Not that anyone's going to give two shits (other than me), but I had a bonafide wet dream this morning.

Yes sir! Been a long freaking time! In fact, I can't remember the last time I had one. I guess because when pornographer's dream, they usually don't dream of sex.

Suppose you're a baker. You're probably not going to dream of bread, right?

Anyway, after I tidied up, I got to thinking about the effects of being immersed in a porn career on one's libido. Now I'm not saying this is worthy of true scientific research, but I have noticed that when people first find out what I do for my so-called living, they invariably ask me how it effects my sex life, specifically, my sex drive.

Usually, I tell them that it's not my generic sex drive that's effected--positively or negatively--but rather, it's the kinds of things that turn me on that have become more narrowly focused. (Trust me, for the most part this is not a good thing.)

As a bit of of a preface, I want to state for the record that before I entered this sleazy, wonderful business, my dick would get hard if the wind blew at more than three knotts. But of course, all that's changed. Because think about it, in my day-to-day life I'm bombarded with images and sounds of an explicitly sexual nature day after day, week after week, year after year.

And then there's those times when I'm on a set shooting the camera and suddenly the images and sounds aren't just being magically recreated on some electronically illuminated screen, but they're live, they're real, they're right there inches away from my fucking face!

During these times, I'm often close enough to the action to actually feel the body heat rising off the performer's naked bodies. I can smell their glands and organs secreting primordial scents genetically designed a hundred thousand years ago to attract mates in accordance with the laws of natural selection. Sweat and other bodily fluids become airborne and I find myself in harm's way of them. It's like I'm there, right there, almost a part of it but not quite because my stuff (such as it is) is still safely tucked away in my pants (where it should be), even though it may be screaming for release.

Sometimes, a female will grab one of my legs or arms for balance, but at the same time, she's so lost in her sexual abandon that she begins pulling me in, oblivious of anything but her own intensely-focused pleasure. She's in a sexual universe of her own making--blocking out the camera, the lights, the crew--and she's pulling me into her carnal vortex along with the guy whose already fucking her! The male performer is so preoccupied and engaged in his own lust that he fails to notice a second mandroid is being sucked in.

During these times, things might start getting out of hand, but I'm in there--I'm commited--getting the most incredible shots: the shots where the wankers, who later on will watch with their greased dicks in their hands, will feel like they're right there too, almost as 'right there' as I am!

And when I finally decide I've gotten everything I need, I know my escape is to simply yell, "Cut!"

Everything then screeches to a grinding halt ('grinding halt,' good pun, huh?) and feet and legs and arms are disentwined and I retreat to a safe distance as the still photographer goes about his or her job, and I try my best to act like it's all in a day's work.

Anyway, I guess all this does effect me. And I'm still not exactly sure how. But my gut feel is that it doesn't effect me in a naturally good way. I know there's more than a few images stored in my brain that I wish I could purge as easily as a Windows command deletes a file. And at the risk of becoming gross, these images were mostly recorded while shooting anal scenes, but that shit's the subject for some other article some other time when it's a slow news day.

I remember one time when I was still living the 'bachelor porn director' life and this girl came over my place. I was sitting in my big comfy chair in a somewhat altered state and she began moving about the room removing her clothing to the beat of whatever I had playing on the stereo, probably "Pink Floyd," or possibly something more alternate like "Dead Can Dance." Anyway, she'd gotten down to just about nothing and moved in to where I was seated. Her hands reached out to the insides of my thighs as she knelt in front of me. She slowly and deliberately moved her hands Northward. When she arrived at that place of places where Kings and peasants are suddenly equalized, she looked up at me with an almost hurt look on her face. "You don't like me?" she asked. Now please note, when I refer to her as 'this girl,' I'm saying 'girl' because she's all of twenty years old, and I was like, well, way too old for her, but too fucked up to know better. And so it wasn't that I didn't like her, because I did, and it wasn't that I didn't want her because, ditto, I did, and if this scenario had played out before I'd spent the last five or so years in porn, my penis would have probably exploded before her hands even got to the goodies. But instead, she found nothing sprouting from my groin other than hope and good intentions, and in my mind all I could think about was that the whole thing wasn't really much different than what goes on at work half the time. That is, I'm sitting at work, a beautiful young girl comes in, she gets undressed. She prances about, and I decide whether to hire her to fuck. See? It's not really all that different.

So to finish the story because I know you're all wondering what happened and would suffer acute insomnia if I left this tale dangling (another clever pun), I looked up at her and said, "I tell you what. Put your dress back on, climb into those handcuffs hanging from the stair-rail over there, I'll roll another one, maybe change the music to 'White Zombie' and we'll see what happens."

And that's what I'm talking about when I'm talking about things being more narrowly focused, is this making any sense?

Anyway, there was nothing much to write about today news-wise that my competitors didn't already cover. And as stated, my day did start off with that incredibly unusual wet dream event which led to this diatribe.

By the way, in the dream, I got the chic off three times by merely employing a few magical Zen Lesbian tricks I've learned on sets while observing, uhmm, magical Zen lesbians.

But hey! At my age, you gotta get them off at least three times to be memorable... right or wrong?

jimmyd peace out.




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