October 3, 2007
In Shame-faced Praise of Slick Cheesecake Porn


cydypotd182.jpg About ten years ago, an ex-lover gave me a copy of Playboy’s Voluptuous Vixens as a gag birthday gift. It languished for a while in a pile of magazines, papers and books - my bedroom regularly looks like the aftermath of a bar-brawl between a Salvation Army and a used book shop-until one ennui-and-hormone-filled afternoon I rediscovered it and unearthed it from the pile in which it was buried and forgotten like last Wednesday’s lunch.

I get bored with my onanistic practices. Given enough time and repetition, even the best toy, the best rhythm, the most efficient vibrator loses its orgasmic luster and grows shadowy and dull. I grow disenchanted easily and randomly. My pussy is a capricious and petulant mistress-I never know what beloved trick trotted out one too many times will send it, sighing mightily with unaffected boredom, spiraling into a yawning pet. I find myself surprised as a naïve and besotted swain when, finger pressing knowingly on clit, or toy inserted perfectly against g-spot, or tried-and-true fantasy replaying like a favorite blue movie inside my brain, my pussy stamps her tiny feet, shuts down, and pouts as fetchingly as an over-indulged demimonde.

Times like that, I feel like the hapless lover who has tried and tried and tried again, only to find failure. I am forced, like a bumbling inamorato, to fumble for something new. And that moment, that time of necessity breeding mother to invention, was how I rediscovered my ex-lover’s gag gift, the slick and shiny cheesecake mag of airbrushed girls of some generous proportions. I was forced into opening its pages by my fickle cunt; I was pressed to forage for greener pastures in my incessant efforts to feed the pussy something new, something lush, something verdant, something green.

Both “voluptuous” and “vixen” are words that Playboy employs with some leniency. I don’t know how many of the women who appear on the magazine’s shiny pages are precisely “voluptuous,” for as curvaceous as they are, most seem a bit too reedy to entirely embody the effusive sensual glory of the word. They certainly all had either mighty tits or generous asses, though rarely both, the combination of the two, I suppose, being potentially an excessively and scary fulsome pleasure.

“Vixen” is also an imprecise term. The pages showed temptresses of a full range of stereotypy-there were bad little girls and bad big girls, naughty girls next door, and frisky Scot lasses denoted by bathing in incongruous tams. There were fiery Latinas snarling through their smiles and buxom black chicks who looked seductively over their gleaming shoulders. There were nurses and teachers and even a preacher, and all smiled with an equal come-hither expectant radiance. I’m not sure how many of these women, though, were entirely voluptuous or vixenish, but alliteration sells, especially in porn.

You can see from my writing the love/hate/love (or perhaps hate/love/hate) relationship I have with this magazine. It is the immemorial mind/body split. On the one hand, my brain raised its feminist hackles; it presented knowing and intellectual objections. It raised its hand and coughed politely; “These pictures merely replicate the oppression of the patriarchy,” it said.

My mind put its hand in the air. “These idealized images of women create a fallacious fantasy that both reifies the traditional male/female power hierarchy and engenders poor self-image for women.”

My mind pumped its fist. “Fight the power!” It yelled. “Resist succumbing to the patriarchal capitalist tools of oppression!”

My body, however, did not. My body, however, responded. My whimsical pussy looked at the vixens: vixens guzzling milk greedily from the bottle, their foamy breasts white with rivulets of milk; vixens long and glistening wet with the azure water of expensively maintained pools; vixens perched on bathroom sinks, their delicate pussy lips pouchy and barely visible through their sheer panties. Vixens in multi-page pictorials, their body stockings increasingly shredded, scissors in their willing hands, complicit in the acts. Vixens sprawled across the seats of vintage trucks, calico skirts wadded up to their armpits.

Vixens showering al fresco, water glancing charmingly off their pert and upturned asses. Vixens biting the fingers off gloves like a burlesque dancer in the fifties. Vixens here, vixens there, vixens everywhere. My pussy was titillated, I was elated, and I masturbated with the magazine on my chest like an adolescent boy.

After, I felt a bit bad about it, this expected somatic response to these slickly produced photos of girls in ever-more undress, all of them always smiling, always baring their not-quite all, always their mounds and slits and puckery dusky assholes shrouded in shadow. I felt bad about becoming a willing pawn in Hugh Hefner’s hand, and that of the larger puppetmaster of media. I felt badly about it, and so I buried the magazine, sticky with lube and spine cracked on my favorite pages, under my bed when I wasn’t using it, which was often.

But I always buried it within reach, a long and uncomfortable reach, as if I had to pay the price of a fleeting mortification of the flesh in penance of looking, and liking, and longing at those impossible vixens, voluptuous and voluptuary, in my mind and my bed, if nowhere else on earth.


Comments

One Response to “In Shame-faced Praise of Slick Cheesecake Porn”

  1. Curvaceous Dee on October 4th, 2007 2:13 pm

    Your descriptions are amazing - I feel like I was in bed with you, rediscovering that magazine.

    But this is the description that made me laugh: my bedroom regularly looks like the aftermath of a bar-brawl between a Salvation Army and a used book shop… my room looks like that too!

    xx Dee

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