to some old girl he used to pine over and scream at her, bark at her that his sexual desires are far more warped now than they would have been had she just fucked the poor lad when he still had time. Tender it might have been, perhaps topped off with some casual pillow-talk as you both peacefully drifted off into a revitalizing, post-coital slumber.

Now, however, he would much prefer to hog-tie you and face-fuck you while yanking on your ponytails like mighty reins. He wants you in goth-style, knee-high or higher, black leather buckled boots. He wants you to slap him around, talk down to him, dig your nails into his back as you fuck him in aggressive jack-hammer style. If you want tables turned, he’d like it just the same.

He needs you to like it as much as him, because those porno clips he has seen where one of the parties is clearly not enjoying it has not only killed an erection, but haunted him. It might be extreme to say that this is what it indeed was, but the feeling it conveyed to me was of rape void of active or verbal dissent on the victim. In his only experience in this area, he was the recipient, and he was not mute-raped but rather just found himself feeling awkward and embarrassed. The girl slapped his ass and talked down to him, but it was so forced, so artificial, made her feel so awkward that it bled into him. Neither sex nor porn should inspire one to wince. It should not make me wince, make me angry, make me sad, make me sick.

Porn should not make me laugh, either,
for ‘tis not a gigglegasm that I seek.
I seek the -gasm with an or- at the head,
(not to be confused with that providing “or”
with an “n” after and “p” before.)

Suddenly this is sounding to my inner ear like Dr. Seuss on Porn, which however unnerving an idea is undoubtedly a book I would Amazon in a flash and devour half as fast.

To turn now to another irritating porn trend that needs to meet an early death, however, there is the insulting suggestion that I’m trying to fool myself into actually thinking I’m fucking the girl being fucked in the film clip and that those from whom the clip originated really have the skill necessary to pull that off. Look, news flash: my self-maintenance is unalterably clear to me and I’m entirely comfortable with that, so you can stop it with the POV crap. I hate POV for the same reason I hate “found footage” films. Art imitating life as seen through the aimless, jittery, defocused eye of a real, live idiot’s personal camcorder is just bad, bad fucking art.

Like, literally.

And as I am not currently plagued with Parkinson’s, it is not at all possible for me to pretend that the point of view you provide is my own, anyhow. I am sucking the butt of cancer, however, and the lack of adequate wheezing is a negative symptom that serves to detract from the targeted believability. So tell you what? I’ll just pretend the entire room is covered with mirrors — you just shoot your scenes in a more focused and less grand mal seizure-like style. A million thanks, porno people.

Now, you want good porno art? Try Tarantino.

Tarantino should really do a porn. No character introduction, no build up, just jump right into the action and show the story rather than tell it. Showing over telling makes for better writing and better filming if executed properly, and while flashbacks are usually a cheap gimmick, to “Tarantino It” is not at all the same. Here you would be playing temporal Scrabble with the entire narrative and then weave these episodes together in an associative web you try and express linearly. An style that more accurately echoes the processing style of our minds. Plus I wouldn’t have to always click my way across the internet porn clip to the point at which the fun things happen.

I try to deal with things are they are, of course. Not all hope is lost. Some things I find interesting about the grand big dirty sea of internet porn I go swimming in. Sometimes while watching porn on mute I will find myself doing inner-voiceovers like some pornographic rendition of Mystery Science Theater 3000. Or sometimes I just imagine what they’re saying to each other, or what they’re thinking.

“She was twistin’ herself into a pretzel, man. Goddess of yoga. it was like Whoreagami.”