The Pornography of the Heart

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As I’ve confessed here - unless it was on one of my other sites - porn has never pleased me.

I feel almost shame. I’ve owned up to myriad erotic appetites, sexual inclinations, perverse tastes and watching people pump and thrust bores me stiff (or rather the opposite).

At least cinematic pornography. From a little bit of prose here and there I’ve stolen phrases and paragraphs that match some compulsion.

But I haven’t read anything close to a pornographic book in a very long time.

And to be honest I’ve only tried three pornographic movies at most.

How about erotica? Er, nah: pretty dull reads.

Now I do like photographs of pretty people with little or no clothing. There I can be as clichéd as any male and admire a siliconed honey like, say, Shae Marks (Playboy playmate). Queer photographic erotic is more difficult. What draws me to guys is almost arcane. And more often than not it is motion and voice.

I’m more drawn to the porn of the heart: romantic comedies.

Fred Astaire with Ginger. Rock Hudson with Doris Day. Carey Grant with anybody. Myra Loy would’ve indeed been nice to come home to.

Two people meet. Snub one another - maybe engage in a spat - but implausibly in the end they fall into one another’s arms. And we assume live happily ever after.

Ideally to a Gershwin tune or a Cole Porter lyric.

Though I’ve been bruised and batter by my loves the naïve little boy whose Momma loved him won’t go away.

This all sounds very unhealthy doesn’t it? I must need psychotherapy.

But I’ve never forgotten a wound. Bitterness, self-neglect: I don’t fool myself about them.

Even though I may love the never was and never will be I know where I’ve been and will do my best to be wise about where I’m headed.

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