It is past midnight on a Sunday evening. The house is quiet, the road is quiet, the birds are quiet. Everything is quiet apart from the noisy hum of my computer. Without further ado, I proceed into ritual masturbation.
I’ve never been one of those shower types. It’s seemingly impossible to do standing up. I’ve tried, and every time I end up orgasming completely bent over in order to achieve perpendicularity and I fall, grimacing like some wet, masturbating Hunchback of Notre Dame.
Or in the bath. It seems creepy and unhygienic, with the mental image of my seed spilling out into water like the blossoming of some sinister flower in a Darren Aronofsky film. Not to mention I can’t seem to cum with my dick underwater. The neurotic in me insists this does not bode well for future intercourse. If I ever make it that far.
Or even in bed. Masturbating in bed seems silly when the computer is on and you have the full array of erotic tools within your grasp. The internet must’ve completely revolutionised masturbation and eroticism, I think to myself whilst browsing Youporn. A sort of Industrial Revolution for porn. Prick Spring. Erection Rising. The Wanker Rebellion. Whilst insensitively making crude puns out of notable uprisings is fun, it’s not getting me any closer to orgasm.
Eventually I settle on a video. There’s always the few false starts, where you flick through the 33 minute clip (why are they always that long? Not only do I not want to spend that long masturbating, but 20 minutes of scene setting and foreplay followed by an orgasm to which I have grown indifferent to is the pornographic equivalent of the movie Vanilla Sky) looking for your particular penetration fetish and find yourself disappointed. Work needs to be done upon introducing a sensible tagging system on porn sites. Once again I find myself the most discerning viewer of porn and no closer to orgasm.
Moving forward, I finally find a video. Well rated (meaningless though that rating is, as it’s only the producers who rate their own stuff), sufficient in length (though not so long that I either get bored or start from the middle, in which case I wonder about what I’ve missed so far. It takes me a while to get out of post-modern cinema analysis mode) and involving a busty though not fat blonde. The video begins, I momentarily consider listening to the opening dialogue. Immediately I regret this choice and jump a couple minutes ahead. Our chosen seraph is still clothed, albeit skimpily. The baritone of the cameraman-cum-actor asks a question, followed by the hollow voice of our blonde star. 3 minutes in, and they are still discussing her life. She is a poor college student, he is a man with money. He is supposedly coaxing this woman into sexual favours for cash, which is an inherently disgusting premise and I feel guilty, despite her being at least mid-30s and clearly not under duress.
Things proceed in this manner for several minutes, and I feel my resolve begin to sag slightly. I jump even further ahead to the action. Blondie is performing vigorous fellatio. She is enjoying this. I perceive this from the loud moaning and affirmative noises she makes everytime she is asked. The cameraman-cum-actor repeatedly grunts. I turn the sound down slightly. This grunting is not what I am here to listen to. You would think that after some 30 years of porn, some ground rules would be established. Not too much male grunting and less chatter from him in general would be an obvious one. Evidently, this unwritten rule of erotica has been disregarded for this particular performance. How avant-garde. He is making more noises. More and more. So is she. She attempts to go louder, but he drowns her out, the camera begins to slightly lose focus. His acting talents are superb. I think he is what they call a real “scene stealer”, because despite his entire physical presence on stage being concealed in the depths of an oracular orifice he is overbearing and completely impossible to ignore. All the same, I am enjoying myself.
My enjoyment continues for the next couple minutes. I watch avidly, stretching out my session in what I tell myself is practice for the real deal, but I really know is prolonging the return of boredom and emptiness. I am close, I can feel it. In a particularly loud moment, I flicker slightly and look away from the strings of spittle hanging from her temporarily empty mouth. I notice the carpet. The carpet is a particularly ill-advised shade of puce. I gasp. Coincidentally, so does our heroine. A diet of coke and cock probably leaves one short of breath often. I am sickened with the horror of an interior designer. Even the word puce fills me with a sense of dread. I pause my film and consult Wikipedia on this important matter. Wikipedia confirms my fears, it is definitely puce and not a malign shade of lavender.
Back to my film and I am disgusted and put off by the inclusion of puce. It is more than just a background carpet. It is a supporting character. Puce leches from the sidelines, saying to me “this is real porn, boy. I’m a dirty ’80s carpet hanging around, just getting fucked on. Know how many whores I’ve seen in my time?” Puce offends me, an ominous hangover of a future in which I nervously and impotently sleep with uncaring hookers in motels. Puce is the colour equivalent of that seedy fat man with a moustache. Or a rapist in a bar.
No. I have come too far to change videos. My Will be Cum. I block out the puce. It creeps back in from the left corner. I concentrate my eyes on the right cheek of the blonde girl. Things pick up again, and I am enjoying myself. I am breathing heavily, possibly grunting too. I empathise with the cameraman-cum-actor breaking my cherished rule of porn. It is hard not to make noise. Next time, I will bite a pencil. Eventually, things come to a head and I finish myself off, letting out a long sigh.
Like a well trained reflex, my fingers flick to close the tab the moment I finish. I have cum all over hand, and I am left holding my dripping dick, looking at the Wikipedia page on puce.