Someone once said that porn was the new Bible. It taught the future men of tomorrow exactly what they should expect from the world, exactly what they wanted. It set their expectations of the world ahead of them high. They expected miracles. They expected the water to turn into wine, the mundane to turn into the extraordinary, the A cups to turn to DDs. It showed them remarkable worlds in which plumbers could get with attractive housewives. It showed clothing that was barely that. Worlds unimagined. It creates entire generations of men and-oddly enough-young women. Together, they are thrust into a world that is supposedly controlled by the act of coitus.
Harry Pastures is not his real name. He's twenty seven, not twenty five and his hair is black, not blond. When the director decides it's time for him to dismount me, he isn't responding to anything God gave him naturally.
"Gwen, get up."
Gwen isn't my real name either, but I reply regardless with a sigh and a careful turn of lifting myself up from the floor. He doesn't want to hear me reply with a somewhat snide "Ayeaye, Captain!" or a chipper "Yes sir!" All he wants is for me to get my hair moussed some more and to apply a bit more rouge.
Andrei, however, does want to hear me and he gushes on about my costar with a voice that reminds me slightly of my brother. When he gives me time to talk, he seems disappointed at my monotone descriptions of his 'lovemaking' and seems a bit hasty in getting me out the door again.
I decide to give him something to dream about. After all, it is what he likes me for. "You know, he used to be a rentboy."
His eyes light up and he begins to gush about Harry Pastures and his abs as he applies another layer of hair spray to my already coiffed hair. Andrei hasn't 'gotten any' since last Tuesday and is more than happy to keep me up to date on his latest fantasies until I'm called back on set.
I have three more hours of this. Two of those hours will be spent getting my hair done, getting my eyes shadowed, face blushed. One more hour will be spent under Harry Pastures, Spunk Phirm and most probably Gordon Yustman.
None of them will want to hear what I say. None of them. Not unless it's what they want to hear, anyway.
Harry Pastures is not his real name. He's twenty seven, not twenty five and his hair is black, not blond. When the director decides it's time for him to dismount me, he isn't responding to anything God gave him naturally.
"Gwen, get up."
Gwen isn't my real name either, but I reply regardless with a sigh and a careful turn of lifting myself up from the floor. He doesn't want to hear me reply with a somewhat snide "Ayeaye, Captain!" or a chipper "Yes sir!" All he wants is for me to get my hair moussed some more and to apply a bit more rouge.
Andrei, however, does want to hear me and he gushes on about my costar with a voice that reminds me slightly of my brother. When he gives me time to talk, he seems disappointed at my monotone descriptions of his 'lovemaking' and seems a bit hasty in getting me out the door again.
I decide to give him something to dream about. After all, it is what he likes me for. "You know, he used to be a rentboy."
His eyes light up and he begins to gush about Harry Pastures and his abs as he applies another layer of hair spray to my already coiffed hair. Andrei hasn't 'gotten any' since last Tuesday and is more than happy to keep me up to date on his latest fantasies until I'm called back on set.
I have three more hours of this. Two of those hours will be spent getting my hair done, getting my eyes shadowed, face blushed. One more hour will be spent under Harry Pastures, Spunk Phirm and most probably Gordon Yustman.
None of them will want to hear what I say. None of them. Not unless it's what they want to hear, anyway.
