Mo!

You would think that the Internet would have made porn cooler. Perhaps you knew that it might not do so. You never thought it would ruin porn.


I find hipster porn sites (Suicide Girls, Burning Angel, Last Night's Party ) aesthetically interesting, but they don't turn me on. The whole purpose of porn is to feed your egotistical delusions. The model should have a "come hither" look, like she actually wants you. These punk porn sites, they have Polaroids of girls with these vacant stares, like they had chloroform-soaked napkins cupped over their mouths and they were dragged into the bike shop where Arnold and Dudley were held captive twenty years ago. I don't need Polaroids of dour girls. I get enough blank, uninterested looks when I ask a girl out. I don't need Polaroids by some Larry Clark wannabe to act out my fantasies of rejection.

The hipster porn sites can be intellectually stimulating though. Suicide Girls has interesting articles and I like reading the journals of the models. Sometimes, I am even turned on by their playlists ("Wolf Parade, '60's Who, [pant], don't stop!," I sometimes say while twiddling my knob -- I mean tugging my whammy bar.)

But these Bang Bus websites? Again, porn is about self-delusion. Usually, I don't like to see the girl with the guy -- I like to imagine that the girl wants me, not some human/stallion hybrid. Whether she's alone or with the guy, I at least want to believe that she wants to have sex because she's horny. These websites ruin that illusion. How? By showing the guy waving the money to the girl like a steak in front of a coyote. Let me get this straight -- you are showing me a guy pay a girl for sex and you want me to pay money to watch him pay her to have sex? This transaction is too complicated for me, bus boy.

Contrary to what you might have learned in Boogie Nights, the '80's was the golden age of porn. First of all, the girls were awesome. They had big hair and big tits. It was like watching a girl from a hair metal video backstage. The VCR meant you could watch Christy Canyon and Ashlyn Gere oil each other up without going to the theater surrounded by balding, stubbly chromosomal anomalies and without the President knowing about it. These movies not only indulged your ego, they glorified some occupations along the way (pizza boy, teacher, detective, prisoner).

Then there was scrambled porn on cable. Remember that? You would watch these squiggly, purple images, the audio would clue you in to the action so you knew when to look for fingers or bobbing heads. The best, of course, was a stormy night. That's when the porn channel would come in for free and your parents had no idea. You know what the Playboy Channel (the only cable porn channel in the '80's) had on almost every single time this happened?


Electric Blue.

It was a video sex magazine that had sex shorts, centerfolds and sex news coverage. Think of it as Real Sex meets The Spice Channel.

Best of all was the theme song. It had this throbbing synth line and some girl would
whisper "Electric Blue." Then the inane lyrical barrage began:

Now the time has come
To see the show (the show [unneccessary reverb])
The girls, the cars, the dreams
Electronic centerfolds
Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah
Blah blah blah blah blah blah
The truth is sex and cars and dreams
Electric blue
The one with the new girls performing
FEEL THE WARNING!

Got to go -- my mom just came back home.