Porn, Reliable Standby

Another day dawning and still out of sorts, Carol in my mind like a virus that won’t shift. Sexual restlessness compounding the malaise.

Turning to porn, reliable standby, mood lightened by its refreshing shallowness. My preferred website reassuringly familiar. Over the last month, a few thousand new porn postings, each with preview photos, all free, just click, settle back, enjoy.

Checking some out. Tons of bimbos with false boobs and choreographed ecstasy. Quickly paging past them, in search of authenticity or imagination.

Finally, finding something. French, often the best porn. A woman collected from a Metro. Smartly dressed. Seemingly excited but not overawed. Friendly chat. The interviewer checking that she knows what’s planned, a session of debauchery, a young stud waiting in the apartment. Her shoulders in a Gallic shrug, sure, as we arranged on the telephone.

In the apartment, the woman sitting on a sofa, facing forward towards the camera, discussing her sexual situation and preferences. Her eyes distracted leftwards, widening, looking back, smiling, continuing to talk. A man entering the scene, naked, standing next to her. Her hand reaching out, stroking his flank, moving to his cock, taking it in her hand, still talking.

The man pressing toward her face. The woman turning, pushing out her tongue to touch his cock. Her eyes looking sideways, seeing herself on a television playback of the scene. Taking the cock deeper in her mouth, still looking at the scene. The man silent and passive, nothing more than a prop, provider of an erection.

The woman standing, removing her clothes. The man turning her round, bending her over, separating her buttocks, spreading her pussy’s lips, licking her clitoris. The woman arching her back down for a wider spread, shoulders low. The camera panning to her face. Her eyes checking the playback, studying it, skin flushed in excitement.

The camera moving back. The man’s hands on her buttocks stretching her sphincter, ramming his tongue deep inside. Her eyes shutting, her mouth slightly gasping. Her hand moving between her legs, stroking her clitoris, rocking her hips.

The scene continuing. Me, watching, hand on cock. The woman opening her eyes, looking at the camera, straight at me. Suddenly, the excitement exploding, tension leaving my body like the spark of static. Quiet for a moment. Then wiping with a tissue, closing down the site, collecting myself, feeling better.

Amateur, Anal, Blowjob, Group

Delving through the porn videos, finding nothing erotic so far.

Contemplating the site’s logistics. Each video advertising itself with a photo, scroll over it and it flashes photos like a carousel, snippets of the action. Enough to get a sense of whether it’s what you might be after. Click on one, try it, get drawn into it or move on.

Nearly all of them, rotation through rote positions. The actors, plastic. Sufficient for po-faced critics denounce the form, a logic that would pick up a book, find it to be pulp fiction, therefore denounce literature. You want to tell them, lighten up dammit, it’s not the dross that matters it’s the good stuff. But it’s the finding of the good stuff that’s difficult.

Forty videos on a page, most recent postings first. Quick arithmetic, three hundred posted every day. And all for free. And all for me.

Down the left, filters to let you find what you want. Amateur, Anal, Blowjob, Group, so on. About fifty categories. I wonder how much they’re used. Me, I prefer not to be prescriptive, I like surfing them all, looking to be surprised.

Flicking through the pages, alighting on one, looks interesting. The photos showing a woman with spectacles, smiling at the camera, slightly shy.

Clicking the video, finding myself being drawn in. That distinctive mental click, a switch turning on, a slight breathlessness, The video showing normal people, the woman different from the usual silicone pornstar masquerading as amateur. Unsure what to do, taking directions from the more experienced among them. Excited by the presence of the camera. Slightly breathless, like me, and prone to giggling.

The woman removing her top, sliding out of jeans. The men doing similar. Clothes discarded in piles, kicked out of the camera’s vision. One man kneeling between her legs, licking her, the woman gasping. The other man taking a second camera, filming from a different angle, turning to film the first camera, turns out it’s being operated by a woman. My screen showing both films edited into a video.

The dynamic developing, all four taking turns filming the others. Their individualities developing through the action, their secret sexual urges enacted. One man unable to hold back, exploding, the woman’s face round his cock widening its eyes, smiling, pulling back, the sperm dribbling on to her cheek. The other couple laughing, clapping. The video ending. Exciting, enticing porn.

Everything Utterly Different

A business deadline looming and a lot of work to do, a decade ago it would have taken weeks and required endless travel, today it’s just a question of staying organized, using the internet. Comments on a document here, an email there, a spreadsheet here, and it all comes together.

Reaching a breakpoint, making a cup of tea, spring sunshine filling the kitchen. Checking my secret email account, seeing one from Carol.

