She puts hand on arse, smooths and then slaps.
She lifts edge of frilly knickers and inches them down.
He steps closer and erection can be sighted by camera.
She starts to moan just at the sight of the erection.
I turn the sound to mute. There is nothing less exciting than the moans of a girl who is directed to do so. I am distracted by the thought of this and follow a memory trail to moans that seemed staged, sounds that were not the real response to physical stimulus. To my own noises which sometimes surprise me, stark piggish grunts or the held-in sound of someone asphyxiating.
He enters her. Lifting her leg for the camera's shaky gaze. In a little, out again, in a little more. All this to show us, the viewers that this is the actual act of coitus that we are paying for.
The actual act of coitus. Staged. Performed for me. And the sight of two bodies working at and into each other is eternally stimulating. My own body responds, readying itself for orgasm. Yes. I know that there is no emotional connection, but this is a vagina and that is a penis and they are in contact with each other and I am watching it. He does that fast thing, that piston hard fuck action that is quite popular. It is not a rythm I can sing to, but he takes his pauses and the camera zooms in for a close shot of a penis entering a vagina.
I come. Quickly. My body locking up as it does, muscles spasming in my back and my neck, toes curling, nipples snapping erect. I know how my body works and what it will do. I know that this is a quick physical release and the come down is sudden and brutal. I am overwhelmed by the emptiness of post-porn orgasms. I feel the weight of loneliness, and that too is associated now with sex. This terrible lack. Sad flourescent glare. My to-do list suddenly visible, throbbing in time to in fading pulsations.