A reminder: not all sexual things have to involve
There’s a video involved. I leave it up to you
whether you read or watch first.
I’ve never understood vibrators. I’ve gone on
record numerous times saying various versions of “I dislike them
all except for Lelo’s Nea which I really only appreciate
aesthetically.” I think it’s the buzzing that bothers me. I’ve posed
for plenty of photospreads with toys, but I’ve always seen them as a
poor substitute for a person and I’ve never had an orgasm from one.
Less than a month ago I was on a panel at Exxxotica with some of
the adult industry’s most successful female performers. Someone in the
audience asked what our favorite vibrator was, and every single one of
the other women shouted “Hitachi” in unison. That night I received an
email from Clayton asking if I’d be interested in his new project.
He’s filming women sitting at a table reading
literature. The twist is the things going on below the table. I like
these sorts of things… This Empty Love was the first video work I
enjoyed doing, making hardcore work with Digital Playground an
interesting option later. I think the interesting parts of sex are in
the hints of what can’t be seen. Penetrative sex, after all, is an
exploration of something dark, moist, and cavelike.
I’ve chosen a section of Supervert’s
“Necrophilia Variations.” I’m fascinated by Supervert and their (his?)
body of work. I went with the Necrophilia themed volume because I’m
currently in an oddly non-morbid obsession with something triangulated
by the way an orgasm affects brain chemistry, the reasons behind the
french nickname of la petite mort, and why my mind goes completely
blank when I’m at the height of a sexual experience. There’s something
in there, death and sex, maybe change or growth, and I’ve been focused
on it since shortly before I posted “Touch.” Sometimes I can brush this
concept with my fingertips, but I can’t grab hold and inspect it yet.
The only way to understand is to wallow in anything that might hold a
clue until it all clicks together (or am distracted by something shiny…
but it would have to be *really* shiny.) Tl;dr: That’s the book that
I’ve been told to dress as I would for a date
with a man, not a boy. I’m wearing a dress from Vivienne Westwood’s
Anglomania collection last year. The cut limits the range of motion of
my arms, but ideally I wouldn’t need to open my own doors or feel the
desire to talk on my phone while on a date with a man. My makeup is
simple, my heels very high but relatively practical, and my panties are
both sophisticated and expensive. Also, damp in the gusset. Sexually
speaking I really enjoy things that I can’t predict and things that are
new to me. This attempting-to-read-aloud-and-maintain-composure while
being sexually stimulated game is new. The video camera adds a dash of
exhibitionism which I always appreciate. Most interesting, though, is
the Hitachi that my vagina is about to be making very good friends with
for the first time.
When I tell Clayton’s lovely assistant for the
evening that I’ve never experienced the Hitachi, her eyes light up.
I’ve obviously gotten myself into the most fun kind of trouble. Lights
get set and everyone assumes their positions. My underwear lays on the
floor out of frame. As I start reading, my disbelief is suspended. I
forget what is about to happen. The first touch on my thigh sends all
available blood to my vulva. I continue to enunciate properly, focusing
on the text. I’ve broken a sweat. If this goes on for much longer my
hair will be plastered to my head with perspiration as though I’ve been
working out or engaging in acrobatic man/woman penetrative fucking. I
stumble over a word, my concentration breaks as I go back to pronounce
it correctly. Neither the Hitachi or the woman wielding it will be
denied, but in the interests of art (and because this feels so
beautifully filthy I don’t want it to stop yet) I hold out as long as I
can. This section of the world that I’m inhabiting slows down, zooms
in. Like a stretched rubber band it suddenly contracts, and I am
lovingly punched with an orgasm.
I giggle, pant,
hands on the table. Once enough pieces of my mind have come back I
deliver the closing line.