looking, either for the variety she herself now craved, or because she still hadn’t cracked why anyone—Mark, say—should really need a constant supply of fresh material. Hadn’t people done just fine with one battered magazine passed like the town slut from hand to hand? But now they had to contend with a gallery of new girls,a roster, a harem, a yearbook of new faces, every day. And with this relentless variety, why the samey feel? Real difference—along with noninadvertent humor—was elusive. While you can marvel at the supposedly endless range and specialization of human need and human want, Jean thought, in the end the physical possibilities are pretty limited.
Maybe pornography was like the bullfight. The first stage might be mesmerizing, upsetting, with scattered moments of surprising grace, each in turn or all at once. Yet by stage three you’re looking at your watch and wondering if you should stay just because your seats are so good. Jean knew she didn’t have much to go on, but she thought that however predictable or disappointing the experience might be, no one in real life yawned like a hippo halfway through. Why was it so boring, and how in the world could it be boring and arousing at the same time? Perhaps because porno couldn’t be tender? Actually, she thought it could, if, like her, you constantly wondered how these girls got themselves into this mess in the first place—a generic sympathy she rarely extended to Giovana.
Still, and these viewings confirmed it, Giovana remained for her a porn star apart. Jean was like a parent at a school play, exclusively interested in this one performer. And not because she had more to offer than a lot of other exhibitionists. No, she thought, only Giovana could shock because she wasn’t an actress. Her faking was for real—and it was all for Mark, a fact that not only continued to hurt Jean, but that also now confused her as she found, disagreeably, unmistakably, neglectedly, that she was jealous, and not of Giovana.
Soon she would sign out; first, a last little tour, skipping the gruesome S-and-M stuff, which—and this was at least something—she felt sure wouldn’t have anything to tell her about Mark. So: there were specialist sites featuring women who’d retained their pubic hair. And there was a more wide-spread fetish, Jean was glad to see, for “mature” women. But she soon discovered that this didn’t mean older women or experienced women but, rather, desperate women. (She imagined the geriatric journal she subscribed to changing its name accordingly: Modern Desperation. ) Then she found the MILFs, Moms-I’d-Like-to-Fuck, and though at least these weren’t the producers’ own moms, she was still disappointed that the moms in question were barely out of training bras.
Jean was just thinking that they never accounted for cold in pornography when, with delicious serendipity, she stumbled on a Norwegian product, set in a winter wonderland that hung suggestively with opalescent icicles. A giant blonde dressed only in fur boots was draped over the balcony of a snowcapped chalet, poised to lick an icicle, transported not by hypothermia but rapture, apparently unconcerned that her tongue might get stuck to it. In need of the lifeline of comedy, Jean wondered how she herself might feature. Working at her desk in her birthday suit? Or spinning lettuce at the kitchen sink wearing nothing except flip-flops—thongs for the feet. But she realized she’d merely look like an outtake from some documentary about a German nudist colony: a cure for sex.
She found nothing here to help her with Mark; there was no fit. How could that be, since Giovana was so unmistakably rooted in all this? What did Giovana do that wasn’t done better at Superboobs.com, at Asstastic.com, Farmgirls.com, Golden shower.com, or by the indentured youth at www.lilteens? The answer, Jean realized, was this: Mark’s Giovana-featuring productions were, like all his other work,
Maybe pornography was like the bullfight. The first stage might be mesmerizing, upsetting, with scattered moments of surprising grace, each in turn or all at once. Yet by stage three you’re looking at your watch and wondering if you should stay just because your seats are so good. Jean knew she didn’t have much to go on, but she thought that however predictable or disappointing the experience might be, no one in real life yawned like a hippo halfway through. Why was it so boring, and how in the world could it be boring and arousing at the same time? Perhaps because porno couldn’t be tender? Actually, she thought it could, if, like her, you constantly wondered how these girls got themselves into this mess in the first place—a generic sympathy she rarely extended to Giovana.
Still, and these viewings confirmed it, Giovana remained for her a porn star apart. Jean was like a parent at a school play, exclusively interested in this one performer. And not because she had more to offer than a lot of other exhibitionists. No, she thought, only Giovana could shock because she wasn’t an actress. Her faking was for real—and it was all for Mark, a fact that not only continued to hurt Jean, but that also now confused her as she found, disagreeably, unmistakably, neglectedly, that she was jealous, and not of Giovana.
Soon she would sign out; first, a last little tour, skipping the gruesome S-and-M stuff, which—and this was at least something—she felt sure wouldn’t have anything to tell her about Mark. So: there were specialist sites featuring women who’d retained their pubic hair. And there was a more wide-spread fetish, Jean was glad to see, for “mature” women. But she soon discovered that this didn’t mean older women or experienced women but, rather, desperate women. (She imagined the geriatric journal she subscribed to changing its name accordingly: Modern Desperation. ) Then she found the MILFs, Moms-I’d-Like-to-Fuck, and though at least these weren’t the producers’ own moms, she was still disappointed that the moms in question were barely out of training bras.
Jean was just thinking that they never accounted for cold in pornography when, with delicious serendipity, she stumbled on a Norwegian product, set in a winter wonderland that hung suggestively with opalescent icicles. A giant blonde dressed only in fur boots was draped over the balcony of a snowcapped chalet, poised to lick an icicle, transported not by hypothermia but rapture, apparently unconcerned that her tongue might get stuck to it. In need of the lifeline of comedy, Jean wondered how she herself might feature. Working at her desk in her birthday suit? Or spinning lettuce at the kitchen sink wearing nothing except flip-flops—thongs for the feet. But she realized she’d merely look like an outtake from some documentary about a German nudist colony: a cure for sex.
She found nothing here to help her with Mark; there was no fit. How could that be, since Giovana was so unmistakably rooted in all this? What did Giovana do that wasn’t done better at Superboobs.com, at Asstastic.com, Farmgirls.com, Golden shower.com, or by the indentured youth at www.lilteens? The answer, Jean realized, was this: Mark’s Giovana-featuring productions were, like all his other work,
Similar Books