Hi R, just to say thanks for a fun morning, thought I’d try the email address you gave me, I’ve just set up a secret one for myself, good idea, protects against curious eyes and ears, much better than a cellphone. Also, just wanted to let you know, forgot to mention it, I was too engrossed in our conversation, I’m actually away in Mexico for ten days or so, helping out with an archeological dig, maybe it’d be okay to contact you when I get back. Please reply – I want to be sure my new email address is working. Carol xxx.

Emailing her, hi Carol, got your email, have a great time in Mexico, sounds exciting, yes, email me when you get back, R xxx.

Sipping my tea, enjoying the kitchen’s sunshine warmth. Pondering the joys of technology. Carol will probably pick up my email somewhere in Mexico. Jane will email some time, let me know how things are going in Australia. Different secret worlds, each in its separate domain, kept effortlessly separate. A few years ago, a world of landline phones, no emails, no internet, and the secret worlds would have collided. Today, everything utterly different.

Firing up the escort website, just for the devil of it. The screen filling with profiles and photos, vistas of blowjobs and anal ecstasy and pussy delights. A rumbustious and unashamed purveyance of pleasure. Proved in my own experience to be highly effective in delivery. A few years ago, no such thing existed, if you wanted any of this you’d have to wade first through streetcorner sleaze and predatory pimps.

Switching to a porn website, again, just for the devil of it. Surveying the thousands of new videos, thinking of clicking one, not in the mood, maybe later.

Thinking, if all this didn’t exist, the pressures would just build and build, eventually explode, like my first marriage. Interesting, maybe I’d still be with her if I could have done what I can do now. I wonder how many marriages all this technology is saving today.

Unremarkable Everyday Event

Walking into the room, a student pad, two young men, chatting. Satchels discarded on the floor. A kettle being filled and turned on. One of the men taking a book out of a satchel, putting on spectacles, opening the book, pointing to something inside, reading it, making some point. His friend, slightly older, more savvy somehow, responding. The kettle starting to boil.

The door opening again, a woman coming in. The man in spectacles being introduced. A smile from the woman, oh, this is the friend you were telling me about, the lonely one. Taking his hand, leading him to the sofa, kissing his cheek. Clattering in the background of tea being made.

The angle of view unchanging, from a fixed camera mounting. Acoustics just about okay. The effect on my computer screen being that of witnessing an unremarkable everyday event, one however normally kept private, the sharing of it containing an edge of excitement.

The woman still holding the man’s hand, stroking it. Let me read your palm, honey, yes, it’s telling me what I could see when I walked into the room, and what your friend told me, you need some stress relief, honey. Patting her thigh. Come lie down here honey.

The man hesitant. Come on honey. Pulling him gently down. His legs now outstretched on the sofa, his head using her thigh as a pillow. The woman’s fingers stroking his hair, rubbing his temples gently, touching his ears, kneading his neck and shoulders. The man’s body relaxing.

Her hands moving over his chest, massaging his thighs. A small murmur of pleasure from him. Undoing his belt, unbuttoning the trousers, unzipping the fly. Her hand feeling inside, a gasp of mock astonishment at the object found within. Pulling out his cock, another mock gasp at its magnificence.

The man’s eyes half-closed in pleasure. She looking at him fondly, one hand stoking his hair, the other working his cock. Her smiling sexual detachment, her matter-of-fact acceptance of male need, containing an intense erotic charge for the man, and for me.

His body starting to stiffen slightly. Her face turning to watch his cock. Her hand continuing its steady motion. A slow mounting groan from him, his legs straightening into rigidity. His body convulsing. His cock spewing its white fluid, the woman watching expertly.

The woman leaning down, giving him a kiss on the forehead, sliding out from under his head, passing him a cushion, going to the kitchen for a paper towel to wipe up. The man’s body untightening, his head sinking back in peace.

I Don’t Feel Guilty, I Feel Free

Browsing the escort website, whiling away an idle hour checking out the 2011 intake. Mostly, the profiles all resembling one another, the challenge of browsing being to find one that stands out.

Today, success. KinkyDinky, just moved to London from US of A, loving it here. Longtime sexaholic, turned professional three months ago. If you’re interested, here’s my story.

Married my school sweetheart, thought a whole new world of sex would open up, well, it didn’t take long to find out, now I know why you should try before you buy. He liked to do it twice a week, I needed it twice a day at least, spent my entire life masturbating and feeling guilty, after a while we split up. After that, lots of men, same old problem, none of them could keep up with me.

Then I met an older man, he couldn’t keep up either but he introduced me to swinging, he’d take me to parties, look after me, get his kicks watching. The first one we went to was bukake, I said what’s that, he said wait and see. I had to strip naked, lay on my back on a massage table so the men could masturbate over me. Wow, I still remember it, about ten shooting off in my mouth, each one with a different taste, like a wine tasting except I didn’t spit out. For the first time I felt like I wasn’t being starved of what I needed.

