I was having a conversation with a friend recently. She was somewhat upset and a little shaken after having returned, unannounced, from work earlier than usual to find her boyfriend of two years indulging in a spot of afternoon self pleasuring. Her issue was not with the fact that she interrupted a mid morning masturbation session but more that he was watching some light pornography whilst performing the act in question. He was also wearing socks. Most regrettable.
She recapped the events of the afternoon in full detail over a decaf Latte and pain au raisin fearing that, if he was seeking satisfaction from an anonymous ‘porn whore with fake tits and an arsehole big enough to fit half a Lithuanian football team’, that there must be something lacking in their relationship.
I have strong thoughts on the issue and, truth be told, found the fact he didn’t view a wank fest reason enough to remove his socks far more worrying than the fact that felt aroused by ‘brunette cutie pie loving pussy massage.’ Sex with socks on is possibly the most unsightly thing known to womankind. Masturbation with socks? Far worse. I trust you’ll agree when I say, quite possibly, the least dignified position to find oneself in, in the cold light of day, is naked post solitary orgasm, look down to see Tie Racks finest cashmere mix and you really are setting yourself up for a life of shame and inevitable asexuality. I digress.
So, as we were. Porn.
I’ve never really understood the issue with a good old dose of ‘hot cum lover begging for anal’. Why, if anything, in a relationship, I welcome a bit of Red Tube as a distraction from a nightly seeing to should one fancy a few days off. Far from reflecting on a negative sex life I think it simply acts to demonstrate that your beloved has, indeed, a healthy appetite for sexual activity, eastern European lesbians, cum squirting college girls and lusty red heads begging for more. (delete where appropriate).
The thing which surprises me most about porn is not so much the endless stream of ‘wet cumloving college pussy’ but the quality of the acting. Forgive me and, naturally, I felt obliged to investing said material to gain a better understanding of how my companion might be feeling, (after all, what are friends for) but, really, you’d think if you were going to post yourself naked, spread eagle on You Tube, expecting an average of 613,588 hits (Alright, alright, a lot of research.) you’d invest in a few night classes. But perhaps, therein lies the difference. Porn is not there to be emotionally analysed, it does not parade as acting or even at times remotely convincing, it is simply colour by numbers, easy to read, come fodder. Meaning that, your partner watching it, says no more about your relationship than you fantasising about the plumber (and his wife) while he bends you over for a quickie at half time. It’s meaningless make believe.
Porn has never claimed to be highbrow or intelligent, it simply does what it says on the tin. It reminds us that, push comes to shove, or rather push, shove and come we are all just a bunch of horny fuckers who still rate shagging as a top ten past time. (And praise be to that, dear Lord, there’s only so long you can drag out the Olympics.)
So in reassurance to my friend I would say this. Celebrate the occasional porn fest, rejoice in the fact that once in a while you can give him a lap top instead of a blow job while you have a long soak in the tub, with a good book and a large glass of Pinot Noir. Failing that, I would say, bugger the book and have a session yourself; quite honestly I struggle to think of anything more relaxing after a long day at work than a good hour of Porn Hub … and a glass of Pinot Noir.
Porn might not suit everyone but it’s a damn sight more fun than watching eight fat celebrities head to toe in sequins trying to waltz across a BBC film studio.
And far easier to wank to … no offence Brucie.