Andoopsgotten some in your hair. Are there any holdouts who have evaded that midnight urge to explore the perversities the internet has to offer? And—oops—gotten some in your hair. Even your grandmother has watched an interracial bukkake or two. Just picture it. Her eyes wide, her mouth agape—she sets her needlepoint down.
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Andoopsgotten some in your hair. Are there any holdouts who have evaded that midnight urge to explore the perversities the internet has to offer? And—oops—gotten some in your hair. Even your grandmother has watched an interracial bukkake or two. Just picture it.
Her eyes wide, her mouth agape—she sets her needlepoint down. Oh, my gracious! And—at the risk of sounding grandiose—an inalienable right.
Pornography, in other words, has saturated our culture. Every far-off corner, heretofore unvisited by the temptations of motion picture sex, has been glazed with gelatinous, day-old, yellowing spunk.
Thank you, internet. Your two greatest accomplishments thus far are online shopping and porn. No longer must the aspiring masturbator slink into a brightly lit video store in Groucho Marx glasses and a trench coat and sneak into its depressing, windowless back room, to choose from an assortment of VHS box covers advertising breasts and splayed vaginas.
All of those tits and twats accosting you from every side begin to resemble faces—sneering at you, heckling you. She will squint at the title you are checking out. She quickly looks away. She thought for a moment it was Patch Adams and was preparing to endorse your selection wholeheartedly. But no. This is Snatch Adams. The judgment begins. She involuntarily steps backward to free herself from your immediate surroundings. She even thinks she smells your gamey ball sweat now, so she cringes and squirms—despite her attempts to remain committed to the customer service values that the Video Hut has instilled in her through training videos and mock check-outs.
She has to call the manager who—how can this be? But times have indeed changed. A qualification is in order. Although I believe pornography has become much more acceptable as a fact of life, I still believe porn stars themselves are largely regarded as disposable, dubious characters who merely fulfill a necessary?
They might be entertaining in a train wreck sort of way , but most people are quite content to relegate them to a much lower order of humanity. We may watch porn with manic hand-jacking relish, but do we want to live next door to a porn star? Maybe not. Ashley Blue makes no apologies for her career in porn. As she chronicles the gang bangs, the cream pies, the double anal, and the filmed choking, she may express more or less comfort with a particular position or scenario, but any reservations are not generally based upon moral consideration, but rather practicality or personal taste.
She does in fact mature and arrive at very honest and very real conclusions about her life thus far. Despite the ubiquity of porn these days, this book contains graphic descriptions of sexual acts that many readers will be uncomfortable with. Thus, the hypocrisy of the Porn Era rears its ugly head again.
Words are just words. Acts are just acts. Postscript: I am posting this review on Independence Day. This sort of thing may be offensive to you—in countless ways—but remember that freedom of speech and expression is valid only to the extent that we endorse it for people we passionately disagree with.
Girlvert: A Porno Memoir
She lives and works with her husband, photographer Dave Naz, and her cat and dog in the Hollywood Hills. Editorial Reviews What began as a lark—some "modeling" for easy money—turned into a decade-long career in adult films. Lest readers get any romantic notions about the industry as "Ashley Blue," the author appeared in movies at the extreme end of the spectrum , Small pulls no punches. In straightforward anecdotes that make punk provocateur GG Allin look like the melon-smashing comedian Gallagher, Small recounts a career of bodily fluids, superhuman sex, and degradations too numerous to name.