He Shoots, She Scores
I remember reading a personal essay about amateur pornography in Details magazine when I was in high school and Details seemed cool. It was by that Anka Radakovich who even when I was fifteen, I never found to be all that funny or sexy. But as a sex columnist in New York City, she sure as hell was doing things I only dreamed of in my bedroom in my father's house under the covers with a flashlight.
In the article, Anka revealed the horror of discovering how unsexy she seemed after watching herself clout her cookie on camera. She'd been so turned on by the fantasy of film only to have her expectations come crashing down in an avalanche of reality. By her own account, she looked stupid. And fat. She made the monkey face when she came.
Anka single-handedly convinced me then that homemade porn was a bad idea and I decided that in the case of home movies, ignorance probably really is bliss. I'm way too critical of myself and seeing any action scene with me in it naked was bound to be a set up. I'd end up rumenating on my lack of appeal over a pint of Haagen Dazs and a Lifetime Original Movie, imagining what every guy who has ever seen my bare ass must really think.
So I tossed any real thoughts of my own x-rated video ventures up on a high unreachable shelf. I figured it was a fantasy better left unlived. But like an old flame, that fantasy of performing on film kept popping up in my head. As the years went by I still sometimes thought, hmm... maybe video.
Fast forward to a few weeks ago. After a night out with a bunch of fun-loving cocktailers, I went home with a special friend. I straddled him as he sat down on the corner of the couch to take off his boots. I asked him if he liked mine, a pair of clunky black leather knee-high heels. He said he did, taking them off along with all of my clothes only to put my boots back on me again. Then he grabbed the digital camera.
Though the moment was spontaneous, it was a natural progression, really. On other giggly buzzed-on nights we'd taken snaps of each other. He'd also caught me on digital video in some silly compromising positions in the recent past. One of those ten second shorts had even circulated at the party we'd just returned from. It involved a surprise visit of his dog's snout to my naked crotch that was just too silly and stupid not to share. After three drinks just how many friends and strangers saw my bush get upstaged by a black lab that night I cannot say.
What my friend and I did next in an Archie Bunker chair covered in a white sheet underneath a bamboo lamp was caught on digital movie cam. At least the parts during which one of us had a free hand. When I took my turn filming I was delighted to find that, when holding the camera out in front of me at the height of my forehead, I could look in the little viewfinder and see the x-rated angle that always escapes us ladies. One of the reasons why, according to my amateur porning partner, it's "good to be a guy."
The next day I took his dog (porn star in her own right) outside for her own dirty release while he loaded up copies of all the mini-movies and photos from the night before onto a CD for me. The other night he asked me if I'd watched them and I told him no. In the privacy of my own apartment after our movie-making night I had slipped the CD out of its cover on which he wrote "XXX Blaise" and stuck it in my puter. When I saw the naked pics of me with one booted leg slung over the side of the armchair all I could focus on was the fact that I was evidently in serious need of a bikini wax. That's when I recalled that Details sex column and the self-appointed shame that the video viewing instilled in the storyteller. I practically ran from my computer screaming, too scared to face the flaws that he'd seen up close, live and in person.
But he said he'd watched the stuff and thought it was good and was surprised that I hadn't looked at it yet. So last night, I gave it another chance. I popped the disc in and turned the volume all the way off. I peeked at the screen through the hand over my eyes and braced myself.
I watched the first eleven second vignette and was surprised to find a romantically lit sex scene that actually looked kind of sexy. I watched another one. Our skin was aglow. The shadows fell gracefully across my face. I took my hand away from my eyes and watched another one. This time, with the volume up. Thankfully, no embarrassing sexed-up sounds passed my lips on tape. Just one joyful gasp and a hilarious moment in which my friend remarked on the massive size of his member from a certain camera angle. I hit rewind on that one.
By the time I got to the last short-short (there were six in all, not including the still photos), I was ...um, engaged. It was hot. My rack looked ravishing. I wanted more. Yay for smart angles! Yay for soft forgiving lighting! No cellulite! No signs of crotch area razor burn! The dog stayed out of the picture! And my special friend? His business looked gorge.
If he ever tries to Pam and Tommy me with this I might even be proud! Okay, no. I'd totally sue his ass. For severe emotional distress. But still. I did it and I'd do it again. With the right lighting. On a good hair day. After three weeks of Pilates.
