Twilight of Desire
'Sadly, Porn' a review
And the Lord said unto him, “what do you desire?” But Job had no answer.
It’s always the same reoccurring dream. Blood drips down my nose and I’m in the midst of a violent episode with a greek woman (don’t ask me why and yes the nose is probably a symbolic representation of the vagina). She laughs gleefully at my inability to touch or hurt her. We are in the throes of war and she is repeatedly striking me with long erect perfectly straight jabs (this time it’s an arm attached to a fist but other times it’s a lance, swords, or whatever other obvious phallic imagery my mind can unsubtly conjure). She tells me she has to take it from me and even though this is the hundredth or so time I’ve had this dream and I know what she means but in the moment I am unsure and terrified at her demands. “Let me deprive you” she screams as she pins me on the ground. I’m scared and helpless unable to move as she grabs me by the throat and reaches into my pants. “I need it” she screeches before reaching down and grabbing me. “I’ll take it all” she whispers in my ear. Her hand begins to slowly gyrate up and down against my shaft. “Please I’ll give you anything you want?” I say despite knowing any attempt I make is futile. I can’t help it whatever she wants she will have I know this now, I have always known this but I cannot stop trying to deprive her of what she so desperately wants to take. Her hand moves faster, there’s nothing I can do to stop it and to stop my body's response. For some reason, this chills my soul more than anything else. She climbs on top and slides me inside of her in one seamless motion. Her hair drips over my eyes and I can hear her cooing as she shivers putting her entire weight on top of me. It’s only a matter of time the end is inevitable it is the only logical conclusion but no matter how much I fight it all tension must inevitably be released. She wraps her legs around me, her thighs squeezing against lower extremities like an anaconda. Her forehead rests against mine and she whispers “The end is built into the beginning”, I begin to deflate like a balloon, and everything I had begins to rapidly release from me and into her. I drain beneath her as my being liquifies and begins to release from the nozzle. Keeping her blue eyes tracked to mine her face wrinkles and contorts I think she’s smirking maybe orgasming I can’t tell but I know she is killing me and even though I feel it flowing from me into her I know there is no amount I could give to fill even a fraction of her. I lay there like a deflated balloon, my bones gone, my soul devoured. She frees her grip and her legs loosen having never once broken eye contact I watch helplessly as everything I have given her and everything she has taken is released onto the ground. I envy her.
The mirror over the bed isn’t for me it’s for them. No one questions a kink and their assurance of what it represents makes it easier to hide what’s inside. “He’s a narcissist who likes to watch himself” I don’t care what they think as long as they don’t see what’s underneath. You can put a camera in anything and mirrors are surprisingly cheap and inconspicuous. If I paid extra they would let me record them, they might even provide the camera but that would defeat the purpose, and then I’m just a guy with a mirror.
A lot of my friends don’t understand why I pay for sex. This means it’s working; I’m attractive, successful, and in excellent shape. So why do I pay for something I could get for free? I’m not bragging, just being honest. I have the bank statements, bench press numbers, and the unsolicited nudes to prove it. But it’s more authentic this way and just to be clear I don’t pay for sex. “I don’t pay them to come over I pay them to leave”. Not to mention it’s better than porn, that shit will rot your soul.
I called the agency a few hours ago and asked for the usual. The lady on the phone called me “everyone’s favorite customer”. Despite the fact that I think it’s a lie it feels good to be appreciated and the lie just means they care. They’re sending over a new girl tonight. I prefer the familiarity of those I’ve had before but no one likes a picky eater plus this one looks a lot like my mother. There’s no point denying our nature. We all have an Oedipus complex so why not enjoy it, why not exploit our faults to maximize our desire? The truth will set you free but repression will give you ED.
I always set up the mirrors several hours before the woman arrives. Besides the one on the ceiling the rest of the mirrors I keep downstairs in the basement and each must be brought up and carefully positioned around the bedroom in order to ensure complete omniscience. I even have a bookshelf that’s rigged to trigger a lever so when the false book is pulled it flips a section of the ceiling to reveal the mirror above the bedroom. A little tacky I know but it makes me feel like a Bond villain, and they say money can’t buy happiness.
I enjoy the routine almost more than the act itself, it’s a nice build-up to the fantasy and it allows the thrill of the inevitable to take hold; maybe women were right about foreplay. It also gives me time to work out a character. I’m not into roleplaying but these girls expect me to be into something. The more quirks and kinks the more authentic they think it is. If it was just sex they would start to get suspicious. They might wonder what a guy like me, a guy who looks like me who has a house like mine would bother paying for a girl like them. It’s not that they’re unattractive or inexpensive, they all have to be attractive and expensive, probably because that’s the way my mother was. But this isn’t about me it’s about them.