But after few swingers parties I started thinking, these men would pay for this, in fact they probably have, just somebody else is getting the money. So I put an ad on a website, and here I am. The first time I got paid for sex I felt so kinky, after the guy left I kept masturbating and must have cum about five times shouting to myself, I am a whore, I am a slut, and yes, it may sound weird but I am a dirty filthy whore and I'm loving it, and I don’t feel guilty, I feel free.

I now take extra care to stay in shape and look good, it’s important if you want to be a good whore. So if you need some hard sex, cum on now, I will suck your dick and swallow your cum and fuck you silly. Don’t wait, don’t hesitate, ring the number below.

Whew, interesting profile, add to hot list, click.

Sexy Hot Midwinter Sunshine

Wintry London weather outside. On my screen, a hot summer day. A film crew trekking along a Mediterranean coastal path, sunlight filling the air. Their route taking them through sandy patches and sparse vegetation, chalk cliffs behind falling into dark blue sea.

The videocamera tracking a woman in skimpy denim shorts, bikini top, sandals. A man occasionally walking with her, taking her hand, chatting, consulting, turning back to join the main group.

A suitable spot found and picnic rug spread. The woman lying on it, waiting. The crew getting on with tasks, unpacking tripods, cameras, reflective umbrellas. All this taking place in the background, the videocamera staying on the woman, now removing her top. Lying on her back, legs in air, undoing her shorts, pulling them down, only a bikini thong underneath.

Catching sight of the videocamera, smiling, adopting a burlesque, legs deliciously straight, brought up, kissing the tops of her feet, hands peeling off the shorts and thong. Her pussy and sphincter pointing straight at the videocamera and the sunshine. The position held for long moments, soaking up the sun’s rays, luxuriating in its warmth.

Throwing aside the shorts. Taking her feet in her hands, pulling them wide apart, a yoga stretch. Running her hands down her legs. Reaching the hollows each side of her pussy, pulling at them, separating her lips. Bending her knees, lifting her hips slightly, stretching her pussy wider.

Breaking the spell suddenly, looking sideways at the videocamera, checking it’s still running. Smiling, resuming the burlesque. Turning, stretching, catlike, on her stomach, lifting her bottom in the air, separating her knees, arching her back inwards. Her pussy and sphincter again on display, basking in sunshine. Her fingers reaching for her clitoris, stroking. An immediate exaggerated orgasm, porn style. Looking again at the videocamera, laughing, sticking out her tongue. Resuming a normal pose, sitting on the blanket, videocamera antics forgotten, back to being a regular woman.

The camera crew’s preparations complete, the woman now surrounded by make-up artists, lightmeter readers, wardrobe assistants. Fashion shoot commencing. The videocamera stopping.

A Mediterranean scene to put sexy hot sunshine in my wintery London day. The woman’s humour shining through, an exact parody, skewering porn whilst somehow transcending it, a blast of sexual intensity coming from nowhere, just as sometimes happens in everyday life, if you’re lucky.

Sexual Philosophy

Family stuff to do over the holiday period, the seasonal cheer wearing thin after a while, then a tonic, an email from Jane.

Hey darling R, your last email has lifted me for days, you can’t imagine, the sense of being loved physically, not just the sex, also the sense of being known and loved as me, not anyone else, not because of corresponding with some juvenile male template. i don’t know if i’ve been unlucky in love, for not having had that feeling very much, or if i’m lucky for having had it at all, other women seem to have happy sexual times but maybe they’re just easier to please, or maybe they just pretend.

But when i talk to my friends none of them seems sexually happy, some aren’t interested themselves, a lot of the rest are just resigned. i remember chatting with you at that party on that boat on the thames, just when you started noticing me, or so i hoped, you quoting kant, of man’s crooked timber nothing straight was ever made, you then saying, and nowhere more so than in matters of sex, you about twenty, me just leaving school, and me in awe at your knowledge of the world. makes me smile, the memory, but now after all this time i know you were right.

So R now i feel like there’s a great timber beam in my mind, a structural girder, which is my sexual being, and it’s twisting and buckling and refusing to be fitted into the banalities of married life, i don’t even think it’s just T, though he’s pretty hopeless, i think it could be anybody. same ancient dichotomy, dionysian abandon versus apollonian order. no solution, or none that i can see. some of my friends dump their husbands, find someone new, before long it’s back to the same old problem.

Oh god, R, i’m terrified of scaring you away by grumbling, but there’s nobody else i can talk to. anyway, i really know that you’re never put off by any philosophical discussion. that’s the thing that conquered me in student days, i just loved it that you’d discuss anything, well, except trivia, if i could find a man here like that he could have me as he wanted, mind you, he’d need good hands like yours too. mmm... and tongue. mmm, and... oh r, just emailing you is making me frisky, i’d better go. email me soon. love Jxx.

