The interviewer instructing, stand up baby. The woman doing so. Turn around. Bend down over the sofa, yes that’s right, okay, put your hands on your cheeks, pull them apart. Hey what a pretty little pussy. Pull your ass apart baby, yes that’s right, the boys are going to love that. Okay turn around, lie back, relax, now I want you to play with yourself.
The interviewer asking, how often do you masturbate baby? Oh, most days. When did you start doing that, how old were you? The questions continuing, the woman answering.
The situation, the woman, her veracity, exceeding the capacity of the conventional porno form, transcending it. Differing completely from its usual fraudulent stereotype, every woman a nymphomaniac. . Here on the screen before me, a rare treasure, the sense of a woman’s true sexual character, alive, breathing, uncontrived.
Two naked men walking into the room, sitting next to the woman, kissing her. The porn moving into autopilot. Sucking, entering, a rotation through various positions. The unique sexual woman reduced to merchandise.
But her confidences still leaving an imprint, an enduring erotic tingle. Always the most deeply sexual thing, when a woman allows her public face to fall away. A face carefully cultivated from girlhood to shield against boys in the playground, retained in adulthood as guard against imputation of cheapness. Only set aside for lovers, and not always then. Or as here, rarely, on the screen.
Watching her, naked with the men, penetrated. Thinking, the nakedness and penetration when she shared her secrets, they were the more profound, they had the sharper erotic electricity.
