Sunday, January 14, 2007

Girls Don't Share Porn

This is something I wrote a while ago and would just like to make it available for others to read....

It's true. Girls don't share porn. Most of the porn you can find out there is made for and shared by men. It's all hard cocks popping into tight, or occasionally not so tight, holes on women who invariably strike me as merely cartoon cutouts of busty lusty comic book super hero's that everyone wanted to fuck at thirteen. In essence all the good porn, the stuff that really gets a girl, or at least this girl, hot between the legs, is delegated to the nether realms of unavailable, and it makes me angry. Really, girls don't share porn.

I remember porn. I remember how porn began for me. I knew what porn was in the same way that I knew about "just say no" and "don't talk to strangers". Porn was in the realm of all things horribly bad that children should never do just because it was okay for adults. I think a part of me has always relished this double standard of the things that we cannot do as children which are fine for adults, it's seedy, and it makes things like porn so special. Ah, the taboo, has there ever been a better sexual fetish then things forbidden in our youth?

I classify porn as anything that is external that can be a jumping off point for eventually getting off. Porn is that wonderful stuff that is outside, that can at the right time be put to fruitful use for wet moist fumbling in the dark of one's young bedroom. Porn was at first anything that I could not conjure up.

Those were golden days, when I discovered the first kinds of erotica that would bring me to questioning the pulse between my legs and the warmth in my cheeks. I stumbled onto it like many a young girl through the hot sticky pages of bodice ripping novels passed down from generation to generation of adolescent girls. Those pages full of words written by what one imagined were lusty women living in castles wearing tight bodices and being pleasured all night long by strong strapping men who made all the decisions. Ah, for the tawdry tales of youth.

This was fun stuff. Stuff that I was shared between myself and best friend. She picked up the books from her mother who thought nothing of it. We would sit in the wee morning dawn before classes began and discuss the pages and scenes that kept us coming back and back and back. We didn't talk about masturbation. Masturbation was in that realm of things that one did not discuss for fear of public humiliation. No one wanted to admit that masturbation existed because it might makes us freaks, or worse go blind. In reality, most girls don't really know that they can masturbate, so admitting that it was not only possible but that you knew how might be a worse stigmata then being those "freaky lessie chicks." Freaky lessie chicks we could deal with, but masturbators? Perish the thought.

So we would sit and recount the pages that made us feel hot and heavy, but not ever consider or at least not admit that these same pages were the little pearls that were pushing us over the edge of moist misguided pleasuring into actual climax. This was golden stuff, this was what really got us off, and we liked it. I remember when I finally learned that I was having an orgasm. I attribute this knowledge to Stephen King's Carrie. I still remember long hours masturbating to a torrid scene set in the back of a car where two teen lovers finally manage to do two things right at the same time. Figure out how to put the condom on correctly, and for the girl, figuring out how to come. I remember his descriptions of opening roses and overwhelming goodness and thought, hey that's how I feel right, right, right, right, ah…..that was education in it's happiest most puerile form.

Stephen King was among the many introductions to porn that I shared with my friend, but as high school wanders on I found a number of more interesting outlets for getting my rocks off. I have to say, among the best pornography of high school was the hot and heavy tales of how to masturbate as recounted by sixteen year old boys. Oddly, there is something almost poetic about the young teenage male when he discusses masturbation. Granted I was not the audience of these tales, these were intended for the poor young Jehovah's Witness who was unfortunately seated amongst these erstwhile sexual bullies who would tease and prod and poke at him because he was too meek and virtuous perhaps. They would talk about the art of masturbation and the techniques that they had discovered paying little attention to the girl who was paying rapt attention to them, rather then concentrating on learning that dastardly Pythagorean theorem. Ah, for the tawdry talk of the high school boy. This became an entirely knew kind of porn, porn from someone else's fantasy or reality. The porn of people I knew. That was a seedy wetness that I truly enjoyed.

Boys in high school are full of talks about sex and masturbation, something that they can share far more freely then the high school girl. I'd listen to the poetic descriptions or sometimes merely just raw descriptions of masturbatory act and excused myself for a trip to the bathroom, standing in a cold white high school stall and coming as much as I could in a five minute break from class. Splashing cold water on my face and washing sticky fingers before returning to class and finishing whatever work it was I had been distracted from. Able to tune it out, that steamy talking, but knowing that I could pull it up again later, at home, for something perhaps a bit more satisfying. Ah, my sexually over stimulated youth.
That was all good fun, getting off on the imagines of others, of authors, the teenage boy, the preachers daughter, all good tales of hot fun that could be woven into my own night time ponderings and used to speed the contractions of my clitoris before passing out into sleep. Those were good times, and good porn. I remember then later dirty magazines hidden between the mattress of my younger brother, or videos that had been stolen, along with the contents of the register, from the video store down the street by those same younger family members. But these harder things, these true realities, actually watching people have sex on screen, this was not nearly as powerful as the books I enjoyed reading. I found it more scientific, penis, vagina, intercourse; it wasn't sex and didn't have the same power over me as the flowery words of Johanna Lindsey.

