Recently I was surfing
the web in search of Xtreme kink — an activity that's
known as "pornographic rubbernecking" — when I stumbled
across the Neck Brace Appreciation
Klub, a small-but-dedicated group of regular folks who just happen to
be into "'recreational & artistic' neck and back bracing." From there, I
clicked
over
to "Big Gulp," a collection of homemade porn in which celebrities like Madonna
and Lou "Incredible Hulk" Ferrigno gobble up
wriggling Lilliputians. Imagine an X-rated Attack of the Fifty-Foot Woman.
Imagine a hardcore version of The Amazing Colossal Man starring
gay-porn superstud Zak Spears.
Imagine . . . oh, hell, just visit
the damn thing
yourself.
This stuff may be dead earnest, but it seems
designed
for rubberneckers like me. The appeal of these fetish sites has begun to reach
far beyond their core fandoms, to a new wave of subcultural sightseers. For them,
Web porn devoted to midgets, mummylike
swaddling in Cling-Wrap, or "furverts" who make it with plush toys (or, better
yet, as plush toys) is about shock value, not the pleasure principle. "The point
in rubbernecker pornography is sensation," argues Susie Bright in "The Future
of Porn," an essay included in her forthcoming collection. "The point is a physical
jolt, a thrill, a taboo which until this gross-out moment was intact."
At the moment, nothing says "gross-out" like bukkake,
the porno genre in which a group of men masturbate on a woman's upturned face.
Like all S/M, bukkake
is ritualized domination and desecration of feminine purity, in this case the purer the better: "They plan to use her for their own sexual satisfaction,
then completely HUMILIATE her!," pants a come-on for the tellingly named FacialHumiliation.com.
Nothing new here, to anyone familiar with De Sade's gleeful descriptions of virgins
flogged, sodomized and worse.
What is new, in at least one corner of the facial-comeshot
universe, is that the genre's De Sadean tendencies are being retouched and reinvented
by
digital
software. The "best" of these images — produced, or at least peddled, by PrivateGold.com,
a domain name registered to the Cyprus-based Fraserside Holdings, Ltd. — depict
radiantly smiling, impeccably made-up models, glossy lips parted to receive a
shot of goo.
Clearly targeting the American market, PrivateGold's
images trade the abject depravity of Japanese bukkake for a pert, Pepsodent-smiling
optimism. In the best American tradition, they celebrate technological progress:
each model is retouched to posthuman perfection, each cock enhanced to highlight
its bulging glans and knotty veins, like the ripped, rock-hard arm of a bodybuilder.
Like Wayne Newton, Wendy Whoppers, and other pure products of American madness,
PrivateGold's facials are a monument to delirious artificiality. Their supersaturated aesthetic harks back to Technicolor
movies, the airbrushed album-cover art of the '70s, and the paintings of Maxfield
Parrish.
At the same time, they're utterly contemporary in their winking subversion
of their own conventions. You don't have to be a kill-your-TV, no-logo type to see that PrivateGold's
farcical facials are a squirt in the eye of the inflatable, untouchable goddesses
of American advertising. Evoking the happy, shiny irony of Diesel ads, they act
out many male sex consumers' desire, equal parts Freud and Marx, to soil the
android perfection of supermodels and centerfolds with a sticky puddle of splort.
This is what all the leering couples wrestling with spraying hoses in those Newport
cigarette
ads would look like, if Newport came clean about its subliminal seductions.
With their gleaming highlights and strobelike special
effects, digitally retouched "facials" are postmodern porn. The hyperreality of PrivateGold's images reaches its dizziest heights
in the comeshots themselves: gobs
of come, frozen in mid-flight — are both realer than real and hopelessly
unreal. Their zigzagging trajectories bend more laws of physics
than Carrie-Anne Moss in The Matrix. In the image I'm looking at as
I write this, a jet of jism pulls a sudden right turn, away from the woman's
waiting lips, toward another, outstretched penis, as if drawn by a homoerotic
magnetism. In
another image, a streaking comet of come appears to loop the loop. In a
third, the stream turns on a dime and rockets away from the model's mouth,
toward the startled viewer. And then there's the photo that gives new meaning
to the phrase "splatter movie:" a triumph of special effects, it features a phallus
that simultaneously ejaculates two streams of come in different directions. One
spurts into the model's mouth while the other whizzes toward her eyebrow, doubling
back at the last minute to carom off her nose, zing past her cheek, and exit
stage right.
