Catch up

Oh dear, I've forgotten to keep updated on here. Never mind. Where were we?

This week I'm keeping things running while my ED's away. I have a massive to do list: magazine on deadline tomorrow, a pile of editing for the next book, a whole promotion related project. Things are pretty full on.

Monday was kind of tough. I'd spent the weekend at my girlfriend's having fun. At some point early on Monday morning I found myself sleep-dry humping her. It wasn't furthered. By the end of the day I was ready to burst. That's the thing about working in porn. You're constantly exposed to sex. But then, that's kind of obvious, isn't it. If the pictures and videos don't get to you the erotic literature will. Admittedly now a year in I can happily say workplace hard-ons are less of an occurrence. Although we live apart, so I rarely get to come home to a friendly mouth and pussy. You win some, you lose some.

I'm writing, which obviously means it's mid week. Pan fried salmon and potatoes, medium sudoku, a few smokes. Homework time.

Ok, the DVDs are just there for illustrative purpose, but do I have to spend the night boning up on the competition.

Quicky

I'm at work, so I'll keep this short.

I think I need to start a new regular feature of weird shit I find at work.

Here's the first...

Taken from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Facial_(sex_act)

Yeah, I sometimes look at Wikipedia pages for sex acts.

I'm about as mature as a 10 year old.

Sunny days

It is too sunny to be sat over my laptop for too long. That's why I just knocked this out in the garden on my typewriter. Forgive the typewriter obsession. The hipster in me needs to tell the world that I own and use one. Plus, have you tried using a laptop outside in the sunshine and without a battery? They're useless...

Well, isn't this just going brilliantly?

It's been about a year since I last put paper to typewriter, fingers to keys, fingers in between the keys, into the little hole where the ribbon runs, and frustrated, taken my fingers elsewhere as the pursuit of using a typewriter became unbearable,and invested in a new battery for the laptop to avoid having to use the damn typewriter. The battery has since died having been left on during a trip to Paris. Fuck yeah, I went to Paris. I told you things were going well.

So, what's news? I'm still here for a start. The greatest development has been a small dose of trying not to give too much of a shit about my situation (of not being exactly where I want to be in life). That's done a world of good. At Christmas I had a serious case of the whatthefuckamIdoinghowthefuckdoIgetoutofheres. Panic attacks, lost sleep, tears before bedtime. Nothing that everyone else hasn't gone through, I'm sure.

But the question remains, what am I doing and who am I? I spent days in an existential haze. All I say, is that's not the way to solve things. I'm all for thinking. Thinking has done some wonderful and disgusting things throughout history, of which I'm both glad and saddened by. But that shit really messes with the mind if not conducted in a safe environment and with controlled substances to aid. The discovery: I'm about as rock n roll as a cardigan and a pair of slippers. In fact, from some of the shit I get sent at work I'm not even half as cool as that. I don't drink too much (by human, as opposed to medical standards) and I don't smoke too much. (Probably too much in the eyes of my girlfriend, but you're probably aware of 12 year old kids that smoke more in a day than I can in a week.) Life's not a competition though, as I'm slowly coming to realise again.

So what has the first 12 months of working on a porn magazine brought me? Aside from an encyclopaedic knowledge of the porn players and their specialities, a new found respect for the seemingly limitless capabilities of the human form to accommodate  sexual proclivities, and the ability to accurately picture the naked form of everyone that crosses my path - I've adjusted to working my first ever office based nine to five. Really. I'm 28 years old, I've worked since I was 12: delivering papers, 14: washing dishes, 16: cooking, 18 and on: bar work and teaching English... after all that, after half my life busting a nut in various situations around the world, I've finally adjusted to working in an office and I'm producing products to help fellow men and women bust a nut. (Yeah, women read porn mags.)

If from my childhood I could see my future, what would I have thought? That's pretty fucking cool! I'd imagine. But it really isn't.

James Deen Meme

There's a lot of stuff being said about James Deen at the minute. While I gather my thoughts on the matter, enjoy these memes.

Gangbangs

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Business Time

I always thought I was a pretty liberal guy before I started working on the magazines. I went to art school. I was in for a shock.