Making E-Love

A couple of emails from Jane, the sound of her voice on the recorded message, and now she’s as sexually present as in student days. Waking up last night, turning to touch her, surprised to find she’s not there. Instead, my wife, still and cool in pajamas, a different presence entire. But a warmth still glowing from the sense of Jane.

Emailing her. Hi darling Jane, that was a wonderful email. Ever since student days I’ve made love to you regularly, just a shame you weren’t there to join in. Maybe once or twice a year, I suppose. You and your shapes in my mind, and your smells and givingness, it’s a near impossible thing for a woman to do, be so sexually available but yet so desirable, but you manage it somehow, that’s your magic, at least for me. Such a sexual balm compared with its opposite, a supposed sexual heightening through withholding.

That day in the Cotswolds, naked on the picnic blanket, somehow I’d forgotten about it, after your email that student summer sunshine is lighting up my midwinter London. Right now, I can feel your skin and your silken thighs and the cleft of your bottom. Then when I saw you again in Australia, even being together only a few minutes, other people there, fully clothed, I could still feel them, it doesn’t go away, it’s a gift you’ve given forever.

Your husband was there so I didn’t do anything, but it would have been so wonderful to take you away, maybe to the beach, the smell of the sea, the sound of the waves, glasses of cold white wine, chatting, kissing, holding. Back to the hotel room, clothes discarded, my erection ready, you sucking it harder, climbing atop me, guiding me in. Taking my finger, guiding it to your sexy little ass, pushing it in the hole, making me feel the twitching as you climax. Damn, it’s making me hard just thinking about it, my finger can still feel that Jane twitch. And all not to be. I hadn’t wanted to interfere. Now I just have to imagine it.

Well darling Jane, my marriages haven’t worked out as you know, and this one’s sexless. But I’ve given up searching for a sexual wife, I’m going to stick here. But with extramarital adventures. Trust me Jane, it’s easier that way. So if you’re in London, let’s make love. And meanwhile, let’s make e-love. So email soon xx R.

Phone Message

Watching television, hearing my phone’s ringtone elsewhere in the house, making haste to answer, eventually finding it just in time for the ringing to stop. Usual thing. Checking the call record, number withheld. Oh well, couldn’t have been important. Back to television.

Just getting ready for bed, hearing a soft bleep on the phone, checking. Voice message. Dialling to get it. Yawning through the preamble about number of messages and instructions to hear them. Suddenly, Jane’s voice. The world receding, excluding itself, reducing itself to her sound. A jumble of images awakening, bursting loose from unknown lockers in my mind, she and I and student love.

Her words slightly hesitant, oh hi, it’s Jane, I finally found your number, I’m going to be in London next month, not sure if we could meet up, listen, it’s a bit difficult for me to talk, would it be possible to email me, we can fix something up, I’ve set up an email that nobody else can read. Going on to give me the email address. Continuing, well, hope to meet up, email me, okay. The voice tailing off, as if not wanting to be overheard. The message abruptly ending. The operator’s crisp voice waking me from my reverie.

Logging in to my own secret email account. Entering Jane’s email address. Typing, hi there, just a quick note to say I got your voicemail, thought you’d want confirmation, great, when are you in London? xxx

Send, click. Waiting for a few minutes. Good, no error message, I got the email address right. Okay, log out. Ring the voicemail service again, delete message. Eliminate traces on computer and phone, also check no signs of physical disarray, standard concealment disciplines, especially important when you’re distracted.

Getting into bed. Sleeping soundly, mind strangely free, neither Jane nor Jenny stealing my dreams. Waking, winter dawn just breaking. Jane instantly in my mind. The anticipation of adventures ahead. Heart beating faster.

Morning routines. Finally, sitting down at the computer, checking my secret email, inbox, one email, yes, it’s from Jane.

Doing Something About It

A meeting today in the City, normally a place I like to visit regularly, get caught up in the torrent of people, check out the latest buildings, normally wander around and get lost. Today however finding myself unreceptive to its charms.

Preparing in a coffee shop, finding the coffee tasteless. Snapping at a colleague for a spelling mistake in a presentation. Only later remembering to thank her for having stayed up half the night in putting the thing together in the first place.

During the meeting, discovering delays to various projects. Getting angrier inside. Thinking, there’s a time for restraint, but sometimes you need to lay down the law. Just about to launch into a tirade. Then thinking, nobody else here seems concerned, it’s not really my responsibility anyway. Backing off, just in time. Afterwards, walking, thinking, actually the meeting went quite well.

