Rudimentary Porno Routine

“ Without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness of his sex,
Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers.”
Walt Whitman – A Woman Waits For Me

      

I’m always reaching out for some kind of foothold to what might lead to eventually a complete aesthetic erotic experience – the kind I found in my younger days when sex was somehow a brave new world and more trepid in the imagining of its possibilities .When I can feel the moths in my craw attempting mutiny, when I can stand on the precipice of a gushing ravine leering over into the aqueous bosom below, wondering just how deep it is and whether or not I’ll have my body lacerated from my scurrilous soul by some uncertain moral solid sentinelled in the sediment; and that is when I know I am experiencing life at the loftiest heights of my senses. To achieve these chimerical fascinations of dreams in desire a series of internal fantasies burgeon in my mind, lingering until reaching a firmament of arousal.

 

            I provoke these abdominal ticklers by scrutinizing my girlfriend Nadia’s clothed form and then imagining Wednesday’s pee-shoot porno job with an audience of perspiring camera operators following my lube starched cock patrolling its way up the sweaty trench of Nadia’s arse crack and then bayoneting her rectum with a leery lunge, her arching jaw snarling at the itching bystanders. Next is a jump cut to her sucking me off, I then multiply the number of cocks involved in my little scenario by introducing to my reverie another actor harnessing himself into the action from her behind, his need to feel her clitoris lap up the full length of his cock shaft malting from his craned eyes into her cavernous rose hued crack. My body sprawling like a dog half grinning, eyes rolling on its back urging to have its belly scratched, barking at her half muted snaps attempting to extinguish my double dipped wick with a jolt of hot breath and a snuff of my cock tip’s bolting fire with her sopping tongue. The other guy’s cock now confidently inside her cunt and she’s suddenly at the mercy of a desultory assailant, not knowing when she might become slave to her own lust and desire. That’s when my nerves spark like a couple of frayed live wires in a pool of seduction …

 

We had already done the preliminary two or three nude photos for the purpose of filing what we looked like for the owner of the website to approve our physiques. We had stripped off and the camera guy said, “Nice breasts” to Nadia, they are lovely breasts, supple and keen looking. He next said “Okay turn around”. I stood there thinking that next time he saw my partner she’d be hooting and stammering, her breasts jigging from her chest to every brayed buck of my obdurate passion, knowing for this moment that I would ruthlessly credit her exhausted countenance like a spittoon for spoof with a strew of steaming sperm fish. Finally after we’d primed ourselves by fucking I’d be hovering over her, flooding her naked body and gawping mouth with urine – but for now we stood like a couple of letterbox brochure models for a ‘before and after’ hair removal advert. A bulky man walked past us catching an eye full of my partner’s hairy tuft and naked breasts, I wondered if he was sizing her up for his potential inclusion in a shoot, in other words who could pass up an opportunity to not pass an opportunity like that? It was my turn in front of the camera and I was not asked to turn around.

 

Wednesday soon came and we arrived at the pee shoot fairly refreshed from a good night’s sleep, we budding porn actors must take care of our constitutions, no wild partying till the wee hours for us, there will be plenty of hours of wee for us later. I had been drinking a hell of a lot of water like it was going out of fashion, as if they needed to flavour it, carbonate it, and call it soda in order to keep selling the stuff. My bladder was at full capacity, infact I believe it was having nightmares about counting camels jumping over an oasis. My partner slipped into a short denim skirt, a low cut black strap top, and was given a pair of shiny black stilettos to wear. The scene was laid out. Tiger skin patterned rug, rich pastel coloured cushions of yellow and mauve. This was not your ‘girl next door’ all-natural Indy erotica; this was genuine bubblegum titillating tack, the ‘World Wanking Federation’, of which we all know is faked but get off on the theatrics.

 

We began on our knees, kissing and fondling. I hitched her breasts from the top and the photographer gawped with delight, “Those breasts look great hanging out of the top like that”. Mental note: breasts look great hanging out of tops.

 

My partner then was asked to suck my cock, and to suck it porn style. Her hand firmly gripping it, her tongue and lips schmoozing the tip, “That’s great, wood on the first take” yapped the photographer. We then moved to the ‘cowgirl’ position or ‘Fish Gobbling’ (according to a 200BC Mawangdul medical manuscript) with Nadia on top straddling me, squatting over and lowering herself down onto my cock which I was massaging in the direction of her descending cunt, hoping to get stiff enough for a clean entry. I always get taken by surprise with this position and found that the sensations in my cock had collided with my brain suddenly and no longer was it able to act independently without interference from cerebral interjections like ‘my hairy skinny legs look like I’m performing the Ministry of Silly Sex sketch’ or ‘I look malnourished, this will look like a starved man fucking for food hand-outs’. I had gone soft, and soft cock with hard core porn doesn’t quite cut the muff. Panic stations. Our contract stated that if I couldn’t get hard, we didn’t get paid – no play no pay. The tip of my cock butted her cunt lips but the shaft bent and grooved and failed to stiffen its resolve. My brain launched into distress and neurosis swamped with a barrage of fears concerning impotence, embarrassment, empty pockets, and footage out there in the world of me wrestling with my penis like a Victorian explorer tackling a giant jungle python in the Ikea version of a Boys Own Misadventure Book.

