P.O.R.N. The Director’s Cut

Palm, Oils, Relish, Napkin



Suggested Audio Lube:

 Lil Louis & The World French Kiss


Good old pornography. It’s a friend to us all but the very same one that we refuse to acknowledge in public for fear of being branded a deviant. It’s the reason we install those antiviruses, the reason we frantically attempt to clear our internet history, and the reason our mothers can never seem to locate a matching pair of socks. Love it or loathe it, there’s no getting around the fact that the market for porn is immense. And the reason for this is elementary my dear Watsons – sex sells. I learned that one pretty early in life, indeed, I believe I can actually pinpoint the very moment when porn introduced itself to this wide-eyed boy and ironically it coincided pretty conveniently with the very moment I turned thirteen. You see, it was about that time that my own sexual revolution began in earnest and also the age where I landed my very first part-time job. Given that I was so fascinated by the media of film, it seemed most poetic that I land a position in my local video store, and I was as happy as a pig in a pantry for the seven years I propped up that counter before the video market died a death and it closed its doors for the very last time.


While those big budget blockbusters flew from the shelves, our modest erotic selection proved every bit as popular with the general public. Tucked away in a small room at the rear on the very top shelf, away from prying eyes and underage fingers, were all manner of soft-core blue movies and they had their own exclusive clientele. Said punters were traditionally rather timid, more often than not clad in long grubby overcoats, and possessed eyes that never once made contact throughout the entire transaction. Both parties were fully aware that there was a tub of hand lotion awaiting their return home yet interestingly their hands never appeared moisturized as they handed over the exact currency for rental. It was rare that they would ask you to break a twenty as that would entail waiting around for change and their already fast plummeting dignity couldn’t withstand such excruciating suspension.


Indeed, their exit was just as swift, in stark contrast to the selection process which may have seemed like it involved great consideration but was more likely a case of waiting for the most inconspicuous moment to peruse the dusty upper shelves for their smut of choice. However, they met their match at this particular video store as I worked alongside the boss’s daughter and nothing pleased her more than to thoroughly foil their plans of remaining undetected. As they shuffled into the limelight with a copy of Out of Africa cleverly concealing the rental they had really come for, I’d see that devilish glint in her eye and knew full well that she was about to take great enjoyment from blowing their cover in the most public manner imaginable. We worked as a team, her and I, so when she bellowed “THE EROTIC ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE” at the very top of her voice, I would scurry to the vault to search for the tape in question. Naturally I would glance over at the customer in question just to watch him writhe on the spot uncomfortably, fully exposed, and contemplating that long walk back to the exit with multiple eyes on him and snide remarks ringing in his ears. So cruel, she loved nothing more than to crush their manhood and send them away mortified and God bless her for that.


Back then, erotica was somewhat tame. Granted, hardcore pornography very much existed, but it was around the time of the whole video nasty debacle and the BBFC placed such hefty restrictions on what was considered suitable for public consumption that even full frontal nudity was often fleeting. To get your grubby hands on decent porn, you would be required to make any transactions on the black market, and needless to say this was frowned upon by the authorities and society on the whole. Oh how the worm has turned thirty years later. So much more is fair game now, such boundaries have long since slackened and there is a melange of different material for every conceivable fetish and available through the simplest of Google searches. That said, while we have long become desensitized to the pleasures of the once forbidden flesh, there is still a responsibility to remain ambiguous and to deny the existence of our innermost carnal desires.


Pornography is a million different things to a million different people. It is that rolled up copy of Hustler in your glove compartment, those late night freeview channels, a vast bouquet of pre-recorded memories, and the exploration of our wildest fantasies. It would be fair to say that every last one of us cums differently. For some it is an intimate affair and involves slapping on those moisturizing oils, dimming the lights, and playing some Enya to further heighten the ambience, while others are caught in the moment and furiously wrestle with their sex beneath glaring lights as though judgement day cometh in an attempt to get things over with quickly. Ultimately however, it culminates in the same outcome regardless of method. Those all-important knee trembles. Let’s face facts, we all look gormless at the point of no return, which I guess is why most of us partake in private.


