I was only 11 when George Michael first asked me, “What’s your definition of dirty, baby? What do you consider pornography?”
Considering myself a true aficionado of erotica, I have never been one to peruse the shelves of porn at my neighbourhood video store. When I am confronted with those oversized film boxes littered with trumped up twinks or muscled studs, I never had the urge to rent one.
I have, on occasion, given into my curiosity by selecting one of these “passion plays” on pay per view. The storylines seem intriguing enough; wanton sex god tries to cure his insatiable lust, a group of “straight” actors are introduced to the concept of the casting couch, etc. However, once the film gets started, I tend to cringe. Am I embarrassed by the raw sexuality displayed on screen? Have I been a heterosexual man all this time?
I don’t expect much from skin flicks. I don’t expect to be impressed by captivating performances, romantic settings or an intricate plot. All I could hope for is to be aroused. Yet, a limp penis is enough to convince me that the film in question has not lived up to the hype.
This is not to say I haven’t utilized a form of media to help get me in the mood.
It is a true testament to the durability of DVD that I can watch and re-watch the scene of Brad’s seduction in The Rocky Horror Picture Show without burning a hole through the disc. That 90-second scene portraying an eager Frankfurter mowing down on a confused Brad is the hottest slice of cinema I have ever witnessed. Cloaked in shadow and light, it demands your imagination to — er — fill in the holes.
I have never really cared for what we as humans consider pornography. Ever since I first became aware of the concept, the nature of it has baffled me. Until recently, I have not given much thought to these fleshy offerings. Have I been missing out on something all this time? Could it be that porn has much to teach a boy like me? Doubtful, but it is worth looking into. After all, one third to one half of the 2.5 billion dollar adult film industry is made up of gay sales and rentals.
Miraculously, the tides seemed to shift in recent weeks. Was this the result of a prolonged celibacy or a true awakening of the senses?
Somehow I chanced upon a rogue stud while surfing a non-porno-specific blog. This stud had a name (several in fact). Depending on the subgenre of porn he appeared in, he goes by a variety of names.
My eyes could not stray from the half clothed image of Pavel Novotny. Reading the description beneath, I discovered he is something of a marvel in gay, straight and bisexual porn. He bore little resemblance to the stereotypical porn stars I had never given the time of day.
My penis, which I admit a tinge of guilt for denying for so long, took notice. Hell, it all but unzipped my fly and smacked me in the face.
Who was this Novotny character?
The element of my mind that stores fantasy immediately evicted Robbie Williams and invited Pavel for a cup of tea.
Since I have never known another man — gay or straight — who didn’t have at least one porn title stashed between copies of The Godfather and The Empire Strikes Back, I decided to give adult cinema one last chance to initiate me.
Somewhat bashful and ill at ease in public as it is, I could not see myself picking up a film. Still, I knew I had to in the name of honest to goodness investigative journalism. As well, the internet would surely not let me down. I had already encountered quite a few performers who could quite easily win me over. Frozen in two-dimensional images on my computer screen, these scantily-clad to totally nude gents just might make me a believer.
I wanted to see more of Roman Heart and Chris Rockway and the aforementioned Pavel.
As forward thinking and sex positive as I think myself to be, I couldn’t help but feel like a dirty, dirty boy when I made my selection at my local Rogers.
Walking into the far corner where they keep the titles hidden from those who could still claim innocence, I opened the door and imagined the possibilities. Sadly, the ratio of straight to gay porn is about 98 to two, so my choice was severely limited.
I made my way to the counter and felt somewhat pleased with what I considered to be bravery. It is the only time when you rent a film that the person on the counter doesn’t chat you up.
I know there is absolutely nothing wrong with renting a film; I felt dismayed that they had to keep it so secret and stash it in a clever, non-see-through black bag.
I figured I must be in store for something truly sensational.
After viewing hours of pornographic content, I still find myself bored by it. I just need a little mystery to be aroused.
Whenever the desire for solitary, visual titillation strikes all I really need is to see Brad Majors in those tighty whities. Which reminds me…