From the mouths of (hot) babes

A modern complaint of modern women on modern sides of modern social and political aisles is over the “exploitation” of other modern women, and the idea of womanhood in general, supposedly inherent in what is chiefly a male hobby that spans ancient to modern times: the viewing of erotica.

I’m certainly not afraid of the word “pornography,” but that’s essentially what pornography is: erotica. It is designed to give you dirty thoughts. I say “dirty” not to denigrate the practice, but because the word is sexually provocative; and because I wanted to point out that the word “dirt” was put in there by society for a reason.

After all, what is dirt? It is rotting plants, mostly. It is also rotting animals, fish, birds, eggs, larvae, insects, and some of it is rotting humans. It is pooped out by worms. Worms are gross. Oddly enough, penises, which share a similar shape to worms, are often considered beautiful, even if the individual considering its beauty is merely the straight male who possesses it along with not the slightest interest in anyone else’s.

In complete disregard for this beautiful thought, and in ignorance of the philosophical implications of our species’ ability to understand beauty at all, we often make dirt of male humans in gigantic, hideously violent spurts. Not unlike ejaculation, which ironically, as John the Other has so eloquently stated, is not violent, but is instead a beautiful thing.

Understand that I refer to violent imagery above only in vague, symbolic connection with male sexuality; and merely because the act of “shooting” semen out of something that also displays a remarkable ability to reshape itself into something resembling so many handguns (go search for the image of the inside hole of a trigger, from the British gay porn studio Triga) is often associated with what is actually a thoroughly peaceful act. We frequently hear debates and controversy ignited over “sex and violence” in entertainment, and blithely ignore the gnawing feeling that we are equating the two. We must also concede that we sadly have to sometimes deal with what turns out to be a direct link from one phenomenon to the unequal, sickening other. Two guesses which one is sickening.

In spite of that company name and logo (and in my refusal to defend or condemn them while merely pointing them out), the non-sickening, non-violent squirtathon is brought to the often thrilled viewer thanks to the male who performs the act. This male is more likely to have a booming voice, lots and lots of body hair, muscle, heft, girth, weight, bodily strength, a mind focused directly and immediately on the task at hand, emotional intensity, bravado, machismo, clear signals of sexual thoughts and inclinations, and a whole lot of physical manifestation (and thereby frank admission) of powerfully intimate human desires. Even if the man in question is more diminutive, his body will bear the signs, chiefly between his legs, that he is still, on average, stronger and hairier than most females; and naturally designed for bodily penetration.

The end result is often an unexpected pregnancy. The first human pregnancy was undoubtedly so. It is instinctual for the man to insert his penis in the woman’s vagina. It is instinctual for the woman to want it to happen. It doesn’t take long for a human with an undoubtedly naïve human intellect to experience a growth in that intellect when he realizes that the act of shooting that stuff out of his yump when he was masturbating the other day reoccurred when he was connected to Unga. She didn’t get big with child before he put it there.

Now Mog, Jr. is smoking wowza with Gorg, Nunk, and Hmf instead of contributing to the hunt. He’s no good. If only Unga weren’t so desirable.

You see, if Jr. isn’t going to help with the hunt, then perhaps we should think harder before making another one. On the other, non-masturbating hand, if we get less help with the hunt, there will be less hunting. If there is less hunting, we will be hungrier. Hunger pangs make us a little more anxious about dying. That would turn us into dirt. Who wants to be dirt?

To go around thinking of the act that too easily makes dirt of humanity leads very often to the act itself. When you’re that freaked out about kids that turn out all wrong, to tolerate individuals, whether male or female, who encourage such thoughts becomes more and more unthinkable.

In such a dirty conspiracy, you are undoubtedly going to see more doers doing, and when civilization comes along, those doing the dirty doings can spend more of their working time doing only the doings of dirty deeds done dirt cheap. Enough disgusting alliteration. The point is: Most of those doers, at any given time, in any given place, are undoubtedly assumed to be men, because they are doing outside where it’s visible. The women are usually inside with a smaller group of tiny people. Those women doing inside have to keep it clean. Those men outside are dirty. “Don’t drag that filth in here!”

All the men – not just the dirty ones – are then engaged in setting up a marketplace, now that they have built civilization with their backs and with the legs of once-wild animals that they domesticated, all done outside and for your viewing pleasure. Since I believe that humans created markets naturally out of a natural inclination for intellect far beyond the rest of the animal kingdom, it is easy to see that there has always been a market, throughout the history of civilization, for the creation of erotica in order to please the libido of the doer after all that doing, with the erotic handiwork of other doers sympathetic to the doer’s seemingly shared libido.

Thus, before Satan invented photography, a man’s visual libido required an artist’s hand: on a vase; in a painting; in a sculpture; even a little doodle. If the man desirous of the erotica had a doodle that was even littler, he may be more likely to welcome the skills of an artist with the charm requisite to encourage a prudish female to disrobe, if his smaller size caused him any undue and totally unnecessary shyness. In other words: Regardless of endowment, a lot of guys would rather take care of business in private. If she’s not around, his hand always is. How nice to pleasure more than one bodily sense at a time by staring at a dirty cave drawing. Mog realizes that once ejaculation has taken place, the male mind has a tendency to completely change track. Unga is safe from his yump and its attendant ook and all’s right with the world.

