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Winter 2001.

Adventures in Porn

by Miss Amy Abdou

Over the years I've collected a bit of erotica, short stories, lots of pictures, but no definitive pornography. I suppose the perception of what is porn is subjective, but I tend to think of porn as something I don't like and erotica as something I do.

Pornography, I've been told, is from the Latin for writing about harlots. Writing about harlots has sort of a misogynistic slant to it and to be honest, I don't identify with the women in porno flicks. I don't look like them and I don't act like them. I don't share their enthusiasm for multiples or projectiles. Sure, those European films where the women have real flab and hairy armpits are touted as high art, but to me, it's still pornography. Men making stories about what they'd like to do to women.

It's not that I'm against pornography, per se, I just find that it's dominated by one perspective, and that's boring. Besides, it seems to me that pornography is a poor substitute for the real thing. It's for people who aren't having sex. I'm a really aggressive woman; if I want to have sex, I should be able to find it. Or work something out, you know. But, much to my chagrin, it doesn't work like that. Most times, men are so intimidated by women who want sex and are upfront about it, that they don't know how to proceed or their fear prohibits their anatomy from functioning properly, aka, the "no show". After you've lost your affection for one night stands and you realize sex is always intimate and desirable and available, but never uncomplicated, you turn toward your only viable option and true friend, masturbation.

So, it was with trepidation that Mary and I entered the porn palace of ADULT WORLD. I wanted to go. She wanted to go. Then, on the way there, I started getting nervous. We circled the parking lot. Mary made a joke about my car breaking down and us having to call for a ride. Funny.

I tried to walk in real cool, like 'I come here all the time' and then proceeded to trip and knock over a vibrator. "You break it you buy it," I quipped as I dropped the vibrator and kicked it accidentally. The ass beads looked really poorly made, probably from some Indonesian sweatshop, and quiet frankly, I'm sure that if you really wanted to have that sensation, you could find something around the house that would achieve the same effect, maybe some marbles. Careful studying of the packages ensued. "Excuse me, is this a union sex toy?"

I was immediately attracted to the brass dildo. It seemed somehow appropriate to the act that it was gold, and it had a sleek design. It didn't help that it was put out by a company named "Doc Johnson"; somehow that simultaneously evoked Don Johnson and Doc Hollywood, that terrible Michael J. Fox film. Bleh. It did boast "7 1/2 inches of fun!" That sounded promising.

The store was also well stocked with a plentitude of good ol' poly-orificial, omni-appetited American blonde contortionist porn. We browsed. We laughed about Chubbers. One S&M flick featured a bunch of Nazis getting spanked. Only in porn could they infuse mass genocide with sex. Their selection of gay male porn, by comparison, seemed paltry and focused more on hairy older dudes. Bear Magazine. Ew.

We soon realized there was a much larger portion of the store that we were missing and we dared to cross the threshold where a dozen booths held the majority of the store's occupants. I don't know how to describe the feeling that overtook us. If it had been a Disney movie, we were the two big-eyed does about to enter the cave of the mountain lion. This must have dawned on us at exactly the same time, because we both ran in the other direction. "Hello, central computer. Unknown quantity of men jacking off, get us out of here!"

At this point, a very young-looking male porn connoisseur walked in and got carded. "Hey, I didn't get carded. How old do you have to be to buy a sex toy, I wondered. Am I old enough? I mean psychologically.

I made my purchase. "One sleek and fancy Mr. Biggie, please. No fries." I tried to chat up the guy behind the counter. He was immune to my kind. Dildo shoppers, porn connoisseurs, we're all the same.

Well, I got the dildo home and that's the end of the story, for you readers. Although I fear it may eventually go the same way as the now dust-gathering Salon Salad Spinner I bought last year with Mary, they thankfully both take C cell batteries.

AMY ABDOU is stranger and smarter than you.