Warts an’ all
I never got into porn. In both literature and image I’ve always found anticipation and suggestion more erotic than graphic depiction.
Despite personal preference, however, there is no escaping the ubiquitous multi-media assault of tits and ass, abs and buns, or the strenuous exhortations of women’s magazines (that fertile breeding ground of misogyny) to pole-dance your relationship back to happiness, which leaves one cowering in the corner of the dressing room as you regard your own flesh with fear and loathing in the harsh mirror of reality.
Celibate and single for a year, a month, three weeks and two-and-a-half days (but who’s counting – it’s by choice, OK), I looked at the himbo pics on kagablog with a sense of recognition.
Real bodies. Tangible, living flesh with taste and smell and texture. Vulnerable as my own; wanting human touch.
Memory stirred and realisation dawned: it is the unique imperfections that you come to love; the feel of flesh on flesh and breath to breath, not the gleaming pecs and poreless perfection of a photoshopped replicant.
Plucked and shaved and bleached and buffed (sounds sickeningly sacrificial, doesn’t it? To be laid [excuse the pun] on the altar of Synthetica?) to within an inch of being human, are these bodies you could love? Admire, maybe. Desire, I suppose. Fuck? Sure…
Fucking a perfect body is like eating sushi: fashionable, expensive, overrated; leaving you craving something more.
Making love to a real body is like eating a homemade stew: rich, spicy, tender, and satisfying.
Stand aside, metrosexuals. You, too, gym johnnies, poseurs, lotharios and narcissists.
Let the real men through.
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