He Delivers!

A Straight Woman Looks at Gay Male Porn


Edward had asked me this: He wanted to know where a woman puts herself in gay porn.

A woman who is capable of endless orgasms attained in one sitting, orgasms that the man has to hunt for a month to have. It may look like the male is so sexual in his cruising and his endless search for more and more hole—or to be a hole—but the female, when put into cruise control, is much more sexually economic. With her need for one sperm for one egg she will sit back and go into orgasm over and over and over without having to take a rest.

The female, with her capacity to be a mother, is capable of crossing emotional and physical boundaries, of experiencing others—and otherness—as her own. So, besides the obviousness of bodies, cocks, thrusting pure SEX, there is for me the ability to get off in my maternal feeling when seeing any creature get aroused. That makes me happy and satisfies me. When a mother is nursing and hears another child, any child, cry she immediately has a letdown. A letdown means that her breast starts to release milk. Even after nursing is over, when I hear a cry my breast still pangs for other children. This physical reaction happens with other sensations as well, such as sex and violence. All those physical stimuli enter into the sexual stimulus—and I am just explaining why a woman does not have to identify in order to respond to gay porn, but can, from an empathetic place, experience a symbiotic sexualness.

The young female is thrown into a world where sex with men has its dangerous and life-changing components. Every time I have sex I look at my partner and know that this man could be the father of my child; that I could get pregnant—and it has happened. Having multiple partners makes it all the more confusing if you do get pregnant. Having one man at a time is a protective device that nature put in place before DNA testing. Also, the fact that women are less physically strong than men makes us less willing to take a risk with an anonymous sexual partner, as a gay man might. That is why for me, when watching the gang-bang video that was choreographed from the opening act of A Chorus Line, my intuition gets in the way—because the gang-bang rape is not a fantasy but a possibility, and there is an image I won't go back to: the time when the gun is at my head and his dick is in my hand. . . .

Being with gay men can be very relaxing for me, for I feel that I am not going to be hunted. I enjoy the sensual element of no potential danger, and the gay male-straight female relationship is erotic by its denial.


But let's go to the videotapes.

The first one, featuring a hockey team and an Eastern European look, turned me off in the credits. The title, Souvenir, made me think of some refrigerator magnet. The story line was simple: locker room, most of the players depart, then two guys wimpily go at it, then the boyfriend of one of them shows up. As I recall, there is the usual kiss body chest suck fuck—except that the jealous boyfriend looks at a picture of them as a couple. I didn't get aroused but I will tell you how I would.

Instead of an inside rink have it outside. The men cold but sweating and the sensation of the cold breath the hot flesh pushed against the frigid air. The bodies moving graceful fast slow, so the figures become human cocks on skates. We see the teams, the players, the winning, the losing, the focus to get that damn puck fuck in the net with sticks—the puck me puck me puck him in the net, the iciness and the zipper cold against the skin that I just want to undo and slip your cock out. He is against the snow, fallen, and his opponent has a palm gripped on his muscled thigh, pushing down and grabbing his inner thigh. We see his face gripped in tension but in pleasure, knowing he is being touched and wanted. We see the cold breath and the lips meet and their hot membranes melt, tongues swirl; we see eyes on fire as the lips icicles fudg-esticles collide. We know there is that moment of who is going to satisfy, of who is making the move, and our friend in the snow still has his opponent's hand on his thigh, and then a new lover's lips are lowered onto his cock. It is so cold and quick and needed. There is no need for anything else—he just wants to eat him in the snow eat him in the snow.

The transsexual tape bordered on an amateur-hour swingers party tape made by admirers of Star Trek. It starts out with commercials for 800 numbers with transsexuals being sucked, fucked, dildoed, clamped—it looked like a psychic hot line and about as inauthentic. The dingy quality exasperated me, and I felt that the transsexuals should have been treated better. Given better clothes.

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