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But Happy Birthday anyway...

It’s Ms. Seka’s birthday today. Yay! Herself is 51 years old and I haven’t the slightest idea what she’s up, but such an anniversary should not pass without a few, kind words about that greatest of all liberal values: hot smut and the robust enjoyment of all things naughty.

Porn has lost much of its luster for me, not because of a lack of interest in the basic material, but because what little of it crosses my path these days seems to have gotten, well, mean. Really mean. Aggressively hateful towards women. A lot more pounding and a lot less playing. Dirty talk can be fun, but when did every woman become simply and angrily a “fucking bitch”?

And toys are a ball, but my, such a lot of implements you need these days.

And my, oh my, look where they’re putting them.

Erotica, baby! That’s what I want. A lot more eroticism and a lot less of what Harlan Ellison I think once referred to as “fur-covered industrial films.”

Ah, where are the lush production values of my youth! (Well, on VHS mostly, but you take my point.)

Eighty-Six (or Sixty-Nine) the grim meat-slapping and you might find me returning to the counter again as a happy and Patriotic consumer of one of the few, home-grown, 100% U.S.-content products still not entirely “rightsized” (and oh doesn’t that hideous Orwellianism take on all kind of fun subtext in this context) to the Pacific Rim (again with the subtext.)

Bring back the Stars! Plot-schmot, I don’t require it. I don’t even really require much talking, because as Norma Desmond reminds us in "Sunset Boulevard" about all good, lost, filmic things of any Golden Age, "We didn't need dialog. We had faces!”

Sticky faces, to be sure, but there was an ineffable sense of pleasure and nutritious carnality going on in front of the camera, not the kind of methed-up carnivorousness that seems to radiate from the porn of the 21st Century.

Probably just my imagination. And, yes, the porn industry has always been a brutal, uber-capitalist shadow-state, but I want to believe that for one brief moment we stood on a shining city on a hill and got our collective cocks magnificently serviced. I want to believe in a, brief, bygone Kennedyeque era of ribald raunchy. 1000 Days of Comelot...Part 17. In the good, old, dirty days.

Call it...“Pornostalgia”.

And the greatest of all the Faces was Seka. A genuinely beautiful creature she was who, admittedly, dropped from Goddess to mere knockout when she stopped swapping fluids and tried to swap lines with the other “actors”. Pantonically Perfect Blond hair, sculpted into an the icy, aerodynamic perfection of the 80’s Career Woman War Helmet. And apparently boneless to, but in a good way. A very, very good way.

The unreachably stunning Power Chick...or so you'd think, but drop in to her gym, or show up to work on her pipes, and you'd better be packin' my friend. Packin’ for days. Suddenly the regal boss-lady’s strapped herself into a pair of fuck-me shoes, and has got her heels hooked over her head and a big, lewd smile on her face...

...and cue the crappy, bass-and-wa-wa-pedal-heavy soundtrack.

Such a perfect tonic she was to the Reagan Days and, as no small Ironic Aside, one of the first, best, and smart businesswomen in that universe. With her marketing, product and brand control, she brought a genuine Vertical Integration into her most Horizontal of professions.

So raise a glass and grab some ass and make a little toast to one of the many, many glorious traits that set us apart from the sour, joyless Fundies and their whining Nanny Theocracy: we are right dirty bastards, boys and girls alike, and right glad to be so.

Happy Birthday, Princess: I will most definitely see you in my dreams :-)