Please Pass the Egg Nog: Pornography or Porn-not-graphy?
A picture of a stiff dick is just silliness to me. Where's the fun in that? It's already out and has no place to go.
Consider this Syllogism:
The Intelligent Male Animal becomes stupid when horny.
Pornography makes the Intelligent Male Animal horny.
Ergo, exposing the Intelligent Male Animal to pornography will make him stupid.
Don’t get me wrong. I love a little naughtiness, a bit of edgy, filthy talk whispered in my ear at just at the right moment. And those lucky enough to get close know I can give as good as I get. And those lucky enough to get really, really close know I can usually give better. What makes it really fun when I cut loose with my smarmy little, lipsticked mouth is that no one ever sees it coming. How can this sometimes cuddly and occasionally sophisticated woman who collects angels and smiley faces, who sponsors an overseas child, who is passionate about musical theater and poetry, possibly know what a strap-on dildo is and, even worse, describe what she is going to do to your bitch ass with it--in such graphic, vivid, detail?
Of course, the definition of pornography, particularly in this day and age of zealot witch hunts by aged hippies who’ve traded their once-passionate idealism for Amway “business opportunities” is pretty much up for grabs. And sadly, among adult webmasters, the definition of pornography is too often simplified to: What everybody else (except me!) is doing. There always has been a fine line between pornography and erotica, and the debate will continue, with or without me. I am confident that most of you reading this are hoping for the latter. Oh, well, what’s a girl to do? I guess when you’re the kind of girl that believes in both Fairy Tales and Fairy Tails, you just keep on telling it like you see it…or imagine it…or hear it…or read it.
Being a lover of poetry, theater, books and having studied Blake, Donne, St. Vincent Milay, Sexton, Whitman, Browning, and so many more, I believe in the power of words much more than the power of pictures. Whoever said “A picture is worth a thousand words” was absolutely right and I will greedily opt for the hindmost every time. And so it is with pornography with me: It is the whispered words, the imagined broken taboos, the crossing of imaginary lines that quickens my pulse, whets my twisted little whistle, and sends me barreling up and into the outer stratosphere of orgasmic bliss. This is erotica that is made-up from my God-given brain: glorious, beautiful, sublime, ethereal. It’s a magnificent mystery--how all of this works. I have no idea how or why it does work. And I don’t want to know, because that would just take all the fun out of it now, wouldn’t it? So—with all that said—of course I prefer pornographic stories to pornographic pictures. You know, pornography doesn’t really have to come true, don’t you?
This doesn’t mean that I can’t appreciate erotic/pornographic (or dirty or wicked or immoral or whatever we are calling it these days) pictures now and then. (See my review and interview in this Sex Kitten issue.) Quite the contrary, I can and often do find these pictures quite appealing. It’s just that a picture, in and of itself, is just not going to do it for me. I suspect this is probably true of most women; unless, of course, it is a picture of Antonio Banderas.
What this woman, Angela St. Lawrence, needs is a nice, dirty, little story to go with the picture. And, believe me, with my brain, whipping one up is not a problem. Show me the right stuff at the right time and I will run with it. A picture of a stiff dick is just silliness to me. Where’s the fun in that? It’s already out and has no place to go. But show me a torso with the top button undone on a pair of blue jeans, the copper zipper slightly down, the hint of a bulge in need of a little feminine encouragement, and I am on it! I’m going to drag out the tawdry tinsel and chaser lights and dress that pecker up like a K-Mart Christmas tree…then drive it around Main Street!
It’s going to be wild and loud and will wake up the neighbors. But don’t worry; it will be safe, because I don’t drink and drive. But when it comes to pornography, most men do drink and drive. Men get drunk on pornography and when that happens, somebody better be getting the car keys from them. Remember the syllogism at the beginning of all of this? It wasn’t meant to offend anybody happening upon this column. I love men! I love talking to, playing with, and getting to know men. When you’re hot and bothered on possibilities and ideas, I would drive around the world with you, fly to the moon and back with you. But when you’re drunk and stupid on pornography, I think I’d just rather take the bus.
Call me when you sober up. I’ll be here sipping my (spicy not spiced) Egg Nog. After all, it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.