XXX Pirate Sex: A Private Matter

One popular misconception (usually held by folks who want to be snooty and pretend to not be from SE Portland) is that European porn is so very much better than the smut produced here in the good ol’ U.S. of A. Look at a smut magazine from the premier Euro-porn company and you’ll see admittedly the highest budgets and production values in the business (the fact that I may be asking this same outfit for a chance to work for some of those big bucks prevents me from referring to them by name). The mags feature absolutely gorgeous women in their early ‘20’s who could pass for 17 or 18 pictured in ultra sharp fashion-style photography, lots of multiple penetrations per spread and a charming scenario written for each setting and delivered in four languages. Sounds good until you look at the particulars.

Par example (you can be a real American and still be bilingual), the women look almost too good. They all have fashion-model figures, which means they look like very few women any of us know and lust after. Boobs a guy can bury his face in? Nada. Booty wide and soft enough for a comfortable landing? Nein. And while these knockout fashion bimbos are scarfing down Eurocock while hosting several dongs per orifice, they’re looking at the camera and grinning (as much of a grin as one can manage when one’s mouth is stuffed with some dude’s brautwurst.) Who wants that? I would like to have a woman pictured who is somehow involved in the sex that’s taking place, not merely suffering a few obstacles while presenting as much pretty face as possible to the reader. I want a face that looks like something from Alien is about to explode from inside her, not some ditz from a chewing-gum commercial who has discovered some novel form of flossing before the next take.

So, we have a woman most guys find it hard to relate to who is obviously not involved in, much less enjoying, the sex she’s depicting. Well I guess we’ll just have to hang our hopes on a gripping plot and dialogue, right? When pigs fly out my butt we will. Why bother with a pseudo-story anyway? My own jacking off doesn’t come to a screeching halt when I discover that I have no idea about the characters’ motivation. I don’t stop once I get a boner and say, “Holy Christ! These people are just fucking for the fun of it! How can I maintain an erection looking at hot filthy photos with no discernible plot?”

And when the gripping dialogue arrives, we get such gems as a woman with mouth open, allegedly begging to gargle some guy’s splooge by saying hotly, “Give me your strength!” And to make matters worse, as this tramp’s looking at the camera, midway through the shoot, she stops her inane pseudo-dialogue to deliver a commercial for a phone-sex number! If I want commercial interrupting my porn, I’ll watch Baywatch, thank you very much.

So I’ll just be on my way now. I’m off to meet an American woman with an American name and body, who thinks of my organ the way Hilary thought about Mt. Everest; she wants to climb it just ‘cause it’s there.

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