The God of Porn Manifesto
Copyright 2010 Rachael Ross all rights reserved. rache696@yahoo.com Adults Only
Synopsis: A rant from someone who hates Rachael Ross and readers like you...We're ruining his life!
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The Manifesto
by God of Porn
It seems obligatory to blog about something. I like blogs. In fact, I named my first child Blog and she makes me very proud.
Some people come here wanting to read stories. What? They don't have a public library where you live? Some people seem offended to find porn on a porn site. I'm offended to find J.D. Salinger in my local adult bookstore. He's been cruising the arcade for the last thirty years, walking around with his hands in his pockets and bunny slippers sticking to the floor.
Shlup-Shlup-Shlup
Going to a forum is even worse. A writing forum, I mean. As soon as you get more than one author in a room, porn suddenly becomes erotica for some reason. You want respectability? Get a fuckin' job, join the PTA, and brag about your 401K every chance you get. Don't write porn and pretend you're going to win the Nobel Prize for Literature as soon as you figure out those tricky semicolons.
Bring back the porn, that's my message. You married the first girl you ever fucked and she grew up fat and ornery? Join the club. That's why man invented porn and women have been trying to un-invent it ever since. I see a lot of women around here. Porn is a man's business. It's the deliberate, systematic exploitation of 50% of the world's population…even more if we throw in the fags.
Shlup-Shlup-Shlup
There's an entire industry devoted to porn. Business models and marketing strategies, a pragmatic approach to the fine art of masturbation being taught in the ivory institutions where our children acquire the tools for social success. Blog joined a sorority last week and I found a 30 second movie clip in my email. "Join now and get instant access!" the spam read. "Horny Coeds Gone Wild!"
I called her up, you know, being concerned and proactive, determined to be a positive factor in her life. I called her up and said, "Hey! What's with the porn in my email? I spend 65 grand a year so you can fuck the goddamn football team?" It turns out that the website is part of Blog's MBA program and it's been so successful that she's going to graduate summa cum laude next month. She's got an interview with Exxon already lined up.
It's hard to argue with that and I'll admit, the $39.95 Platinum Membership did turn out to be a real bargain.
Shlup-Shlup-Shlup
My little girl is offering the world porn, no more and no less. We could use a little more of that around here, I think. Take scoring for example, that "TPA" system. What the hell is that about? Scores for technical and plot in a porn story? Appeal? A red Ferrari appeals to me. A cold beer on a hot day appeals to me. Porn isn't anymore appealing than breathing or taking a piss in the morning.
It should be illegal, this TPA business. What we need is "IHO" - Imaginative. Hot. Orgasmic. "Was the porn imaginative? Was the sex hot? Did it make you cum?" Leave the literary bullshit out of it. I look around at some of the stories and wonder why Dale Brown is trying to write pornography. Long winded stories filled with meaningless trivia and self-indulgent literary pretensions. If I didn't know better I'd think it was a plot to turn the honest, hardworking porn enthusiast into a eunuch.
You've seen those stories. It's like putting your balls on the block. "Go ahead," the author smirks. "You won't need them anyway by the time you get to chapter three." It's enough to make a grown man cry, some women too, I'd imagine, and they don't even have balls. Bring back the porn! That should be the battle cry, but instead we've found ourselves weeping like little girls as our pornographic traditions are stifled by elitist authors and readers introducing their own twisted morality.
That's right, readers too. I've a hunch most of them wouldn't touch a porn story with a ten foot pole if it wasn't for the internet. Easy access behind locked doors opened up a whole new world to persons who can only cast furtive glances at the magazines behind the counter when they buy their gas. They wouldn't dare buy one. They're the guys who slump in their seats and blush as they drive past the adult bookstore, wishing they could pull over and go inside for a quick fix. The need is there, but they've grown up raised by their mothers and spoon fed Oprah until it comes out their ears. Porn is bad...But! Erotica is good. That's their rationale and so long as a story has a believable plot and real characters...Yeah. These were the same people who jerked off while reading "The Otherside of Midnight" as barely pubescent teens and now we're stuck with them.
Shlup-Shlup-Shlup
Fuck. Give me the bible thumpers; at least they're honest about it. They stand outside the walls and burn crosses and hang pornographers in effigy. It's easy to admire people like that, but this new bunch is a devious lot. They want their porn clean and smelling lemon fresh, bleached white like the page upon which it sits. You can't see it that way. They're terrorists disguised as consumers, demanding more substance from the art form. When did porn become art? That's what I want to know. Masturbation? Sure, that's art and we all love to paint, but porn is the rich soil in which the fertile seeds of imagination are planted. I don't want authors, I want farmers getting their hands dirty and stinking of sweat; hunched over their keyboards, typing one handed while their ugly wives nag in their sleep.
Is that too much to ask for?