Stopping in my tracks, realization dawning. Ah yes, that’s it, the foul mood, it’s not them, it’s me. Lucky to have backed off in time, you can be taken by surprise. Sexual tension, it just builds, you can live with it for a while, then it starts getting ugly. It’s up to you to do something. Don’t, and you pay the price, and the price is high.

At far lower price, an escort. Or, thinking about it, how about this time having a new adventure, go to a sex party.

Later on the internet, checking out the options, yes, there’s one I can make it to. Mandy, Caroline and Svetlana to attend to my needs, one thirty until four thirty in the afternoon, no more than eight men, one hundred pounds.

That means waiting a bit. Maybe I should go to an escort today. The lovely Arabella, sixty pounds for thirty minutes, more per minute but less in total, and I’ve found that in that situation, no chat, straight to sex, thirty minutes is enough.

Taking a moment to luxuriate in the choices available to the enterprising man. Arabella by myself today, or three woman shared with other men later. Or both if I want, the cost would still be less than a tiny fraction of the cost of screwing up in meetings like I nearly did today.

That party, tempting, always exciting to try something new.

Authentic Porn

A slim, smiling woman opening the door to an athletic youngster coming to see about lodging in a spare room. The woman explaining that the house has been empty for six months since her husband passed away.

The two sitting around a kitchen table, she pouring tea. Telling him about rent, and what is included. Suddenly shy. Saying, there are some extra things that are included if you want. What sort of things? Well, I haven’t had a man for two years, that’s when my husband got sick, I wouldn’t mind it if you want to get me started again.

The camera switching from her face to his. I guess I’d better have a test run, see what I’m getting. The woman standing, the man’s hand stroking her thigh. The woman gasping slightly, the sound of surrender after long denial. The man gently sliding down her panties, leaning her forward slightly, pulling her cheeks apart, spreading her pussy and sphincter.

The woman’s hands reaching back to help, pulling her cheeks wider, freeing the man’s hands to stroke her. Gently massaging her clitoris, moving to her opening, inserting his fingertip, smiling, my, you’re very wet. Both laughing, the wetness like an erection conferring shared intimate knowledge.

The camera panning to her face. Eyes closed, lost in the physical moment. Breathing with shallow irregular gasps, as if on the edge of implosion. The camera sweeping over her tight white skin, moles, breasts, nipples, curve of her buttock. Moving behind, her spread cheeks filling the screen. The man tonguing her sphincter, stroking her pussy.

Changing positions, the woman pulling down the man’s jeans. His cock full but not yet hard. She contemplating it slowly, reacquainting with something cherished and familiar but long absent. Taking it into her mouth. The cock gradually stiffening. The woman removing it from her mouth, oh my, I’ve got a good one here, sucking it again.

The scene playing on my screen, and too much for me. A tracer arc of sperm, my whole body in a vortex, a groan of relief. Collapsing into a chair, momentarily comatose.

Regathering. Okay, quick clean up. Stop the video, save it to favorites, I can finish it some other time, but probably won’t, you can’t normally recover that first sharp excitement of encountering a new sexual personality. Sanitize the computer. Okay, the day can start now.

Changing Sexual Times

A cycle ride to Greenwich, a teenage haunt, and on to Blackheath. Keeping on watch for a particular corner shop, one visited many times. There it is, but look, it’s changed, it’s now a hairdresser.

Well, that’s not it was when I was a teenager. In those days, sweets and newspapers adorned its shelves. On the top row, very interesting magazines. Every few weeks, summoning courage, entering the shop with studied nonchalance, noticing with hammy unexpectedness something that looks interesting, pulling down a magazine, studying it as if with detached amusement, replacing it, selecting another.

Doing this for as long as I could get away with. A complex calculation, if the shop was uncrowded you’d get the shopkeeper’s attention, if it was crowded there were too many people who could see what you were doing.

Eventually, buying one. To add to my collection, each one lovingly thumbed, each one with favorite women in favorite poses, each one fuel for countless masturbatory adventures. But each one also posing a problem, where to keep it. My hidey-hole, under an attic floorboard, hard to find and just about possible to disown.

Cute, innocent times. Now, no need for anyone to see you when you buy, in fact, no need to buy, it’s free. Three clicks of the mouse and you’re in your preferred site, and in your preferred niche in it. As much time as you want, no need to worry about a shopkeeper’s raised eyebrow. No limitation to five or six titles, the choice is never-ending. Videos rather than photos, No reining back to please prying censors.

Afterwards, run a free program downloaded for the purpose, to sanitize your computer. All records, browsing history, files, obliterated. The invisible files left behind by the computer's operating system, nuked, you can choose the same security setting as that used by the Pentagon. After a while, the sanitization an automatic habit. Saves embarrassing discoveries and allows everyone to sustain the fiction that you’re one of those mythical men that never watch porn.

