La Petite Mort

It’s inexplicable why the culmination of a porn scene would be interrupted by an abrupt cut to the male performer’s face. This is extremely counter-intuitive because I’m not interested in the man’s facial reaction to the experience; at best, I’d like to see what happens to his penis, and more obviously/importantly, its affect on his partner. It’s the epitome of a “cock-block” to have to bear witness to another man’s orgasm right when you are. There have been cases where I, a victim of bad timing, “accidentally” came in unison with the actor, and those cases have scarred me deeply.

“Old Farts Young Tarts” is a sub-genre of porn which dramatizes the highly unlikely coitus between a young woman and an out-of-shape old man, usually of unappealing demeanor. The man pictured (I didn’t catch his name but I know he’s German, thanks to his profuse verbal accompaniment), has a special suit with the crotch cut out for easy access, which brings us to another sub-genre: outdoor public sex. He (hereafter known as “The German”) seems most thrilled when coming in inappropriate places such as abandoned factories or under freeway overpasses while fully clothed, save the cut-out through which his alleviated member graces the light wind of our day’s end.

The young tart, her face just defaced, always looks half embarrassed and half relieved that it’s over. (I invoke abstract expressionism because the movement always seemed ejaculatory.) The camera man goes in for a close up then walks away; if they are a nice production, an assistant will bring the lady some paper towels. Clean up is never part of the fantasy. Those of you who shout misogyny need not shout. The lament in which leads men to porn is deafening.

I have ejaculated with “The German” more than a couple of occasions. His dumb face and mine, both squinting backwards into the bleak universe. In a perfectly unreal world, I’d be him, for such fantasy is how pornography operates: the surrogate larger penis, the camera as empirical evidence that such moments, however manufactured and disembodied, can actually happen.

The French, with their existential morbidity, refer to orgasm as La petite mort, or “the little death,” perhaps in part due to a kind of sadness or disappointment which sometimes follows orgasm, especially when one is alone. I used to think Kama Sutra was “Karma Sutra,” like if you were a good person you would get laid in 64 positions. If there is such a thing as karma in porn, the horses are going to hell for what they have done to us humans.

The face is the most honest thing. I’ve become accustomed to “The German”: mouth agape, the hint of a deep smile, eyes closed in pure abandonment. Happiness, or at least its notion, can be cruel. We learn of its transitory flightiness when we seek it in sexual gratification, money, success, or anything tied to the ego. The Buddhists say happiness only comes after detachment—though our friend’s facial implicitness suggests that it might, well, simply come.

A famous zen koan asks for the sound of one hand clapping, point being that there is no sound, point being that nothingness precludes material form. Philosophy is fun, but on this lonely night, it doesn’t beat the sound of one hand wanking.