Besides being phenomenally more copacetic now that I can access the Internet from home (a recent re-development), additionally I now have a returned access to porn, as I'm not forced to go skulking about on-line cafes and acquaintances' home computers. Yes, that's right: I can blog, download porn to my very own laptop, and drink beer at the same time now.
It's the little things.
And where would I be without porn? Limbs akimbo but working distractedly towards a definite end... I work with those limbs, sometimes: I need those arms and legs pin'd in the screen, and mouths hungry; sometimes I need to stare at them through half closed eyes in the mirror while I pretend to be arched back in utter submission to desire.
As part of the Confederacy, I have access to a few things unusual to my experience. Most prominently, the Confederacy itself; but a close second is the designated in-call location, which comes stocked and equipped with everything from sex-toys, to safety gear, to televisions streamed with porn. It's not always on. Some clients bristle with the suggestion of it -- usually because it interferes with their fantasy in some way. I have always addressed the work as a service that both parties can be satisfied by, so I do my best to be accommodating; but at the end of the day, three clients in, sometimes my ability to be inventive wanes; let me assure you, without inventiveness, anyone's a boring shag. The video comes in to fill the lulls, when I can't be bothered to prompt, or offer different courses of action. Sometimes an hour is just an hour, sometimes it's less -- but occasionally it's worse than waiting on tables at an outdoor wedding in the rain.
Not that I've ever done that.... No, really; not even to put myself through college.
The only problem with this well designed access to visual stimulation, at said location, is that the desire to invest any further from the initial stocking of the video loop stopped after the carousel was full. I'm getting to the point that I've seen all the manoeuvres. It's not quite as interesting as the first couple of weeks when I was enticed drop my drawers and get myself off again while the client was in the shower, just to sort of affirm what it was I was really into, to prove to myself where my sexual desire forayed so happily; but it's also got me thinking about porn more regularly than I have in years.
Bel-Ami. Falcon. Colt. I used to know these names a little more intimately, back when I used to mail-order the tapes into the backwater, in plain brown paper, and wasn't having any real sex of my own at all. Now I catch myself fantasising about working on-set. I'm sure that that's not what got me off when I watched it so much before. It was more projection and imaginary situation....
I had a client this week who's imagination took him to Rome, as a Senator flanked by his naked student at feasts and orgies, dutifully attendant as he fondled my balls, all the while talking about state affairs with his colleagues, secretly revelling in their jealousy. He was verbose, and speaking in fierce whispers, right into the crook my my neck below the ear.
"And what would you do?"
"I would be calm, and spread my legs just a little wider so you could fondle me easier. Just enough so that your Fellows could see."
"Ah..." he answered, and shuddered.
The shudder is something that I have a new appreciation for. The shudder is involuntary and bodily assuming: it takes on from the legs to the clavicle, and the voice wavers. It's becoming a regular, personal goal to bring them on.
"Are you sure you would want me as your protege?" I asked.
"Oh, yes."
He didn't want the TV on. I didn't mind. I didn't need it.
He was inventive.
