“A little bit.”
“But she’s not your type. She’s blonde.”
“Ok, ok, she’s not my top favorite maybe. But still, I like her. And if they are too much my type it somehow hurts to look at them.”
“Because it’s not real. Because you can’t touch them. Because it’s porn.”
“Because you can never have them.”
“Because if you would see a girl like that on the street, you’d be lost, I mean, I’d be lost, I don’t have the confidence nor the necessary cheerfulness to get her. Not now anyway.”
“And you’re with me.”
“Yes, and I’m with you.”
“So beauty you can’t have pains you?”
“Must be frustrating to be a man.”
“We learn to cope with frustration.”
“Sounds very defeatist.”
The girl in the movie is pulling her butt cheeks apart, giving us a peak into her colon. Slavic features. Somewhere between 18 and 24. Naked. Except for white socks. Completely shaved. Not that I care about that. But this is internet porn. They’ve almost all adopted the pre-teen wasp waist with breasts look.
And I do think about you, girl, that I don’t know the name of, that is giving us a tour of your lower abdomen. You’re doing an anal scene with a skinny boy who looks like he’s just been drafted in the the Russian army. Some faceless guy with a giant fat dick. I screen your face to see if you like it or not, whether you’re faking it all, if it hurts or not, what you’re thinking exactly, if you’re thinking at all. How much money is in it for you? Really, I think that, sometimes, while I masturbate on your face, and on your gaping hole and the sounds you fake. The fakeness of your moans annoys me. And I have to concentrate real hard to sort of censure out the fakeness. And the guilt. There’s always the guilt and the shame.
By watching this I keep this industry going. Even if I don’t pay for it, I keep the industry going. By watching this, some site gets a click. For that click some guy gets paid. You get paid because of that. I know a guy who makes a lot of money for down-sizing porn files so people can watch them on their phones.
People watch you get impaled on their phones. Why on their phones? In trains? At work? On toilets?
You are so god damn beautiful. Not my type, no, too blonde, but still, beautiful. Whoever lured you into this business, saw that too. I say lured you into it, because it’s hard to imagine that you woke up some day and told yourself: you know what? Let’s go shoot a porn movie and earn some extra cash. You’re no pro. Or you’re such a pro you’re playing the not being a pro. But no, you’re new to this. You really don’t look like a nymphomaniac. You look like you need the cash. That’s all. And you happen to have some friends close to or in the business.
My curious girlfriend says, after two minutes of watching very intimate close-ups: “This is really boring.”
“I know. It’s all the time the same. The girls let out this moaning drone. The guys look bored. There’s no story. It’s hardly exciting.”
“Then why do you watch it?”
“To get a quick fix. To get the poisonous juice out. To get sex off my mind, as quickly as possible, so I can focus on something else.”
“I’m against it.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m against it. But it annoys me. It’s repetitive, it’s boring. But the woman can be knock-out beauties.”
“But you said it pains you to look at beauty.”
“I know. It’s annoying.”
“It has nothing to do with real sex. It’s so butcher shop like. So mechanical.”
I skip some.
“Wait. Don’t skip it.”
“Why do women watch porn till the end?”
“I don’t know. We’re more patient than guys?”
“They think there will be a wedding in the end.”
“Did you ever meet a porn star?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“You don’t even have an erection while we’re watching this.”
“I know. It’s not that exciting to watch it. It still needs concentration and imagination.”
We’re both bored. I switch if off.
“When I see the power feminine beauty exerts on guys, I can’t understand why we women didn’t enslave males. Why the opposite is closer to the truth. But yeah, I guess the answer is guys only like feminine beauty when they can control it.”
“I don’t know. It’s a very sensitive issue.”
“I hope she wasn’t pushed into it.”
“Big chance the economic situation pushed her into it.”
“Maybe, but blaming it on the economy is easy.”
“And why don’t they make better porn? I mean, a movie with a story that is great by itself, not because of the sex, but yeah, with explicit sex scenes. That’s what I would like. Why do they never make movies like that?”
We didn’t hit on a final answer to that question. Neither did we hit on a movie that fit into that category. The category didn’t exist.
“Alain de Botton wrote a book about porn. He asks the same question.”
We didn’t read that book. We did act out scenes from porn movies. And we were almost as bored as when we were watching them. My girlfriend at the time concluded: “Porn isn’t about sex. It’s anti-sex. It converts guys into wankers and the boredom in the movie they transplant to the bedroom. Guys who want to have real life sex, have to stop watching porn.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. It doesn’t get you anywhere. Why are we still talking about this?”
“I wish I could talk to that girl. Ask her how she got there. If that’s her life. If she has a boyfriend.”
We hug for a very long time. And we put the song ‘Sex is dead’ by Mauro Pawlowski on repeat.
And sex really is dead. Killed by too much. By pushing borders to the end of the sex universe. To the point you need to start killing people and fuck them with a hot poker while you do it in order to still try something new. American psycho, it’s all too realistic. But no, mutal consent is the only rule still left. And so sex is dead.
And it will take a very catholic, very religious, very hot, and very, I don’t know, appreciative of the human experience, to revive it. And keep it alive. With borders. With a return of the sacredness of sex.
But before that, me and that ex-girlfriend, who was so curious about the girl in the porn scene, we just lay there, and we buried sex, emotionally evaporated, as if we’d just climbed out of a mineshaft that was leading nowhere anymore, and so I won’t mention the name of the ex, that’s fitting, for the nothingness, the semi-delirious weeks spent in bed, hiding the fact we’re bored with each other. A numb wake and mourning of sex.
That unknown girl in that porn scene also remains nameless and I thank her for an untold number of quick fixes and a long journey towards a rebirth of sex, much, much later.