Real Sex, Or A Rock Opera?

Remember Flash Gordon, the film and rock opera with that great soundtrack by Queen?

This little piece of artwork was a great success in Britain but collected mixed results in other places. How comes that the public treated it so differently? It comes together very well once we understand that “the public” is just an abstract concept printed in our minds by repeated media stereotypes. In reality, there are the fans, individuals clumped in bands, or groups, forming long (or not so long) waiting queues, thrilling of excitement at a mere whisper of an idol’s name. It’s human nature, as old as history herself.

The Flash Gordon rock opera paradox is in the pie: UK fans were numerous enough to make a difference while in the US, or elsewhere, the fever affected more of a niche zone of individual fans. Thus the impact was disproportionate because of the numbers, and distribution, of fans. There’s no such thing as “the public” in reality, and this is not exactly a paradox.

The Very Vintage Porn Culture

Back to our sheep, right? I have read somewhere that, during the 18th century, coffee consumption was regarded as an addiction and coffee users got a treatment somehow like drug users in our days. Here’s a frugal Pinterest peep into the 18th century culture of porn.

It was more poetic, preponderantly expressed in writing and less in posing (who could keep a hardon for hours and hours until the painter finished his handy work?) and totally alien to porn movies, because of a major technological absentee: no cameras.

Still, they passionately wrote erotic prose and poetry in the 18th century, they painted the sexual desire in numerous expressions of beauty. Like this sample of a fan (not the regular rock opera fan) portraying the Altar of Hymen.

Scenes commemorating the marriage banquet were popular subjects for 18th century fans. In this example, the fan painter has combined it with the taste for classicism and portrays the Altar of Hymen (god of marriage). As the bride and groom approach, clouds billow around the altar, a rainbow springs from the earth, and angels hold aloft portraits of the couple. The still-life vignettes on either side attest to the life of opulence and wealth that awaits them.


They sang no rock music in the 18th century but they wrote a great deal of operas.

Opera (English plural: operas; Italian plural: opere) is an art form in which singers and musicians perform a dramatic work combining text (called a libretto) and musical score, usually in a theatrical setting.[1] Opera incorporates many of the elements of spoken theatre, such as acting, scenery, and costumes and sometimes includes dance. The performance is typically given in an opera house, accompanied by an orchestra or smaller musical ensemble.


Rock Me Amadeus, by Falco, is not an opera, just a single album. Worth watching and listening to the music.


Was Mozart the Falco of his times? Or Falco the Mozart of the 80s? Yes, I know the answer, no need to roll your eyes. It’s just rhetoric. Compare the epochs together with the characters. Study the social context, the mores and the cultural trends. They both belong to Vienna, a city conservative enough to make this comparison not only simpler but also more agreeable. The distance between the 18th century and the 1980s, in our fixed sample place (Vienna) and on our art of choice (music), is rather superficial. Let’s pursue a deeper route, to the heart of the performer, and we’re about to discover quasi-identical manifestations of joy and anger, of hope and despair, of glee and gloom. People are people, but hey!, that’s Depeche Mode already so I’ll stop my rambling short.


Interpreting My Orgasms?

Before last month, I allowed hubby to film our love-making with no other purpose than for the two of us, me and him, keeping a secret vault of memories. He reviews the films once in a while, whenever I send him to a solo jack off. It is when I can hear myself orgasming from the screen. It is when I feel a curiosity to study the images with a critical eye. It is when I can notice how clumsy I am in bed, and how lazy 🙂 . It is also when I smile, with a giggle, as I watch me sailing the waves of orgasm, my body trembling in the clasp of his hands, and tongue. It is when I hear my screams fragmenting my words, my short breathed commands telling him to stop touching me as I can’t stand any longer.

Beginning with last month, I asked hubby to film some of our love-making scenes with the explicit purpose of posting them on my adult sites. I review these more often, with a more attentive critical eye and with a thrill that I’ve gotta look good, not just for my own pleasure, not just for my man, but also for the watchers on the web, for “the public.” Besides, the orgasms he gives me — even if all natural and authentic — have to suffer because of my essay to speak out in English, which is not my mother’s language. Translation in orgasm gets me a bit lost, so to say 😦 .

It is by this personal experience that I can fathom why a porn actress has to act, instead of living the overwhelming climax, unclouded by thoughts about how she appears on camera, and why she must look and recite some priorly learned words, instead of whatever may hit her mind at the absolute zero-thinking minute when a woman is taken astray by her peak of satisfaction.

See why I say that porn is less erotic than real intimacy? I’ve tried them both and I like my better orgasms, from the older intimate movies, deemed to be watched by just the two of us. But that was then, when we filmed them, years ago. Now it’s different, because we decided to release a long ole one right in the middle of… this week (click on CougarBunnies to watch it).

Don’t look for the opera in it, there’s none.

No opera, just sex!



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