Unlike most guys, I never saw the point. Porn is like mental bubblegum: sweet and tasty early on, before quickly growing stale. I’ve also always considered buying porn a tad creepy – as if I were becoming like that single (or more often, married) guy who slinks downstairs to watch “Dixie Dynamite and The All-Star Tit Queens” at 2AM.
As of now, the only title I own which could be considered “adult” is a 2001 unrated documentary subtitled "The Legend of Ron Jeremy" (highly recommended, by the way). But otherwise, I have nothing else in terms of kink.
So why pull the trigger now?
Call it nostalgia – in this case, for a curvy, big-haired porn actress named Christy Canyon whom I first encountered in the glossy pages of a Penthouse hidden (very poorly) under my dad’s bed in 1986.
Christy, who has since unretired from “the business” several times and is now in production and running Ebay auctions of her memorabilia, knocked me out from the word go. And obviously, she still does. Therefore, I broke down and ordered a trio of Christy’s early titles filmed back when America’s smut vendors dodged the holy Reagan administration while running on plentiful rows of coke – not to say the industry still doesn’t do so today. Yet back in the 80s, flagrant drug use on porno sets just seemed more obvious.
Ten bucks says I’ll spend most of my time laughing which watching the Christy classics I ordered. There’s nothing more amusing than watching two (or three or sixteen) people moan, and spurt organics against up-tempo elevator tracks, while you know the poor shoulders of a boom guy standing just off-screen are screaming with fatigue, and the lighting man can’t wait to break for lunch.
Porn is primitive fantasy for the masses – one made for both adult male and female audiences. And for that I say roll it.
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