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Writing Practice

An Ode to Porn

She is beautiful in a wholesome, middle-American way.  She has the full hips that will make childbirth easy and large breasts on which those birthed beasts will gladly suckle like hungry pigs.  Her mascara is a façade – clown-like elegance on a child’s face.  She lies easily on the hotel bed with a man a few years her senior.

She is naked, but for a cheap assortment of lingerie.  The man, naked but for his socks.  They speak to one another in familiar tones, but the conversation is nothingness incarnate.  My eyes lock with hers, hers with his.  She looks him up and down, as if trying to convince me he’s a piece of meat. 

“My, my.  You are a big one, daddy-o” she says convincingly.   

Whatever he says is irrelevant.  He is a white man in his early thirties.  The plumbing seems to work.  Much more I cannot say.  I am not here to get to know him.  Upon reflection, I am not here to get to know anyone.

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The packaged passion is arousing in a course manner to which I am well accustomed.  It suppresses, for a moment at least, parts of my mind and spirit.  What would I have used those parts for, I wonder?  Balancing my checkbook or cleaning the refrigerator perhaps.  Believe-you-me, the fridge is filthy.

Those suppressed mind parts might wonder where she is from, or how she knows daddy-o in real life.  They might wonder about the economics of her trade.  They might turn from the pantomime of passion to the pantomime societal collective, trying to peel back the layers until the soul of shared humanity is exposed in its simplest form.  They might produce rage or despair, often a byproduct that accompanies such artists’ studies of the rawness of the human experience.  

The two continue to squirm about on the bed and the tempo distracts me from the dark.  The story is not about me, after all.  It is about a young lady and her raw meat.  There is nothing here about souls… just meat.  Raw, superficially seasoned, clown-like, elegant meat.