The beautiful thing about working on a magazine that focuses on human behaviour, shall we say, is being allowed to see what it is humans do behind closed doors. I say that like I have some magical power, that I get to see behind the curtain. To an extent that is true. But let me rephrase that first sentence: porn is good because it enlightens us as a species to our desires. In that sense, it’s a privilege to have a back stage pass to the gig. (Although I only get press passes to gigs, if anyone gets the hint.)

A lot of the content in the magazines comes straight from the readership. In that sense, it should be a very easy job. The pictures have been taken. The sexy stories have been written. It basically writes itself, right? Nope. I’ve just been reminded of this fact by sending a message to a friend online. My message was full of typos and grammatical errors. Oh how the mighty pedant falls upon his sword (because his pen is a sword, but it’s not because it’s a computer, we need to do some updates for the old proverbs). Why am I writing about words? Fucking hell.

So yeah, normal people like you or the person sat next to you, or the person in the building across the street from you (yeah, that really nice couple who look like they’d sell their kidneys to free Tibet or organic eggs or whatever)… we are all a bunch of sick pervos. Who’d have thought?

But why is my field of work considered sick? I’ll put my hands up and admit I still get uncomfortable talking about it. But I don’t know why. Is it a British thing? I doubt it. From what I gather, America is even worse at being “reserved”. Yet their adult industry is considerably larger than Britain’s. Plus I can’t remember the last time I walked down a street in continental Europe and was propositioned. (Which is a shame. It’s good for the self-confidence so they say.) Even now, a year into working on the magazines I find it quite a weird thing to talk about openly. Here’s the stupid part: I’m sat in front of my laptop in my room by myself. What have I got to hide? Nothing. I’m not going to die from writing a few words. So, why all the egg shells? Maybe it’s something I’ve got to get used to. I can happily tell my friends that I spent a day editing stories about sex in public places and gang-bangs (I’m great at parties). In the office I’m in work mode and it’s business. So maybe I just need to loosen up and do some more homework. And focus on business a bit more.

Only Human

I always thought I was a pretty liberal guy before I started working on the magazines. I went to art school. I was in for a shock.

The beautiful thing about working on a magazine that focuses on human behaviour, shall we say, is being allowed to see what it is humans do behind closed doors. I say that like I have some magical power, that I get to see behind the curtain. To an extent that is true. But let me rephrase that first sentence: porn is good because it enlightens us as a species to our desires. In that sense, it’s a privilege to have a back stage pass to the gig.

A lot of the content in the magazines comes straight from the readership. In that sense, it should be a very easy job. The pictures have been taken. The sexy stories have been written. It basically writes itself, right? Nope. I’ve just been reminded of this fact by sending a message to a friend online. My message was full of typos and grammatical errors. Oh how the mighty pedant falls upon his sword (because his pen is a sword, but it’s not because it’s a computer, we need to do some updates for the old proverbs). Why am I writing about words? Fucking hell.

So yeah, normal people like you or the person sat next to you, or the person in the building across the street from you (yeah, that really nice couple who look like they’d sell their kidneys to free Tibet or organic eggs or whatever)… we are all a bunch of sick pervos. Who’d have thought?

But why is my field of work considered sick? I’ll put my hands up and admit I still get uncomfortable talking about it. But I don’t know why. Is it a British thing? I doubt it. From what I gather, America is even worse at being “reserved”. Yet their adult industry is considerably larger than Britain’s. Plus I can’t remember the last time I walked down a street in continental Europe and was propositioned. (Which is a shame. It’s good for the self-confidence so they say.) Even now, a year into working on the magazines I find it quite a weird thing to talk about openly. Here’s the stupid part: I’m sat in front of my laptop in my room by myself. What have I got to hide? Nothing. I’m not going to die from writing a few words. So, why all the egg shells? Maybe it’s something I’ve got to get used to. I can happily tell my friends that I spent a day editing stories about sex in public places and gang-bangs (I’m great at parties). In the office I’m in work mode and it’s business. So maybe I just need to loosen up and do some more homework. And focus on business a bit more.