Meanwhile, Mog, Jr. is high on wowza and banging half the cheerleading squad. He’s not allowed in that cave, and everybody thought the cheerleaders were going to practice. Oh, and he’s been to that cave plenty.

Mog, Jr. needs a lecture. He needs to be threatened. He needs to be indoctrinated. The cheerleaders need therapy. Otherwise, it’s dirt for us all.

Clicked the back button yet? I sure want to. You see, we’ve just entered a great, big, gray area. I say Mog and Mog, Jr. need to talk. But were they talking before, and about what? Is Mog separated from Unga? Is he allowed access to Jr.?

That’s a whole other article. The point is, they’re both looking at erotica. They both whack it. They both experience a hormonal change afterward that lasts for a unique length of time depending on various circumstances, and the access to pornography helped at least some of the time. Actually, it helps an increasingly larger proportion of the time.

Unfortunately, feminist Unga claims, it is at the expense of an exploited female. She can only get away with this argument if the woman has a lower libido; or if her interests in sexual expression always and everywhere lay with no pun intended elsewhere than his.

This is categorically false, and I can prove it with one hand a magazine: an old copy of Cheri, a magazine clearly not designed for me (except that it totally like secretly is). On page 40 of Issue #190 from July 2012 the reader can read an interview with one Chanel Preston, which I’m sure is her real name. She works in the pornography industry as a starlet. Her parents named her after a perfume so that men would be rather luridly attracted to her:

I never had issues with critics.  Sometimes I want to read things just to see what people think.  The only issue I have with them is sometimes they recap what happened in the movie and they don’t really critique it.  Sometimes I’m like, ‘Wait a minute.  What about that scene?’  (Laughs)  ‘Did I do a good job?’

It appears from this single quote, and several others that are far less safe for work, that Ms. Preston does not feel the least exploited, but is indeed anxious to know what others thought of something of which she is very proud.

But surely, the feminist retorts, that interview is a fake. They can write anything they want in these magazines that employ dirty-minded male photographers, writers, advertisers, and sub-editors. They can make it look as good as they want.

After unsticking my hand from page 40, I then mused backward to page 21 where I discovered that another “exploited” porn starlet whose parents named her Jesse Jane is the Entertainment Editor! Her filthy mouth is (this is getting Back-Buttonish), um, rather busily engaged right next to several paragraphs describing, in her own entertainment-editorial words, the contents of various pornographic dirt chunks geared mostly at heterosexual men and anybody else who might have a remote interest in naked men and women and the things they do in private, like this formerly Mormon adult female, whose face and self are beautiful to me, although we will never meet.

It appears that Ms. Jane also feels fairly unexploited. But perhaps she is secretly propped up by Le patriarcat sale from underneath… as it were.

Well, underneath her name on the same stained page are contributing photographers Tammy Sands; Suze Randall; Holly Randall (Twins? Perky twins?); Viv Thomas; and the good misogynists at Photorama, whose “No Girls Allowed” sign is no doubt prominently displayed near the entrance. Good thing, ladies. Film is icky and ruins your nails.

Putting the magazine down out of sheer exhaustion, I now realize that I haven’t even begun to discuss the non-exploitation of numberless women who now run their own websites; participate for pay in chat rooms; post videos of themselves having sex with their boyfriends at websites that allow free membership and free video postings; chat it up with their fag bangles at porno-posting gay men’s websites; and the phenomenon that makes me want to sacrilege all over the place with remembered parts of the Latin mass thanks to an education in music: the CFNM revolution from within the supposed sacred core of Third Wave Feminism, but which actually has played itself out in countless ways throughout history for privileged women, and I’m not talking about Madeline Kahn in History of the World Part I, except that I like totally am.

(I encourage straight male strippers everywhere, after careful Internet research, to work parties of females only in large groupings. The occasional crazy is far less likely to have the necessary supporting witnesses, whereas you should have plenty. And the non-crazies really, really like it.)

I will not even go further to point out the corporate-sanctioned, heavily exported, thoroughly unexploitation-oriented gay pornography that manages to refer to imagery that is thoroughly non-violent, even on the same island as Triga, like MenAtPlay. Which I just pointed out. Oops.

The reason Tammy Bruce wants to be taken seriously as a “Fourth Wave Feminist” by (I suspect literally) modulating her voice is because I think deep down, she realizes that what we are watching with all of these filthy females on film is volition at its zenith; and simultaneously in the minds of some of those who volitionally choose to stay clothed with the majority, its nadir. I think she also sees that modern actresses who are Oscar-hungry are more than happy to show a volitional, good-hearted female rubbing her crotch up and down a fireman’s pole to excite male customers who are not allowed to touch, but are happy to insult.

Women choosing to be openly sexual are going to look slutty to many. Women’s choosing to appear sexually desirable to males predates civilization. Feminism isn’t necessary. So now The Fourth Wave is a regurgitation of the first three, and women are still exploited in pornography because they are.

Setting aside the Circles of Reason, it will suffice my purposes here to simply state that both men and women experience a great deal of sexual arousal, and look for multiple ways, many of them grotesque, to satisfy curiosity and the overall pursuit of happiness along the way. When an individual among them bears physical signs of arousal on the exterior; when that individual reveals in multiple studies to have a brain designed for greater amounts of focus on a single activity at a time; when that individual has a body that appears, due to a generally greater amount of muscle, to be designed for violence; that individual is far more likely to be singled out for humanity’s collective shame over its collective animal nature. Here come the scapegoats. Most of them have dinks.

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