Think about the cultural ramming-her-fications of such a space. For once and for all, the wild and wooly, down and dirty, hot and heavy social importance of the porn industry would be firmly and resolutely established. Forever more, the wankers and the spankers would have a place that exalted the objects of their desire in a way that did justice to all their perverse pleasures in a safe, clean, and well stocked with tissues environment.

Almost forgot. There needs to be a wing devoted to biblical sex where all the great begetting and loin springing tales can be brought to life with startling realism and exacting attention to detail. All that Sodom and Gomorrah and Samson and Delia and even that New Testament foot fetish stuff would have to be included. That way tickets could even be sold to the groups of bible thumping protesters that would otherwise be milling about outside could be brought in and charged admission. Everyone knows they are the kinkiest freaks too though so special care would need to be given to making sure that they didn’t freak out the rest of the patrons. Perhaps special flogging utensils need to be provided for the severely penitent and unworthy.

Which also reminds me that the cafeteria better have a catchy name, like “Snatch Bar”.

To all the horny housewives that brought some spark back to the bedroom with a camera and a couple lights

To all the sweet young co-eds looking for a few extra bucks for beer by sending in their sexy antics caught on tape

To all the swingers, and lifestylers, and pan-amorists, and orgy enthusiasts, and gang banging boys and girls that know not only how to have a great time but also how to share it well with others

To the beautiful couple that loves watching porn and wanted to make their own amateur sex video then got the nerve to send it in to us

To all the talk shows, and news programs, magazine articles, and yes, even Paris Hilton and Pamela Anderson, for helping to advertise amateur porn and make it seem perfectly normal to so many others

To all the stripper chicks with big racks and their rock star in their own mind boyfriends that want to show off how wild they get in the sack

To all the amateur studs that still don’t want to take off their socks when they fuck for fear that their cocks will be just as cold as their toes

You all took the chance, made the choice, did the leap, and landed on this side of the tracks where others might see you and judge you and jerk off to you regardless

You have put smiles on faces and inspired others to enjoy life celebrating one simple joy in one trillion orgasms shuddering and rippling out an ever widening smile across the universe

Homegrown Video thanks you

If you ask me, porn is responsible for the pube-less prepubescent look so prevalent in the prurient fashion pretenses of today’s prototype of the usually protean nubile prima donna. The tangles and twists of short and curly pubic hair previously so popular in the public’s eye have predictably been plucked in favor of exposing pretty, puffed, waxed, and pampered pudenda for no better purpose than to be able to purvey what is happening… down there… when the penis is penetrating the pink folds of the labia. Today, Lady Godiva rides out of gates in a palace of perversions for panting Peeping Toms to peruse her particulars and note whether her pussy is particularly shaved, in a shape perhaps, like a point of an arrow, or trimmed to pretend the patch of hair is soft as the fuzz of a peach. Previously, that place where the sex was protected by the thicket of soft thistle providing cover to that most private of places was revered by prurient interests with a propensity of lustful propriety; all hailed the hairiest bush properly. Today, the prim and the prude prance about extolling how propriety requires proper cropping for one to be promoted to perfections of sexual propensity. I say, fuck that, the hairiest bush is just as warm a place to point my proud erections!

You and me plus one

makes three excellent reasons

to fuck our lights out!

Of course, with that first admonishment the first seeds of shame were planted in a sandy soil, the true grit of my soul, and though the roots run deep to nourish from a wellspring of muddy guilt, my libido like a resilient scurrying little hungry for sex rodent burrows in. The landscape is a desert for inspiration but somewhere between the barren patches thorny fruits nourish my craving for something sexual, no matter how brittle and lacking in actual sexuality. A Sears catalog full of tons of crap an eight year old could care less about has just a few pages of brassiere ads offering scant but fulfilling enough nectar to feast my eyes on. Books by Freud offer suggesting tidbits but hide the tastiest morsels in Latin. (Years later I would spend a couple years learning Latin so as to be able to translate those passages… unfortunately I could never find the book again in my parent’s shelves.) Tough times, but I survive and learn to forage furtively.

In the scheme of things, arousal doesn’t necessarily inspire the spirit of courage but it can make one courageously curious on a quest for arousal’s inspiration. This became quite clear to me as I set out to more and more dangerous crags and crevices of the house to find whatever possible scrap where it may lay. Though the prospect of getting caught searching through my parent’s bedroom and their closets was severely unpleasant, the risk would ultimately merit the reward, but not without a few very, very, way too close for comfort close calls.

Of course, whoever thinks “what if… I get caught?”