Writing little clumsy verses to his wife, making love to her, filming and blending naive poetry with romantic porn. Who does this in our times? My man? Me? Probably few more like us…
Whenever possible, I cuddle in Don’s arms. Wish I had more time for this, away from the grinding chores, disconnecting from the mothering torments. You? Most likely you see what I mean, if you are a housewife in love, if your spirit longs to harbor your heart under the peaceful cover of your man’s scent. Or if you are a maiden dreaming about latent and yet so very [c]harmful sprinters on white horses, of hairy poneys and white unicorns riding the rainbow.
Modern society complicates things and dreams alike, makes your life difficult or impossible, chases the flavoring mysteries out of your imagination, replacing everything with a product, served to you: the social target; to YOU: the consumer.
Poetry and romance crave for the oneness of a pure and pristine waterfall of love, with sex as a side effect. For a maiden maybe. As for a seasoned cougar like me, sex is the passionate fire that I keep ablaze to consume his poetry and to nourish even more romantic moments, paving the morrow with them. I gradually became, it turns out, almost as over-sexed as my crazy man. Almost? I wonder…
Stern Mechanical Sex
Uniformity, serialization and standards came with the industrial “blessings” of the 20th century. Such advances are welcome in so many aspects but what industrialism did to love-making (I’m so sorry to say) is APPALLING. A mindset where everything is a component, anything can be replaced with an exact surrogate, nothing can ever be precious in a way that is unique.
You wanna replace your breasts or your buttocks? No problem! The industry offers you all the following [insert_here] products and sizes, of the finest silicone. We compare our bodies to machines and this is why so many men enjoy industrial porn, mechanical sex, impersonal orgasms, expendable partners, or disconnected breathing bodies?
Where have we left our souls then? Do we have anything to care about beneath the superficial theater of the frugal, canny social feelings, or “likes,” or “tweets?” Have we forsaken our sensuality, our spirituality, our humanity, or divinity?, for the sake of the conveyor belt?
By instinct, the minds of men are pornified. The less happy souls seek for dark pleasures in the coldness of cornered pain while the merrier ones revel in the warm light of laughing at their sexuality. Eyes wide open!
In the past, I speak in centuries here, porn was sensual and affectionate, subtle and attentive, heedful, studious, mysterious? Today, I speak in decades now, we have an artificial sub-culture of plastic, sordid pick hammers and pumped up hormones presenting a mixed soup of disconnected sensations.
Is it Mummy Porn, or Just My Porn?
Sure, I speak for myself. The industry of mainstream porn has her great digits to brag about and can keep her cold fingers away from my shy pussy. I love doing romantic porn with my loverboy, who is also my driver, my husband, the father of my kids, my masseur, my fitness trainer, my e-pimp, my pillow and my sex slave. And my old friend from college. Only writing about him sends giggles down my spine.
I must be off topic, way off topic. This is why the “porn” term puzzles me so much, because everyone says that what I’m doing is “porn.” My consciousness too. Those grievous mute echoes…
Thank God for poetry. He writes me a little poem, he offers me a rose, often kneeling and kissing my hand, he dances with me in the kitchen, or in the living, he digs ancient music on Youtube for me (ancient is how the kids call it), he gradually embraces more small house chores – WILLINGLY! – to free me of them and, frequently, he gives me his flesh — which is mine anyway.
With all the above, and the ones that slipped from my memory, I try to gather a blanket of innocence over the hard-(and harder)-core “porn” practices of mine.