Oh look, ten miles gone by without noticing, well, interesting thoughts, the world’s moved on.

Sexual Surrender

A stunning woman walking onto the screen, looking shyly at the other people in the room. Requested to sit on the sofa. Doing so with unaffected balletic grace. The camera panning in to her face. Flawless skin, delicate nose, cupid lips, luxuriant dark curls.

The interviewer welcoming her, his words translated by a female assistant. Asking introductory questions. Normal job, dance trainer. Does your boyfriend know you’re here? Yes. Why are you here? To do a photoshoot. Do you know what sort of photos? Shrug of shoulders.

The woman invited to inspect a magazine, that’s the sort of photo we do. The woman picking up the magazine, flicking through it, stiffening in surprise, almost dropping it, pushing it awkwardly aside. Sorry, been some kind of mistake, that’s not what I want. Recovering her composure with impressive quickness. Politely saying goodbye. Leaving.

The scene spiraling away, transitioning to another, same sofa, same woman, different clothes, different season’s light in the air. Her beauty still radiant. The interviewer’s voice, hello, you’re back. Embarrassed smile from her. So now you want to have those photos taken? Prolonged exchange between translator and the woman, two sympathetic women’s voices. Then the translator, she says she’s thought about it and wants to do it, she needs the money. Okay, ask her to take her clothes off.

The woman standing, unzipping her dress from behind, lowering it, stepping out of it, folding it, putting it aside. Quickly removing her underclothes, putting them neatly on the dress.

The scene shifting to the bedroom. The naked woman on the bed. The interviewer, also naked, kissing her nipples. The tiniest quiver rippling through her body. The man moving down, gently parting her legs, lifting her knees, licking her. A soft gasping sound, intaken breath. Her back arching slightly in whole-body surprise. Settling.

Changing position. He on his back, she sucking him. Sitting astride, guiding him inside. The camera panning to her face, an expression of lover’s oblivion. Her sexual beauty timeless. She moving to all-fours, entered from behind. Soon too much for the man, his explosion clearly premature for the normal porn script. Flopping down beside her, pulling her to him for a hug, in love with her.

As am I. A sensational porn movie.

One in Three Men

Scanning through the escort website today, thinking, I wonder how many men visit all these escorts.

Selecting, London, female, escorts, recent joiners first. Skipping straight to page seventy, the most out-of-date, picking out one or two at random, looking when they last logged in, hmmm, surprising, they’re still active. What’s that mean, there’re fifty per page, that means, what, three thousand five hundred escorts. Take some off that to allow for slack, make it three thousand.

I wonder how many men they see. Could be seven, eight a day. Fifty a week? Sounds exhausting. Make it thirty, no, say twenty. So what’s that mean, these escorts serve, what, just over a sixty thousand men a week. Some will leave, others will join, probably cancels out, that means, what, about three million escort visits in a year.

That’s just this website, what about others? Say the site has a twenty five percent market share. That means a total of what, twelve million escort visits a year, serviced by, what, twelve thousand escorts.

So what’s their client base? London’s population, about eight million. Say four million men. Some will be too young, too old, or not interested in women. Say that leaves two million. There’ll be visitors, but that’ll be balanced by men going abroad. So about two million client base.

I wonder, how many times does one man visit an escort, assuming he has the habit? Probably varies a lot. I’d have guessed, crude average, ten, maybe fifteen, call it fifteen. So if every man used escorts, the total market would be what, thirty million escort visits.

Okay, of course every man doesn’t. So how many do. Must be, what, over one-third.

Can this be right? Think again. Twelve thousand escorts in a place like London, sounds about right, there're probably more. Three visits a day, sounds about right, could be more. So, check, yes, twelve million escort visits a year, at least. Spread amongst two million eligible men. Numbers don’t work unless at least a third use escorts.

Makes me smile. Never seen this sort of finding before. But then, you stop men on the street for a survey, ask them, do you use escorts, not many will say, yes, sure. But one in three will.

Sexual Truths Too Strong

Sitting in a park with my daughter, watching the children in the playground, my daughter half wanting to play but half wanting to show that she’s too grown-up to do so. Chatting. Steering clear of drudge subjects such as school and house chores and whether it’s okay to wear lipstick at eleven. Just chatting for the warmth of the human interaction, no ulterior agenda.

A question bubbling to the surface, daddy why did you move out from mummy? My daughter trying to make sense of things, this being a crucial part of her world, understandably.

Explaining things to her, low key. Sometimes two people think they’ll get on, but it turns out after a few years they don’t any more. If they’re lucky they’ll have a daughter like you to brighten up their lives. These and suchlike vapidities being intended not so much as truths as a way of giving her salves to her wounds, also showing that discussing it’s fine.

