October 20th, 2005

I have recurring dreams about the house that I grew up in, where I first discovered porn, porn which became my baby-sitter, friend and then lover. The dream usually hinges on the discovery itself, and I would be going through all the places where I simply knew that there was porn hidden: the tops of cupboards, within drawers, in the closet, tucked underneath neat piles of clothes or mattresses. And I would find them, flip through them, feeling excited over the impressions of nudity and sex that coursed through the pages.

    I mean, imagine that. I was barely past puberty, and to chance upon those potent and eternal images at that age. At the risk of sounding Murakami-esque, I get the feeling that it was somehow planned, but more in the sense of a self-fulfilling prophesy seen in hindsight.  The nitty-gritty sensations of lust are such an ingrained and interstitial part of me that, all I can say is, whatever this essence is, it's beyond the act of fucking and sucking. And perhaps this is the reason why an avid consumer of pornography, or forgive me, a connoisseur of pornography, can never tire of porn. To me, it's not very different from someone who enjoys music. Is there a limit to the number of albums that you want to buy? It's an ongoing thing, and that's why there are words like hobby, or passion, or obsession, even. If enjoying porn is just all about the fucking and the sucking, then all the person needs is just one porno movie. And if there are such people, and I know for a fact that they do exist, then these people are not even connoisseurs to begin with.

    On a less porny sidenote, I'm an avid listener of music as well, and if you can just see how many albums I own, you'd open your mouth in awe too. But for now, allow me to make your mouth open in awe for something else, and that's the contents of The Best of Pleasure Nr 1.  This following image still retains much of its shock value for me, I mean, it's the first thing you see after Miss Carrie Fisher-lookalike. The experience is so darn Godard it's not even funny. No warm-ups, no content page, no editorial info, just BANG! It's a pornographic jump-cut alright.

 

    There are three image narratives, as you can glean from the backcover. The one that I liked the least is Strand Gut: Heisser Sand, Feuchte Muschel, though I really like the sound of the title. Translated, it means Great Beach: Hot Sand, Wet Cunt.  Muschel means shell, but you get the idea. As for the other two, they're pretty horny. The first narrative is a Mile High Club story about a shapely stewardess named Raquel and a horny passenger called Kurt. Raquel Welch and Kurt Vonnegut? Oh, the horror. The second story is an exchange between a Hong Kong hooker, Suzy, and her john, John, a well-hung American sailor.  I find this one especially erotic because of Suzy's appearance. To me she's the embodiment of the archetypal horny aunt, a common feature in most parts of Asia. It's also attributed to the sexual charge brought on by the embellishment of her jewellery, her blood-red nail polish, and how strands of her black hair plasters to the skin of her sweaty, sticky face.

    Judge for yourself, but due to limits of space and an unwillingness to keep my images elsewhere other than here, I've only selected the hornier images.

Good pornography, even at its most conventional form, is difficult to create. And judging from the high production values in The Best of Pleasure Nr 1, you can tell that whoever was behind the publication was real fucking serious about making good pornography. From the design to the layout to the models to the photography, everything's perfect. It's too bad they don't make porn like these anymore. But that's the same reason why this blog's here in the first place, isn't it?