So I walk in on my mate watching porn the other day. Nothing dynamic going on, not porn-with-intent, just passive porn-watching, porn for background, porn because some-porn is better than no-porn. We do this. Men, I mean, we do this sometimes.
Having nothing better to do myself, I pull up a chair, grab an Oreo from the desk and settle in. My mate pushes the ashtray to a spot he must feel is about midway between us. I shift my attention to the screen.
Fairly standard fare. Jockish, muscular guy and housewifey, thirtyish woman; probably drives a Lexus. “Plumber?” I ask, “Pizza guy? No definitely not pizza guy. Neighbour? Son’s friend?” “Stepson,” my mate replies with some pride. “Nasty,” I say, impressed.
Half an hour later, we are still in thrall. Conversation has taken on that superficial edge, that glaze of distracted abstraction that can only be brought on by passive-aggressive erections. This MILF is the Death of all intelligent communication.
Much later, we’re having a drink at my local and we’re still talking about her. “What bugs me,” says my mate, “is the degree of aggro. You can’t genuinely enjoy sex with someone who seems so bloody angry all the time.”
I silently concur. This has been the backbone of our disaffection for the internet for as long as we’ve known each other. Neither of us have slept with angry women, or evoked pornography-style anger in any of the women we’ve slept with. During, I mean. After is familiar territory.
We’ve never felt angry either. The few times we’ve done the deed in pretend-anger, we’ve just felt outright silly. Here’s a kind, generous woman offering us the one thing we cannot do without. The one thing we cannot make or buy or borrow. This woman should be canonized! I usually feel grateful enough to cry.
Besides, I can’t help grinning like a maniac when faced with nudity. This has –somewhat ironically- been the cause of some anger if not plain resentment. But once my facial contortions are explained away as a medical condition, that 'those things' are in fact my bedroom eyes, the anger is replaced by mirth, even pity. I’m Charlie Chaplin of Sex.
“Our problem is : we don’t know any angry women,” says my mate. “We should look in psychiatric hospitals,” I say, “or prison.” We ponder over the possibilities. We look up and suddenly, we see the light. It’s a compromise, its one-step-forward-two-steps-back, but it’s the next best thing.
Two reasonably attractive girls have just walked in and sat down at the next table. They’re clearly in their early tweens, much more age-appropriate than MILF From Hell. One of them –the one with the iPad- is playing Angry Birds. Public gaming –in a bar, no less- is a sign of considerable mental instability. This augurs well for us. Though chances are there will be no angry-sex tonight.