The truth, more basic, too harsh for an eleven-year-old. Her mother, after my daughter was born, suddenly sexless. Hormones building up in me, eventually exploding. Drinks with a pretty woman at work, in bed together, a bright new dawn. Trying to keep it as an affair, the dynamics ultimately proving impossible, too much furtiveness, too much desperation.

In due course, splitting up with the new woman, turns out we both had urgent needs, too much prior deprivation, but once they’d been filled they weren’t enough to share a whole life together. Eventually, meeting my current wife, marrying. Now it turns out she’s sexless too.

My daughter however satisfied with the vapidities, at least for now. She’ll return for more over the years, I’m quite sure. Meanwhile, surrendering to a more pressing imperative, go and play on the swings.

What I could have said to her, but never will, is, shame the internet didn’t arrive earlier, I could have sorted out my sex urges with escorts, your mother and I could have still been together.

Swinging Scene

A spacious room in a suburban home, conventional furnishings, wardrobes, large bed. On the bed, three women, sitting with pillows at their backs. One, clearly dominant, taking hold of another, kissing her, both tongues showing. A long passionate embrace. The third one pulled in. Clothes gradually discarded.

The camera panning out, showing three men. Beers in hand, naked, watching, laughing, offering encouragement.

The women’s breasts pulled out above their bras, petticoats wrapped around bellies to disguise excess weight, otherwise naked. The dominant woman lying on her back, spreading her legs. The second one settling in to lick her pussy, the third one kissing her nipples.

Some background clattering, a fourth couple coming in. The camera tracking their progress. Smiles of recognition and greeting. Their clothes stripped off. The new woman kissing one of the earlier men, sitting on the bed, taking his cock in her mouth. Another man walking over, rubbing himself into hardness behind a kneeling woman, then entering her.

Clearly a well-established scene, swingers swapping spouses. Only slightly bashful, as if still in surprise at actually having gone ahead. Having done it before, doing it again now. A slight edge of unspoken defiance, we’ll do whatever we please, to hell with the world, here’s even a video to prove it.

Yet, pondering this offering on the porn website today, I wonder. From where these couples are now, no return. Their friends all know, plus, it’s on video, nobody will be given a chance to forget. Those tired old sexual conventions well, these swingers may be free of the shackles, but the world retains them still.

Remember once, someone taking me aside at work, you see that guy over there, the one with the bald head and glasses, well, he and his wife are in an open marriage, sage nod, you know, big in the swinging world. Never found out anything else about him. But that, still a clear memory. And it’ll be that which everybody will fall over themselves to inform on.

Better to be like most people, do what you want, but keep it a secret.

Escort Selection

A promising new fair lady on the escort website this week.

Sexy Sofia from Bulgaria, in London until Christmas. Small cute boobs, long hair, silky skin, this and further suchlike wording, probably lifted from another profile. Inauthentic, no interest, easily ignored, probably offered in the vague thought that it would be.

More interesting, Sexy Sofia’s photos. A brunette, full-bodied, smiling at the camera. Adopting the poses of a model, looking more like someone being told by a friend what to do, finding it funny. Her good nature and twinkling smile reaching through the artifice, connecting her with me.

By the tedious dictates of conventional formulae, not even attractive. Not blonde, not leggy. Apparently, not self-absorbed. Not in conviction that she’ll carry me to previously unscaled heights of sexual ecstasy. Spurning the unspoken codes of the escort profile genre. Just plonking up a cursory profile plus some snapshots quickly taken by a friend, plus a cellphone number.

Leaving me with more work to do. Her attractiveness, a thing on its own terms, you can’t just respond brainlessly, you have to look a little and take time to appreciate.

And then, the harder you look, the more attractive she becomes. Her indifference to convention gradually becoming understandable, she’s one of those many women who’s very attractive but not very photogenic. The camera somehow flattening the planes on her face and dulling out her vivacity. But just try to step through the lens, enter the same room as her, and you’re in the presence of a woman far more beautiful than the lens revealed. The more you ponder the possibility, the more convincing it seems.

Leading to a more hardheaded calculation. How many other men looking for an escort would think this through? Not many, I imagine. Well, let other men chase after the other escorts, leave Sexy Sofia to me.

Second Escort Visit

Feeling great again today.

Earlier, tense. Porno seeming stale and uninspiring, even with a choice of hundreds of new postings, couldn’t find anything exciting, probably my mood rather than their deficiency. Porn excites only one sense, proper sex excites them all.

General disgruntlement mounting. Browsing the escort website, my Hot List. Picking out my top five. A sudden switch going in the brain, let’s do it. Ringing one. Recorded message. Next one, same. Third one, Foxy Lady, answering.

