For whatever reason of erotic senescence or jaded performance acumen (emphasis on the third syllable), I've been giving X-Tube a look see.
I've come across no one I know (although a few posteriors bearing the telltale marks of gravitational sag do look familiar to me in a Marcel Proustian sort of way).
If I had a memorable tattoo in the right sized anatomical place I'd be tempted to video tape myself for posterity. (But I assure you, gentle BTL readers, I have no interest in stretching the limits of good taste for another's dubious, vicarious viewing pleasure).
X-Tube's our 21st century version of the carnival sideshow; or, as it was known in the earlier decades of the previous century, the freak show. Indeed, it's amazing the creative things that enterprising exhibitionists can do with cucumbers, cumquats and road cones (but not necessarily in that order).
I'm sure there's a golden opportunity being missed, with no end of willing participants – who do come in all shapes, sizes and proclivities – to inaugurate a Sexual Olympics in the near future – provided Republicans, who at bottom are really strange bed fellows, do not mandate videotaping in the Oval Office.
(By the way: it's almost requisite for presidential candidates to talk about their religious beliefs. One would think that the same would apply to discussing their sex life, given that Bill Clinton set some sort of precedence during his final year in office. "Senator McCain, have you ever deviated from the missionary position. If so, why? Did it hurt?")
I've lived long enough to be amazed at the revolution in our sexual attitudes that's taken place in five decades in film, print media, Broadway musicals, TV talk shows, and, much more importantly, the w.w.w. internet. It's mind blowing.
When I was a kid, my parents told me nothing about sex. Human sexuality was not discussed at school, church, or publicly. (I do remember, however, going through our neighborhood with a group of other seven year olds shouting fuck! We didn't know what the word meant, other than it bugged grownups big time.)
I must have been about eight or nine when I saw my first "dirty picture," courtesy of a 12-year-old friend. I found the sight of a naked man to be fascinating. The naked woman seemed incidental. In middle school I saw my first Tijuana Bible, ("illustrated comic booklets, the kind men like").
A new anthology, "The Best of Sexology: the Illustrated Magazine of Sex Science" (Running Press, 2008) brought back a long-forgotten memory. "Sexology," founded in 1933, was America's first sex magazine. As a pre-teen I found a copy of it under the cushion of our living room chair.
The bazaar pictures in that 50-cent magazine were slightly horrific ("elephantiasis of the testicles") Big balls or not, I looked through it every chance I could get. Early on I was confused, mostly ambivalent about sex. (Do my folks actually do that? No way.)
A sampling of reprint titles includes: Extra Breasts in Women, Priapism, Pregnant Men, When Midgets Marry, Twin Beds or Single, Humans With Tails, Why Do Men Do It? [cross dress], Sex Desire for Shoes, Odor Fetishist, GI Paratrooper War Hero Returns a Woman, and Homosexual Chickens [fowl not teenagers].
Sampling from the last article: "The lowest ranking cock may be psychologically castrated, in the sense that he may refrain completely from any sexual behavior as a result of social suppression."
Come to think of it, maybe these chickens were really ex-gays. Sorta capons for Jesus. No cock-a-doodle-do.
