Angel may fuck men with huge dicks, but her heart belongs to us: Porn Gaze.

Angel is sucking the cock of a headless man and artfully looking into the camera. This is, in fact, a complex threesome, because although she is apparently busy assuring us that cocksucking is what she’d like to spend her life doing, it is entirely immaterial who the cock belongs to. Her eyes, her expression, her frequent smiles in the lens’ direction reassure us that we are, in fact, the ones she wants to please. And that pleasing us is all that matters in the world to her.

This requires a massive suspension of disbelief on the part of the viewer. Because one wonders whether any man really yearns to have his cock sucked while the rest of his presence is carefully ignored. After all, if she’ll do this to him, she’ll do this to you, too: it is the imaginary other, who dwells past the camera whom she truly loves. It’s us she really loves.

She caresses her own breast stylistically. It’s important that you realize that, when she’s not sucking cock, she’s caressing her own breast, and dreaming of sucking cock. There is, however, a little stutter: a moment of inconvenient reality when she notices that her breast enlargement scar has moved into the frame. But it is only a moment, and she covers the imperfection will her beautifully manicured hand and redoubles cocksucking efforts.

As the owner of the cock, a pleasantly handsome young man, takes his seat on the Ikea-coloured couch, and she straddles him to sit on his erection, she does her level best to ignore him by looking sideways. Of course, she could have mounted him in reverse-cowgirl style, but then the camera would not have the pleasure of capturing her lithe and perfect back, tanned and inked with a small pair of angel-wings on her shoulder-blades. How pleasingly appropriate!

During her ride, she repeatedly looks to her right. She wants us to know she hasn’t forgotten us, despite the magnificent cock she’s bouncing up and down on, taking into her body, baptizing with her effluvia. The cock inside her is just a prop, a proxy cock for the ones we have in our fists.

And it’s really no wonder the young man lasts so long, despite her beautiful body and the high-spec breasts jiggling up and down in his face. It can’t be easy to reach a climax when you’re not really there. And so disappointing to be so totally unacknowledged when he’s gone to the trouble of removing all his pubic hair so that the camera’s view of the penetration of cock in cunt is not marred by something that might cause us to think he’s body isn’t made of molded plastic.

They both make the correct sounds. The sounds we’ve come to understand are sex sounds. Not the ones we used to make: not the choked, lost, averbal grunts and gasps that modernists used to think were sex sounds. These are the correct sounds. The “oh, mmm, oh, yes” sounds that could never be mistaken for an animal in pain or a human in extremis. Because, despite what they are doing, no one is in extremis here. The volume of her utterances follow a well-timed graph of pleasure. We are given to believe that, at a particularly breathy moment in the ‘oh, mmm, oh, yes” mantra, she might have experienced an orgasm. There is no way to know for sure. And isn’t that a wonderful piece of the mystery? It allows us to believe that either she’s been multiply orgasming since Saturday, or the best is yet to come and these are just rehearsals in preparation for the big moment which lies some short way into the tantalizing future.

They are the masters of pleasure. Pleasure never masters them. There is no slippage, no unprofessional gaffe, no lapse of control.

At the five minute, thirty-seven second mark, they switch positions. Perhaps because Angel’s developed a crick in her neck from ignoring the man who’s fucking her and looking over her shoulder at the camera. With the magic of practical editing, they are standing. She’s slightly bent over the arm of the couch and he penetrates her, unhesitatingly, from behind.

Now we do get to see the man’s face. But since it has been firmly established that she doesn’t give a toss for him – we can tell by her limpid gaze towards the lens that we are the one she really yearns for, and she’s only fucking this pathetic, buff, donkey-dicked dweeb because we’re absent.

She bites her lip, and exhorts him to fuck her. He might be forgiven for thinking she’s not addressing herself to owner of the cock that’s plowing into her, because she hasn’t even glanced at him. But he obliges and picks up the pace.

The playful handslap that glances off her ass cheek doesn’t actually register on her face. Of course, maybe if it were my hand, she’d give a little gasp and a groan. But it’s his, and he’s Mister Proxy Cock, and so it doesn’t make an impact except as a visual device, a meme, to remind us that when real people get really passionate during coitus, they slap a buttock and say something titillating like ‘who’s your daddy.”

Of course, this is a rhetorical question. We’re her daddy, of course.