Of course, this is porn, so it still has to pack a groin
buzz, no matter how weird it looks. But what's the deeper meaning of PrivateGold's
fake facials? Are they our first glimpse of postmodern porn, come to strike off
the shackles of tedious realism?
If so, it's about time. Plastic surgery and
Photoshop have already given us a posthuman aesthetic, in Playboy Bunnies and
Penthouse Pets who look as if they've been remodeled by the imagineers responsible
for Disney's audio-animatronic robots. And premodern porn is fraught with impossible
anatomies and unnatural acts, from multiple-breasted effigies of Artemis to the
men with Godzilla-sized units in 18th century Japanese woodcuts.
In his Panic Encyclopedia, Arthur Kroker
theorized that technology (phone sex, cybersex, etc.) had enabled "sex without
secretions."Gazing upon the Desert of the Real, Kroker and his co-authors declared
that we had "already passed . . . beyond sex as nature and beyond sex as discourse,
to sex as fascinating only when it
is about recklessness, discharge and upheaval." For Kroker, cybersex is as distant
from flesh-against-flesh intercourse as The Matrix's time-stopping,
gravity-defying triple kicks and cartwheels are from pre-CGI fight scenes.
Then, too, as Lynn Hunt, a professor of history at the
University of Pennsylvania,
tells John Tierney in his New York Times article, "Porn, the Low-Slung Engine
of Progress," porn in the modern sense of the word is inherently cyborgian.
It "reduces sex to a set of technologies that arouse desire, satisfy desire,
create new desires," says Dr. Hunt. "Pornography is about cataloguing all the
variations, treating human bodies as interchangeable
parts in machines."
It's a no-brainer, then, that a truly pomosexual porn,
combining Crouching
Tiger wirework, prosthetic effects, Japanimation, and bleeding-edge computer-graphics
with the post-literate visual narratives of a Cindy Sherman or a Joel-Peter Witkin,
is long overdue. Imagine semen spiraling through the air in Matrix-style "bullet
time"; clusterfucks inspired by The Matrix Reloaded's "Burly
Brawl." Why not a live-action version of a manga bondage nightmare? How
about an Imax version of George Bataille's The Story of the Eye? A CGI
version of Octave Mirbeau's Torture Garden? A triple-X remake of Busby
Berkeley by Matthew Barney? Speaking of whom, bring on the giants! The satyrs!
The tapioca and the petroleum jelly! Lame though they may seem, PrivateGold's F/X
facials are a vision of things
to come.n°
For them,
Web porn devoted to midgets, mummylike
swaddling in Cling-Wrap, or "furverts" who make it with plush toys (or, better
yet, as plush toys) is about shock value, not the pleasure principle. "The point
in rubbernecker pornography is sensation," argues Susie Bright in "The Future
of Porn," an essay included in her forthcoming collection. "The point is a physical
jolt, a thrill, a taboo which until this gross-out moment was intact." 
The "best" of these images — produced, or at least peddled, by PrivateGold.com,
a domain name registered to the Cyprus-based Fraserside Holdings, Ltd. — depict
radiantly smiling, impeccably made-up models, glossy lips parted to receive a
shot of goo. 
In
another image, a streaking comet of come appears to loop the loop. In a
third, the stream turns on a dime and rockets away from the model's mouth,
toward the startled viewer. And then there's the photo that gives new meaning
to the phrase "splatter movie:" a triumph of special effects, it features a phallus
that simultaneously ejaculates two streams of come in different directions. One
spurts into the model's mouth while the other whizzes toward her eyebrow, doubling
back at the last minute to carom off her nose, zing past her cheek, and exit
stage right. 
Gazing upon the Desert of the Real, Kroker and his co-authors declared
that we had "already passed . . . beyond sex as nature and beyond sex as discourse,
to sex as fascinating only when it
is about recklessness, discharge and upheaval." For Kroker, cybersex is as distant
from flesh-against-flesh intercourse as The Matrix's time-stopping,
gravity-defying triple kicks and cartwheels are from pre-CGI fight scenes.