I recall my primary introduction to skin magazines with great clarity as it was at a friend’s house and the writing was on the wall from the very first moment I entered his abode. His mom was what we would now classify M.I.L.F. and his pops sported a seventies porn star ‘tache if ever I saw one. We’re talking handlebars and pilot’s glasses, the whole nine. While my interaction with his parents was somewhat limited, they always seemed to have one foot out of the door when we arrived back from school and presumably this had something to do with the swinger’s soirées that they partook in habitually. If I needed neon signage then the fact that they always seemed to misplace their car keys pretty much said it all. That said, I was just a kid, and hadn’t the faintest clue what I was about to uncover upstairs.


On this occasion, we were provided the green-light of an empty house, so my pal decided to introduce us to their den of iniquity first-hand. The second I walked wide-eyed into their boudoir, I felt a twinge inside me that seemed to be connected to my testicles. A wide array of Penthouse mags and pornographic paraphernalia were left in plain sight and bondage gear was dotted around the room, with handcuffs still jangling from the bed post suggesting there had been a recent house arrest. In addition, there was a heady aroma accompanied by a thin mist of recent copulation vapors that singed my nostrils upon entry. This was a treasure trove of smut, a veritable booty booty so to speak and while my penis had been little more than something fun to flannel wash until that point, I was now more than primed to earn myself those pilot wings. And that I bloody well did.


Fast forward a year or so, by which point, this trigger happy gunslinger was rapidly becoming the fastest draw in the west. Moreover, I had amassed quite the collection of skin mags, so many in fact, that they pretty much supported the entire weight of my bed. At a guess, I would say there had to be a good two-hundred of them, from your more classy publications such as Penthouse and Playboy with their soft-tone photography, to the more grungy likes of Razzle and Fiesta where precious little was left to the imagination. One constant however was a total lack of bratwurst as I had no great desire to ogle battered saveloys. Astonishingly I copped some flak for this preference with my friends as they were of the opinion that porn wasn’t porn without a few good men. This baffled me intensely as I could never fathom out what was so preposterous about me not finding male junk pretty.


Porn schlongs are the worst as far as I’m concerned, mauve monstrosities that are as bent out of shape as they are deeply unattractive, and they just never did it for me. I was more your girl-on-girl kind of wanker, you know, pig-tails and knee-high socks with bubblegum and Chupa Chups thrown in just to add a little sugar-coated spice. These magazines catered for my every whim and the only potential hazard were the reader’s husband pages which were shoehorned in just to thwart me as I approached lift-off. Other than that and a mildly disturbing obsession with introducing food into the mix (not body chocolate and strawberries, we’re talking oatmeal porridge and baked beans), I was in my element and guarded my proud stash as though my life depended on it. Actually it kind of did as my mother wouldn’t have been best impressed my stumbling across my stockpile.


One harsh lesson I learned fast was that you should never lend skin mags to your friends. We all know others take less care of your prized possessions but, when the item in question is primarily designed for masturbation, well you can see where I’m going with this. During an after-school visit, one such rascal requested that he borrow edition 173 of Men Only and, naïve to my very core, I saw no harm and foul in granting his wish, seeing as he’d asked so nicely. Talk about a rookie error. You see, while edition 173 of Men Only was returned at the alloted time, I instantly knew that something wasn’t kosher. The magazine’s entire integrity had changed, it felt especially weighty in places, and gone was its former sleek sheen. Smelling an almighty rodent in the room, I opened it up at the first page and bizarrely found myself at page 57. Worse still, it only took three more turns to reach the back cover. The whole magazine was welded together using an adhesive I knew only too well wasn’t safety glue and, for as much as I shook my fist in bitter rage, I guess I had it coming.


Anyhoots, as I mentioned earlier, we live in an entirely different world now to the one I experienced as an adolescent and porn is freely available without a great deal of required elbow grease to locate it. An innocent internet search is likely to throw up all manner of debauchery and I swear it won’t be long before Google replaces those double O’s with a firm pair of breasts and hangs a pair of hairy bollocks at the base of the L. It’s staggering how desensitized we’ve become and, while censorship is something that I don’t ordinarily endorse, it’s hard not to feel a little conflicted when you become a parent. As guardian it is ultimately my responsibility to ensure that, when the time comes, the topic is handled responsibly. We’ve all got to learn sometime right? That said, we can’t be on-hand all the time and every child eventually has to make that voyage of discovery themselves, just as I did all those years ago. And do you know what? I’d do it all over in a heartbeat.


Click here to read V.O.Y.E.U.R.


Sinners we all are,

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

#BrutalWordWrangler #CrimsonHoneyDripper #CruelWordSculptor
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Revised Edition 2016)



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