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.

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.

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