And yet, even with access to all the smut filled romances I could have had, I enjoyed my own imagination so much more. It was at some point after I turned sixteen or seventeen that I was finally able to imagine my own porn with much greater success then the tales that could be woven in a late night blue movie or a historical bodice ripper. I did so enjoy those early sexual fantasies, and it was not to long before I was even less intrepid and started writing my own porn. Those were times when I would bring stories in, my last year of high school, and pass them around for others to read.

Alas, it was not the same as passed around novels. There was a change in the reception of my homegrown porn. Maybe there was to much of a hint that these fantasies for me were powerful points for my own pleasure, maybe there was too much of a hint of masturbation to my writings, or maybe there was some random fear or jealousy that I was getting laid. My descriptions were real enough to have fooled and expert into thinking that I knew what I was talking about. And goodness knows I had always been a good student, paying attention to the details with which every orgasm I had ever read about had been written. Or better paying attention to exactly what my body did when I would orgasm. It seemed almost fitting that I would pour the same details into my literary imaginings, but suddenly it was too much, and I learned for the first time that there are some things you can't share.

Fortunately high school ends, and new audiences can be found for seedy ramblings. I filled pages and pages with sprawling hand written scrawl full of tawdry fantasies that I could only imagine acting out, but had never actually done. I enjoyed that someone else might be taking some pleasure in my cultish writing, but usually it was only my pleasure, hard to find an audience for home grown smut; although at least one story I did sending all the cast of Scooby-Doo into a frenzied bestiality driven orgy was fairly well received. I think only because most thought it funny at best or at worst so seedy that the way it might stir the blood was best not discussed. At that point it didn't really matter because I enjoyed it and it no longer bothered me that someone else might not.

But then, oh the revelations and the sexual awakenings and the first lickings and utterances and exclamations of hot sex with a girl you had always fantasized. Now then is when porn got interesting. Suddenly there was a reality to all those wet musings, suddenly there was something truly and deeply behind it, and then it was so much hotter. Then I would go home at night and not just masturbate, but fuck myself thinking about the various sex acts I had just preformed. Then porn did not become an imaginings of what I wanted but remembrances of what I had just had.

Those dreaming on recently coital activities were enough to bring me up and over several mountain ranges of sexual desire and even still get me through many a long night when I might sleep alone. In a way reflections on my past misdeeds has become a form of porn all its own. But then, there are those nights or days, mornings or afternoons when a face won't come when I call it, or the sounds are not right, or my mind is too distracted which is why I'm masturbating in the first place, and that's when I contemplate porn.

Sometimes I still turn to the porn of my youth, those favorite stories with earmarked pages that now get me off as much for the tawdriness of the tale as thoughts of my innocent self coming quietly in darkened rooms. Other times I wish I could find those seedy blue movies where I first watched budding lesbian desires causing turmoil and confusion until finally they were acted on and realized, pushing an impressionable young girl to heights of excitement that I have sought to recreate since. But girls don't share porn.

I have this theory about porn sharing, for today when I go to seek out that ever so pleasant girl porn from days past I turn to the media which was invented for nothing but the gratification of our basest desires. Ah, the internet, a wandering floating sea of flotsam and jetsam of earthly delights.

But girls don't share porn. Try to find any decent girl porn on the internet by decent female pornographers or even decent male ones. Directors like Zalaman King or Anna Span. It's damned hard to come by or come on. You can get all manner of hard banging, cock in hole smut that does little to bring about imagination. That's the thing about imagining. Going straight from "hello" to "suck my cock" just isn't that exciting. I mean at least if we are picking up someone with a line like "Nice boots! Wanna fuck?" there were a few minutes of flirting across the bar, checking out of the outfit, imagining answers, responses, conversations, hot sex, and then having real hot sex. If you have to, or at least if I want to watch porn, I'd like a little story with my hot sex, but, then I come again to this problem, girls don't share porn.

So I'm asking, I'm sending a shout out, to all those girls out there that have decent porn. Come on, share it. If the world is going to be flooded by eroticism then the least we can do is through some good stuff into the mix. Write a dirty story and share it with the world. Rip those movies that make you wet between the legs and upload them for other girls to share. Let's create and celebrate an international day of girl porn were we can fill ourselves on indulgent smut with a story line that mimics our experiences or better still gives us ideas for future dalliances. Up with porn ladies, up with porn.

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