Just when the repetitive pile-driving starts to weigh on us a little heavily, she reaches back her pretty, manicured hand and clutches his forearm to let him know she’s about to say something. “Yes, fuck me,” she whines, as if she’s three and not getting the candy she is craving. And, spurred on by the personal touch, he redoubles his efforts. He is rewarded with a upward pitching keen, which we are entitled to believe is another orgasm she’s managed to have without any trembling, or spasms, or any embarrassing glassing over of eyes.

Bang on, at the seven minute mark, he kisses her. It is a suitably sloppy kiss. The one people give each other because they are so gripped by ecstatic pleasure, they’ve forgotten what to do with their mouths. But this one is short and sweet, because bending over her that way obscures our view of her impaled cunt.

The stunning moment comes at 7:11 when he says something. The beginning of the sentence is to fast to make out, but it resolves into “…baby, te gusta?” The warm frisson of realizing that this is multicultural sex! How delightful. She not only has a perfect body and a cunt that never gets sore, but she is bilingual. We know this because, despite her name being Angela, and despite the appropriate compliment of wings, she answers in English with a “yes,” and not a “si.”

By eight minutes thirty, we are led to understand that this is getting serious. “Yeah, fuck me, yeah,” she demands, and eyes the camera with something that could be a flash of bad temper. Even though he’s been doing exactly that for quite a while. As fit as he appears to be, this full-tilt copulation has got to be taxing his endurance.

The sound of flesh slapping flesh gets louder, not quite drowning out her repeated demands to be fucked. Angel offers us another soaring operatic proof of orgasm, and they give each other another sloppy kiss. We are being trained to the paradigm of pleasure she is seeking to establish. Fast fucking. Orgasm. Sloppy kiss. We get it now.

Cut to another position. This one is just for us. Angel’s adorably feminine form is displayed in all its glory, including the modest but endearing rounded lower belly. She? She may be plastic, but she’s ethnically Latina plastic, and if this doesn’t sink in, her exhortations have drifted into Spanish. Because, after all, this will indicate just how carried away she is. Everyone knows that, when you get really carried away on the wings of pleasure, you revert to your native tongue.

I won’t spoil the ending for you. You can see it yourself at http://www.porntube.com/videos/angel-rivas-gets-drilled-big-dick-couch_1220431

7 Thoughts on “Angel may fuck men with huge dicks, but her heart belongs to us: Porn Gaze.

  1. Masters of pleasure? hardly – no pleasure for them, how can there possibly be pleasure for us – more like fakers of pleasure, at best actors of pleasure, and to me – yawn – not worth the trouble to click, much less watch

  2. You’ve done it again. Thanks.

  3. The Kinsey Institute investigated male and female “gaze” when watching porn a few years ago:

    http://www.kinseyinstitute.org/publications/PDF/Rupp_HB_2007.pdf

    It looks as if the porn producers knew that instinctively.

  4. I like the writing, which is erotic in itself. I like the way it explicitly foregrounds the reader’s/viewer’s gaze, though of course we could have long recursive discussions based on literary theory about whether the gaze narrated in the piece is the same gaze that is performed by the piece. It doesn’t make me want to see the video though.

    On the issue of gaze, one of the more interesting things I’ve found in the last year or so is Nu Fetish. This is performed mainly but not exclusively by young women, but is very much ‘user content’ in terms of those who perform often also being the film-makers and the ‘fetishes’ being meaningful to them but not necessarily to others – blowing up and popping balloons, drinking milk from a dish, exercising on a rowing machine, etc. It seems to (and maybe does) explore the idea of fetish in an older and psychoanalytic sense, that it may be an act that has sexual meanings for one individual but not in any conventionalised, culturally common, sense of ‘what fetish is’. This seems to be to be an example of something where the viewer is explicitly challenged to find or construct for themselves the eroticism of what they see. So it’s video not literature, but I’m sure there are literary parallels. Some of the videos are on Vimeo (search under nu fetish) or see the main (pay) website that deals in it, girlsimetat.com.

    • I’ll be honest: still photography, film and video really don’t speak to me as vehicles for erotic narrative personally. I require the space afforded by the gaps in the written word. I require my own imagination.

  5. Fair point, and I think the same way.

    If you’re commenting on the nu fetish thing, though, you might still be interested in nu fetish because what’s thrown at you is typically a short and rather obscure set of images that do require you to do the work of narrating for yourself why someone might find the stuff you’re looking at ‘erotic’. Which for me at any rate starts to raise the question of ‘what is eroticism?’ and push beyond any boundaries or definitions I might define for myself. The guy who kicked it off, Christopher Cumingham (I still wonder if that’s an invented name) has a manifesto somewhere that makes interesting reading. He’s easily searchable on the internet.

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