Familiar after last time with the arrangements. Making my way to Manchester Road as directed, phoning to say I’ve arrived. Final details given. Pressing the apartment number, the front door buzzing open. Up four flights of stairs, Foxy Lady answering the door.

Very attractive but less thin than in her photos, pale smooth skin, foxy features. A smile and some introductory chat. Showing me to a bedroom. Taking the sixty pounds, closing the door behind her as she puts it elsewhere, safe from any male temptation to snatch it on the way out.

Returning. Removing her clothes, clearly expecting me to do the same. Then that exciting first moment as lovers, trying to guess who wants what, what excites and what repels. Foxy Lady hesitant and passive, but willing and compliant. Showing a small jolt of pleasure when understanding what I want, eagerly obliging.

Prolonged sixty-nine, she on top. My skin tingling. Brain filling with infusion of her smells and tastes. The gentle traction of fingertips on her smooth white skin. The delicate coloration of her pussy and sphincter.

After a while, changing position, condom, entering her. But the spell of the sixty-nine somehow evaporated, maybe it was too powerful to last. Foxy Lady sensing the reduced intensity. Exiting her, lying together sideways, relaxing. She stroking my penis, removing the condom, taking me in her mouth, assisting with her hand, patiently persisting until completion.

And now, walking away from Foxy Lady’s apartment, feels like heaven.

Sexual Ringfence

Sitting at my laptop, minding my own business, studying three couples in a sex party game, suddenly, the door opens and in strolls my wife.

Playing it cool as best I can, closing the window, typing something into the address bar, trying not to look flustered, meanwhile probably looking furtive and guilty like a schoolboy. My wife however either not noticing or choosing to let it pass.

An awkward moment. One which by temperament I would rather have been quite open about, okay, I’ve been watching a rather good porn movie, would you like to watch it with me. You’re welcome. Otherwise, leave me alone.

Doing such a thing being impossible, however, the response being knowable in advance, namely, she’d be upset at the suggestion, and upset at the invasion of her household by an ugly and unwelcome infestation.

In fact, thinking about it, the snag for her isn’t the pornography, she isn’t a fool, she knows that it exists, probably knows too that most men watch it. The snag is that she doesn’t want to be confronted with it. She’d rather have her life organized in such a way that pornography is ringfenced out. A perfectly understandable preference.

Well, she can run her life her way, I’ll run my life mine. It seems like that’s how it is with things sexual, there’s a clear but unspoken boundary. Do what you like but don’t foist it on me.

Maybe that’s how all marriages turn out. Well, maybe not the ones where husband and wife are always and unwaveringly in tune sexually, for what, thirty, forty, fifty years. How many of those will there be? A small minority if that.

Sounds like a mature and considered conclusion. Let’s be grateful for what we have, let’s coexist happily. Meanwhile, In the awkward, chaotic, crazy part of ourselves that we call sex, you do your thing, I’ll do mine, let’s not rub each other’s noses in it,

Maybe my wife has arrived at the same conclusion, that’s why she didn’t get involved in my online perturbation.

Sex Party Games

Today, a superior porn movie. Three couples having a dinner party, deciding to play a sex game, the video camera passing to whoever isn’t currently involved.

Production quality amateur but satisfactory, an increasingly common occurrence. Plunging technology prices plus rising exhibitionism, a situation of high promise for porn connossieurs.

Common format for sex games, two packs of cards. The first pack, Question Cards. When did you lose your virginity? Tell us about your first taste of sperm. Have you had sex with someone of the same sex? When did you last masturbate? Have you had anal? Tell us your best sexual fantasy. Have you tried bondage?

One woman, a blonde, asked, have you had more than two in a bed? Hesitant smile, hand covering her mouth. The others smiling at her, teasing her to answer. She starting to say something, stopping, laughing. The others counting to ten in a rising chorus. After ten, no answer. Rules of the game, she has to take a card from the other pack.

Penalty Cards, pink for women, blue for men. The blonde taking a pink one, reading it out. Take the hand of the man on your right and guide it to your nipple. After playing for half a minute, the man can kiss and suck the nipple for another half a minute. Laughter all round. The blonde hesitating. The man on her right offering his hand. The blonde flushing but conceding. The others watching, excited.

The game continuing. Slowly accumulating details of sexual pasts. Present sexual personalities shining through. The bashful blonde. The boastful jock. The brassy red-haired. The shy man. All becoming more aroused. As am I.

Gradually, more and more clothes discarded. Sexual penalties becoming stronger. One wife having to choose which man to be entered by. A blindfolded man having his cock sucked, having to identify the woman doing it. A woman choosing which men and which holes to be double-penetrated by.

Throughout, the camera rolling, refusing to edit the transitions. After two hours, feels like I’ve been at the party myself.