< sexperiment >
So I was walking by Mabini Street on the way to the Mines View jeepney terminal when some men blocked my way to rob me of two things: my time and my manhood. They're not thieves or pickpockets or anything: they are hawkers of pornographic VCD's and DVD's.
I'm a sexual being, and for all intents and purposes, yes, I am a (virgin) sexual beast. But the horny bull in me doesn't always rise up to the ocassion: not that I'm impotent or anything, but I'm not the kind of sex maniac who would buy my porn off the streets. Part of the euphoria one gets from porn is the paranoia that comes with getting it.
A good example would be getting porn off the Internet. Getting porn from your own Internet connection is a bit stupid, since you wouldn't know if your IP address is being tracked. Going to Netopia doesn't help, either: their services are prohibitively expensive, and they do track the websites you surf. What you want to do is to go to a backdoor Internet café with all these cubicles and partitions that separate terminals from each other. You do all your "innocent" Internet use with a maximized Internet Explorer window, and your illicit perverted porn-hunting with Mozilla Firefox (or better yet, Opera), run in a small window.
All the while, you're paranoid that the attendant would leave his six or so Yahoo! Messenger conversations, go to your cubicle, tap your shoulder and tell you that you and your kind aren't welcome there. You're paranoid that the kids playing DoTA behind you would notice you, or the moaning coming out of your earphones. When you're done with everything (including your orgasm, if you had one) you clear all private data, pay your rental fee, and leave with the look of a frustrated customer who put up with slow bandwidth.
Not that I'm condoning the practice (you sick freaks), but this is how rational sexual beasts (virgin or not) commit sins of the flesh. Newspaper stands, for example, posture as repositories of current events by showing the top halves of the front-pages of major broadsheets. Sex tabloids are conveniently hidden from view: not even the most libidinal, sexually-charged taxi driver would buy a Toro, a Night Life, or an Ang Playboy on a busy morning (they're usually sold at mid-afternoon when nobody's watching). If you can't avoid the all-seeing eye of God, you might as well avoid the eye of the authorities.
At least this is the way it should work. But strangely enough, it doesn't. Whenever I walk by that particular street, hawkers show me these pirated, illegal pornographic discs and offer me all sorts of options in all sorts of languages. Everything from animé to hardcore sex, in every language from English to Russian. One even tried to sell me one of those "bata" videos, which either means pedophilia or schoolgirl fetish videos from Japan. I was very peeved and pissed off by then: what in the hell does this guy take me for? Does he actually watch these videos?
No, I'm not a moralist: I have read the works of the Marquis de Sade and have read the middle parts of many a Harold Robbins novel that nothing surprises me anymore. I've seen the kind of low-class, bottom-of-the-barrel porn that would condemn me to the burning stake had I lived during the Middle Ages. But if I hear "X Boss X" one more time... I don't know exactly what I'm going to do. Maybe I'm better off walking home.
Posted at Saturday, September 01, 2007 by marocharim