The Hardcore Porn of Good Literature
When Internet Porn Gets Boring: a Sopping Jaunt into the Hardcore Porn of Good Literature, by Elfy Scott:
A restless night of erotic dreams tends to leave me hanging in the morning; my pussy throbbing, and in dire need of an orgasm that will shoot my brains out and quit my deprived genitals from hampering my plans for the day.
Internet porn, once such a staple routine in my masturbatory life, has somewhat lost its intrigue and become an incredibly so-so activity. The option of watching yet another 22-year-old Californian girl getting split up the middle and gaping at the camera with her eyes rolling back in her head is always available but somehow, it simply doesn’t cut it at times like this.
No, it’s always thoroughly obvious when I’ve truly been getting down to business with myself because Henry Miller’s Tropic of Capricorn will be lying facedown on my bedside table; its pages split somewhere halfway through the novel. Never underestimate the quality of filth you may stumble across in great literature; I say ‘great’ literature purposefully. No, I don’t own a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey but it seems to be rocking the collective genitalia of women globally, so all power to it.
Really, I find Fifty Shades of Grey an interesting phenomenon in itself; pornography thinly disguised as literature skyrocketing in sales because it seems the most substantial way for women to get off, free of feeling totally sordid. If one were to write a novel in the same vein directed at men, it would receive a resounding, “no, I’ll be back to watching teenage girls getting back at their fathers, thank you very much.” And yet I see photos on Instagram of girls with their Fifty Shades, captioning “good night! X” – the image of anybody else crammed up in a desk chair in front of a screen of people fucking captioned “night everybody! :)” would yield much the same imagery. To be entirely honest, I get the premise though, Fifty Shades has its origins in a fan-fiction of Twilight, I’ve read that series and dear God, somebody had to stick a dick in that girl’s mouth eventually.
I find good literature holds a certain essence to the sexuality it portrays, which is otherwise completely lacking in the market of Internet pornography- characters in the literary domain fuck for fucking. They may be fictional but the sex comes from a genuine place; they’re not fucking for fame, paying the rent or compensation for a childhood of disrepair; they are fucking because they own their cocks and cunts and aim to put them to particularly good use. The cock in these novels is not a mere instrument for the purpose of nailing strung-out women with room temperature IQs; it is a force and a lifestyle.
There is a certain amount of realism that grounds the fucking as well; Miller fucks women with abrasive personalities that turn him off, Bukowski’s protagonist in Women loses erections constantly, but then again, what’s believable sex without its fair share of disappointment? No black couch, no fake nails and unconvincing moans of pleasure, rather your own fiendish imagination propelled by fantastic writing from the most engaging of misogynists. Although, literature can also make one sexually engrossed in images that would otherwise be downright appalling in video pornography. I trust most have been thrilled by the scene in American Psycho in which Christian Bale watches himself in the mirror riding a prostitute to Sussudio, and yet the chapter in Bret Easton Ellis’ original novel really brought that one home for me. The scene involves Patrick Bateman’s frantic and sopping threesome with two prostitutes, one of whom he later decapitates. Oh gosh, what a man. I recall mentioning it to a friend, who was reading it at the same time, and claimed that he reeled in disgust and genuinely couldn’t stomach it. Meanwhile, it was a direct hit for my pornographic classics and I am still at a crushing loss as a result of lending the fantastic book to one of those sorts who is incapable of looking after a book with any ounce of respect; I mean, feel free to jerk off over my books but don’t you DARE spill foundation over the cover.
Of course, the female sexuality is infinitely more pliable than that of men, once christened into the church of Redtube in early adolescence, a successful sojourn into literature for male masturbation may be somewhat unlikely. Once an Internet wanker, always an Internet wanker – as the old saying goes. However, I highly recommend the consideration for all women, hell, buy Fifty Shades of Grey if you must but you’ll find the most renowned of writers know how to talk fucking with an honesty so raw and uncompromising in their depiction of the need to cum, it is truly sexy in itself. Although, I thoroughly acknowledge that this masturbatory facet may well be isolated to me. I suppose whatever esoteric activity or occurrence gets you off, run with it. A few more of mine include the tops of books lining up on a book shelf, Primus video clips, socks with interesting textures on the bottom, Bill Hicks and the backs of people’s necks on trains. Whatever floats your boat.
Words by Elfy Scott
