Did I just rub one out to Vintage Porn?

I dont know if this is where I feel ashamed that I am jerking off to stuff my Dad probably jerked off too, or if I feel proud that I’m such a sexual deviant that even 70’s porn with unkempt bushes is enough to do it for me.

I was on my favorite site http://www.pornhub.com, unequivocally the best site for free porn, and I saw a 97% thumbs up on this “Hot oil massage from Asian.” Let it be known that I have NEVER seen a rating on that site over 93%, so I knew this had to be a mistake. Three minutes in, of some super hot chick (in any decade for that matter) having her glorious rack lubricated by a headless man (Who wants to see your man face anyway?) and I am hooked. I cant believe that seeing some girl oiling her boobs up, and stroking a limpish dick is doing it for me. The soundtrack was absolutely priceless. I almost left the room to go drop some LSD and enjoy the tunes, but my glass pyrex sex toy was cooling down and there was no time to waste.

Side Note: Pyrex sex toys are amazing. Throw them in the microwave for a minute, and it feels like it is melting your lady bits like butter. Lube not necessary.

So the scene goes on until they are fucking, oil and all, and in typical old porn fashion, no dialogue or noises, just music. Normally this bothers me because I like to hear a chick getting off…it just…helps. Unless she spends the whole fucking time whining “What are you gonna do with that cock? Do you like my pussy? Come on Daddy.” and a bunch of senseless dribble distracting me from my goal at hand. No pun intended, bing!

So I realize the beauty of vintage porn is, they haven’t diluted it with what the porn scene is today…cocaine, silicone, strippers, and fake orgasms. Its just good old fashioned fucking…with more hair, and a moustache.

The Man who Destroyed my Faith in Men…an Apology 8 Years Later

Not to say there haven’t been plenty of other men who have perpetuated the idea that they are all selfish pigs, but this one…boy this one, he was a doozy. Approximately 8 years ago I was working as a stripper. I use the term “working” loosely. It was more of a hustle, a smile, a false persona to make a buck, or five hundred. I did it for a couple of years, and its not my finest times. For a smart girl who had plenty of opportunity to do something with herself at that age, making hundreds of dollars for a few hours of work, strangely, seemed more exciting at the time. So I was in Vegas on one of my rare weekend trips to make a couple thousand dollars (yes, hence the difficulty going back to the real world, and no, there were no blowjobs involved) when I headed to the pool at the Hard Rock Hotel. At that time it was still a cool place to hang out, and not overflowing with Southern California’s versions of Snookie and The Situation. I wouldn’t be caught dead there now. Whilst lounging in my adorable pink gingham bikini (custom made of course, stripper money remember?) I caught the eye of this delicious young man. 6’2″, blond, lean, 8 pack, and what I would later find out to be another 8, but in inches. Tattoos, shaggy long hair, and a look that said I want to, and definitely know how, to fuck you. Simon was a 22 year old model who liked nature, took long road trips in his old beat up truck, and talked to me about the universe in all the deepness a boy his age could muster.

We spent the next 3 days mostly in my hotel room where he proved to me that 22 meant nothing in the bedroom. Oh my, he is still at the top of that list 8 years later. I worshiped him like a God, and perhaps this was where it went badly for me. He took me to meet his parents and luckily did not introduce me as the stripper who had been begging for their sons cock every moment she could get it. Instead he treated me with respect and kindness, and I adored his company even being a few years older than him. We parted, and he promised to come see me in California the next weekend.

Upon another glorious weekend together at my place, there is a moment in time that stands out to me, and truthfully, nothing else. In the midst of a not so serious conversation he said to me “I just dont want to hurt you.” At my age, I have now learned that this statement really translates to “Fuck, Im already feeling guilty because I know Im going to hurt you.” I was surprised by his confession, and met it with a light and cheerful “Of course you wont hurt me, why would you?” We agreed to meet the next weekend in Vegas where I would work and we would spend some more time naked together.

The day before my trip we speak, and everything is just fine and dandy. He tells me he has a casting at 4pm, but will be done by 4:30, which gives me time to get there by 5:30. I spend the 4 and a half hour drive lusting wildly about him, thinking of all the ways I can violate him in my hotel room. I also want to hold his hand, kiss his cheek, and tell him how lucky I am to have met him. At 4:30 I give him a ring and get his voicemail. I’m about an hour from Vegas. 4:45 I call again to be sure and this time leave a message. 5pm comes around and Im getting concerned, as Im almost there. 5:30pm and no word. At this point my gut instincts are telling me to go into full blown panic mode. Is he ok, did he die in some sort of Zoolander style walk off at his casting? By 6:30 I have been driving around Henderson Nevada desperately trying to remember how to get to his parents house, but to no avail. The tears are close. I leave a couple of panicked messages proclaiming my worry about his safety. By sundown it is clear, he’s not calling me back. I go to my hotel room and spend the next 5 hours or so balling my eyes out leaving horrendously painful messages on his voicemail pleading for him to at least call me back and let me know what happened. The call never comes. Ever. Not in 8 years, and still not now. I leave Vegas two days later an absolute mess. I have never been so confused and alone, and I blame myself, but for what, I do not know.

Life goes on, and I never forget. The chip on my shoulder grows, my mistrust in men is solidified. I go through anger, guilt, fear, and absolute despair for quite awhile afterward. Years later I try his phone number to find it disconnected. Years after that a little thing called Google does the trick for finding out he lives in Europe now and is a working model. I find him on Myspace and send him a message but to no avail. Two years ago I see he is on Facebook and send him an email telling him there are no hard feelings and I hope he is well. His memory still makes me cringe in pain, and it might as well be when it first happened, except now the tears have been replaced by years of bitter confirmations about men.

So we come to last night as I am going through old Facebook emails deleting ones no longer needed, and here I stumble upon him again. With the same blind sadomasochism that I followed the first time I contacted him, I yet again can not resist. Except this time it was different, as I truly just wanted him to know that I was a happy person now, and I was sorry we left on such terrible terms. Karma meant something to me, and I didnt want to leave this life with the bad juju we acquired. I expected nothing, and in return I got an email and a friend request. I was shocked, and at the same time elated and defeated. Now I actually had to forgive him and mend my heart. He wrote:

“First of all, I would like to apologize to you for the way I treated you. It was completely unacceptable. It was nothing to do with you. It had more to do with my own insecurities. When I think back now, I am ashamed with myself for my immature behavior. I want you to know that I am truly sorry for any pain that I might have caused you.”

It’s not terribly deep or insightful, and satisfies no part of my egos need to hear him say “I love you, I want you!!” but it was the truth and it was enough. I lit a candle for him last night and asked the universe to help me let go. I also looked at his Facebook page for way too long, and felt that deep twinge of unrequited love and desire. No matter the apology, the forgiveness, or our growth as adults, it still comes down to the simplest of cliches from our childhood…we just want to be loved. When we’re not it fucking hurts, and no amount of resolution really makes us forget.