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.
Tuesday, 1 May 2012
Tuesday, 10 April 2012
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...
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.
Friday, 6 April 2012
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.
Wednesday, 14 March 2012
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.
Tuesday, 13 March 2012
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.
Monday, 12 March 2012
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.
Car Park Shuffle
As I sit down to start today’s writings a friend of mine
from university posts on Facebook: It seems as though the universe is telling me to do porn :( it seems by the law of averages this
was bound to happen. Besides the porn stars that I know who are
paid to get naked, it’s surprising that I haven’t seen I know through Readers’ Wives or the
internet. Now with phones as good as any camera the sheer number of naked
photos of people on this planet is inconceivable. Well, that is a thought to
consider. I’m pretty sure everyone has a naughty photo somewhere.
At work I’m
surrounded by naked bodies of all sorts. From the lithe to the morbidly
oversized. Barely legal to old and senile. Male and female. For the first week
or so I went through a period of adjustment. The exposure to such volumes of
nudity play on the mind. A short trip across the supermarket car park sees all
those folk in all their beauty. Thankfully, I found that the sixth sense could
be harnessed, and switched off the majority of the time. Had it not, I would
not be sat at my computer typing this, rather permanently engaged in a
masturbatory fit behind a Renault Megane.
So I guess
I’d better tell you a little about me. I’m in my late 20s, I’m British, I’m
skinny, I smoke too much pot, I play the guitar, I am in love with my
girlfriend of almost five years. Things are pretty good when I look at it like
that. But then it’s not always that good in my head. Me and my girl were on a bus the
other week and after a short argument we stumbled upon the fact that I could be
bi-polar. I could just be a twat.
I can’t say
my line of work is the one I ever imagined I would end up in. I can’t really
say that I’m one of those lucky folks that know their purpose in life.
Although, I can say the thought did cross my mind when I found my first stash,
in a bush as standard. But then, I'm pretty sure plenty of thoughts crossed my mind that day, like: why do tomatoes taste gross and where does fluff come from? It would be a little rash to suggest 18 years down the line that would be my line of work. But then little rashes are a common occurrence. All I know is it’s not where I want to end up. Of course there is a satisfaction working within the industry that has captured my attention for so long. But there's not a great deal of money in it. And by my flip-flopping logic and personal goals, it's not really about the money. But it is. I'd like enough to live comfortably like the middle class little shit that I've been brought up to be. It just seems right now. There's not a great deal of it for the guy that sticks the magazines together.
Wednesday, 7 March 2012
Wanking
Working on the magazines, I’m generally constantly
surrounded by sex. The first week was a little tough. It took a moment to get
up from the desk. Now I could walk onto a movie set and not even get the
slightest tingle down there. However, after a long day at work it’s not exactly
a struggle to get down to business out of the office.
I'm mid-way through a little ‘DVD review’ when Lou interrupts me by shouting
from downstairs. Fuck it: I think. Roll over, zip up, open the door and shout
down casually, “Yeah?”
“Can
you sort this out on the computer?” He asks as I awkwardly descend the stairs
and slide past him into the kitchen. I put the kettle on. “Oh, fuck, it’s
gone,” he yells. Tea, green, in hand, and my genitalia rearranged, I walk back
into the hall. It’s a quick resize a photo and upload fix. I provide IT support
to my landlord. The rent is pretty good after all.
Back
in my room I get back to what I was watching. Except it’s a new scene. It’s
Tarra. I’ve met Tarra. You get used to seeing colleagues hard at work. And let
me tell you, Tarra is one of the best at what my colleagues do. In this case,
she’s sucking a guy off while taking another from behind. They’re entwined in
what looks like a very expensive modern kitchen. My place has a nice modern kitchen.
I get into it. Pants down and cock out I finish my review into the tissue and
see what’s on the TV.
Tarra's a very nice young lady
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