So?

The 37 year old mother of twins and former Miss Argentina died on a cot after receving collagen implants in her already rotund globular buttocks yet all I can think about is myself, languishing away in a public library in a dour town on a grey December day. Right now I’m feeling feeble and depressed, as if there was no recourse or love in the world; yet the sun is shining; and I just took a whooshing shit; so things could be worse, although just as easily they could be far better.

I SAW A FAKE ASS ONCE while in the gym in Los Angeles, it was in 2004. The owner of the false ass had red hair and was about 35 years old. I saw her taut and saucy buttocks ballasting against the silk sweatsuit, and they caught my eye. They did. She had the J. Lo model so popular then. I had no idea that anything was amiss, though, until I saw the woman climb upon the assisted pull-up machine. Her body and mind was carried upwards; but her ass moved not at all. It was poison, pure poison. I wondered what it must feel like, to sit on a ball of wax, day in and day out.

I FELT A FALSE BREAST ONCE, well more than once, but I remember one instance in particular well, it was the right breast of an actress who I’d somehow managed to fall into a demented hour of sex with, and her name was Juliana, and the site was her apartment, in Woodland Hills, and she was light, so light, so skinny, so damn rail-thin skinny that she must have weighed only 96 lbs. But now she was pushing 100, easy, with the addition of two strong and exactly circular spheroid boob-cans. They were high on her chest and bobbed and weaved like basketballs as her body was pushed down into the couch by my heavy and hairy thighs. She squealed with delight. I closed my eyes and then felt her hair, which was silky, and her skin, which was soft and perfect and young, and tried not to touch the breast. But then out of curiosity and perhaps in a vague attempt to explore, know more about life, I grabbed it and shook it and wondered what would pop out. It was hard and stiff and an appendage. No milk would come out of that sucker. We fucked and I gnashed her new boob experimentally between my teeth. Minutes later we stopped having sex, neither of us coming and we went to go to Denny’s where we spent $28.49 between the two of us and, magnanimously, I paid for dinner.

The feminist knock on Karl Marx is that his theory of labor and production is a masculinist notion, due to the fact that in his writings, the home - until recently, the domain of women - is referred to as a place of leisure.

The post-structuralist take on film theory is that psychoanalysis and cinema are inextricably linked, due to the fact that both were born in the same era (the early 1900’s), and that, especially in the hands of a prototypically deliberate auteur like Alfred Hitchcock, cinema becomes a privileged conveyor of psychoanalytic theory.

Laura Mulvey’s seminal essay “Visual Pleasure in Narrative Cinema” (1973) posits that the gaze of cinema is inherently oriented to a male point of view. Women are the objects of the look; men are the observer. Female film spectators are presented with two choices: one masochistic, in which they identify with the male gaze, indulging in a kind of self-violence; the other narcissistic, in which they identify themselves with the “looked-at,” willing self-objectification. Both choices (implies Mulvey) sort of suck balls.

She called for the need to create a new language of desire.

Althusser tried to marry Freud and Marx. His writings on Ideology attempted to delineate the convergence of economy, sexuality and the superego. People listened to him less when he strangled his wife, in 1980.

Pornography is the logical complex synthesis of labor, sexuality, unconscious workings, psychology, and film theory. It is so richly laden with possibility, for the man who loves to explore. Why, then, is it so often a miserable breeding ground of discontent? Why, for so many, is it an unhappy log of shit?