 

The crew took a five minute smoko to allow me time to regain the consciousness of my prick. Nadia and I went through our emergency cock resuscitation routine – we had prepared early by discussing what I would require in such an event as surprise limpidity. She opened her legs wide and talked to me whilst I milked my under-wood and she gently toyed with her cunt. It was a delight and I was getting a response, but it seemed I was experiencing too many sensations for the relative flaccidness of my cock. I thought I was going to cum but didn’t know why my cock wasn’t physically correlating to the desire. It was rumbling with lust up its fleshy fissure, but remained coy. Oh well, now or never, perhaps if I threatened it with abstinence for a month it might frighten back to life.

 

We called the crew back in when things were starting to happen but I had to resort to talking dirty to myself otherwise I’d never be able to last the distance and as I viewed Nadia’s gorgeous body I thought, “She’s a dirty porn slut and she likes to have people watch her wide open pussy being filled by cock” , “fucking dirty whore, she’s splayed for everyone to see, she likes getting filled in company”, now I realise it seems a little extreme, but this private silent abusive tongue wagging inside my brain lashing out in fantastical smut seemed to work a treat because I was inside her once more, the camera was clicking away, and her delicious thighs were whetting my sexual appetite like a warm tide. Soon I felt the sensitive tip fizz up like ice-cream in lemonade and as if in s-l- o-w-m-o-t-i-o-n I tittered “I-think-I’m-going-to-cum”, “I’m not surprised” snapped the photographer, “Do it all over her arse” but it was too late my cock crooned an unctuous drool nestled in the pocket of Nadia’s sex. “Can you get hard again?” asked the photographer in a slight concern, “Shouldn’t be a problem” I stated, as I knew that once my cock had shook the butterflies, had straightened the initial nerves, had frightened off the stage bogey, it was primed, more sure shot, and resolute in its further duties, to harden, impress, and summon the magic of its wand.

 

It was all smooth shagging from there on and in, especially doing doggy in the fashion of the Europeans, bum up humping her hard against her rump, at one point we were requested to try anal, but a hissing yelp from Nadia, meant it was back to doggy. Finally I went into a mystic fervor in missionary right to the end of the runway (or beginning of my climax) and then charged my bursting baggage up to Nadia’s breasts, spattering my whites all over them. As I stuttered my thighs against Nadia, her breasts bucking, her hands levering back her ankles pouting up her butt, the photographer hollowed, “Jesus, you fuck like a gunner”, my slight frame can reach high speeds, and bike riding legs provide ample velocity when charged to piston my thighs into the pleasure of   vaginal sensations. That’s the money shot, three thousand dollars for us and millions for them.

 

The peeing bit was the hardest. We had time to have lunch, quiche and buttered bread served up to us by a porn actor with a 12 inch cock quietly and politely arranging our food. Then we sat down to watch “12 Angry Men” on cable whilst I steadily drank water and coffee until my bladder was just as angry as the jury in the movie.

 

We went into the bathroom, got undressed and then Nadia crouching down drank my piss, dribbling it all over her breasts, she didn’t swallow of course, just let it pour from her mouth. We did this routine six times. Me sitting on the couch ciphering water and coffee, watching cable television, chatting, and then up we jumped for another wetting in the bathtub. Her grinning and squatting as the camera clicked and flashed whilst I splashed her naked skin in excretions of aqueous piss.

 

The final shot we needed was me pissing over her anus which I managed to do by stopping mid-stream and allowing her to get down on her hands and knees as I tumbled the warm water over her deliciously puffed arse, aiming it down the slightly shaded indent where her rectum gaped poised minutely throbbing as she reared her rear towards the flow. I was glad the shoot was finally over and glad that my experience with fetish porn had been less of a trial then I had anticipated. Looking back though on that shoot, I was so intensely concentrated on getting the job right, it does look a bit strained, my temperament terse and effectively showing on my countenance, but learning the craft comes with the territory of an industry that relies on private acts made public that would usually be orchestrated without an ascetic overtone – and the money shot? It’s all Monopoly currency when spent with lovers, swingers, and solitary soirées. At home they wank it, in the industry that produces it; they bank it.

 

Any guy who sits at your table and boasts about desiring porn work or attempts to instill upon your listening a view to its ease, should eat his words and not your nibbles because no matter at what liberty your libido expresses its freedoms, no matter what skill you place upon your bedroom abilities, no matter how manly or masculine your adeptness at laboring in love-making, the requirements of ‘performing’ for the camera for hours of metered stimulation, sometimes with partners you’ve only just met and certainly not picked, with time ticking towards the deliverance of a pale sticky cash flow – sex becomes a deliberate task exercised for the benefit of the consumer. As an addendum I must stress that it also has all the glorious thrills of sexual excitement only found in the splendor of fucking in front of people, extracting the act of intercourse in imagery, and nurturing the taste buds of many a famished fan of the erotic arts.