We’ll go for something simple tonight, I’ll be the recent lottery winner and she’ll be the girl next door. A young man who has everything except what every rich young man wishes money could buy. I’ll tell her I know it sounds stupid and cliche, I’ll feign nervousness at my fetish and try to keep that energy as we both assume our personas. She’ll be Meridith, (my mother’s name and the only thing that’s not fantasy), and even though I suspect she just wants me for my money she assures me that she doesn’t care about any of the material things, she sees me for who I really am on the inside past the facade, the money is just a bonus. I’ll keep up the nervous bashful act pretending to be the shy and inexperienced lover who she has to guide through the process until my primal instincts take over and I discover who I am through her body. I’m not the best writer and I don’t get paid to fantasize but you get the gist. She gets to be the one who can see what no one else bothered to and I have let down my guard despite my better judgment and trust that she isn’t what the rest of the world will see her as. Like I said it’s not Shakespeare but it’s not the worst or most cliche thing she’ll be asked to do this month. Just weird enough to psychoanalyze but simple enough to obscure the defense.
She’ll be here soon. In order to prepare I pour myself a drink to lower my inhibitions and get in the mood. The right amount of whiskey makes everything easier, especially this. As I return to the couch I continue with the ritualized foreplay and take a large sip of the expensive brown liquid. I think about her, I think about her role and my objective. Her job is to please me, to be my desire, my fantasy and it’s my job to let her think that she is. You might think she doesn’t care about my fantasies that she’s just a girl doing her job but this is what assures her that it’s real. The transaction just guarantees my desire and reassures her it’s genuine, that there is no audience beyond the reflection.
I turn on a little porn now that everything is ready and the rough sketch of the character and the night's events have been etched into my mind. I like watching a little porn before the climax, it helps me get out of my own head so I can’t overthink the situation. It’s best to only have an outline that way nothing feels rehearsed or dishonest.
I don’t watch it because it turns me on or anything, I hate porn, but it allows me to find the moments I do all of this for. I never jerk off and there’s no point in scrolling the web to find a video when I have hundreds of hours of my own footage. This is not to say that I don’t sympathize with the porn addict. I understand what they are doing even if they don’t understand themselves. I don’t judge them I just found a better outlet. That isn’t to say that I do take influence from the professionals, after all, I am but a humble amateur. It’s not what you think, these people don’t just obsessively consume porn, they are not viewers they are archaeologists trying to find what has been hidden and preserved under all the dirt lost to time and history. It’s difficult to describe what they are looking for, it’s like God, maybe you can only say what it is not. Calling it a search for the real doesn’t seem to fit, people use the term hyperreality, or the hyperreal I don’t know what it means but it feels like a more appropriate term for describing our common search. It’s not about the “real” the real doesn’t exist this is porn after all. It doesn't matter that it's really what matters is that she accepts it that she stops being Jane Doe and starts being anyone else. He can accept it too this isn’t a sexist thing but the man is only the vehicle into the woman. The point isn’t her it’s what she’s trying to be, the goal isn’t to see her but the character to find those tiny occasions of clarity when she stops being a character and starts BEING the character. Does that make sense? I slept through most of my philosophy seminars but I learned if you repeat a word with italics or capitalize it, it usually takes on a different meaning which I guess is a metaphor for what I’m talking about.
The doorbell rings, she’s here. I take a second to compose myself and turn off the porn. I need her to think I’m broken and deviant but not that deviant. I quickly take a large sip of my whiskey, making sure to finish all of it but a small sip, so she can put together that I was nervously drinking and preparing for the moment. It also gives the impression that I had to ready myself for this but not to the point where I have to be completely drunk to go through with it. It’s important to leave these types of clues. I use my computer to switch the television to a sporting event. She’ll also probably suspect I was watching something else (maybe porn) and changed it to this to appear more masculine, another subtle piece of my character's character.
I make my way to the door. This is the part I hate most, the part where she’s still her and not anyone else. She's still not the real her I don't care about her, prostitutes always make sure to always stay in some form of character as a defense mechanism, and who can blame her when there are creeps like me out there who she has to service. Who she chooses to be during the introductions and business transaction part of the story can also be telling but that’s not what interests me it only matters that she knows she has to be in character.
“Hi”
I open the door all the way and let her in after she gives a performative smile and I awkwardly reach my hand out for her to shake. She gives a more genuine or at least more believable giggle and another small smile at the interaction before making her way inside. A white envelope is placed next to her seat and she counts the money making sure everything is as specified before the real foreplay begins. I make sure she sees me finishing my drink as I make my way into the kitchen.
“Can I get you anything to drink?”
“I’m okay thank you… you have a beautiful house”
She not only looks like my mother but she talks like her too.
I fill my glass and return back to the living room. I can tell she’s new at but she already has the confidence and comfortability of a seasoned vetran.
“Are you sure there’s nothing you want?”
She smiles and says,
“