Amateur Hour! Adventures in Porno Self-Publishing

Make your own sex-tape, and don't forget to share.

“Let’s talk set,” I said. “We need to explore angles…”

Surveying the space, a moment of panic set in. What if my apartment was recognizable? I tore through the bedroom in a panic, tucking away framed snapshots, pieces of art, and magazines and envelopes (no doubt there’s a subset of tech-savvy voyeurs who zoom in on postal labels). My teddy bear Balthazar was banished, too, lest he end up the cum-stained blue dress that would ruin me.

But John remained fixated on me. “I’m really excited to do my part for the human race,” he said, mentally undressing me.

“Right,” I said. I grabbed the camera and aimed it at us while we lip-locked. A minute or so later, I withdrew to position the camera so it would capture the bed. I hit play on our iTunes “Makeout” playlist, which starts with Carla Bruni’s “Quelqu’un M’a Dit” and, however oddly, ends with The Mills Brothers’ “You Always Hurt The Ones You Love.”

From the start, I liked being filmed and I sensed that John did too. The idea that we were on camera—and that our activities would potentially be viewed by thousands, perhaps even millions, of internet users—lent the proceedings a considerable frisson. We tried to be natural. There was no attempt at reenacting The Notebook or even One Night In Paris. We were being ourselves—which might explain the klutzy Mélanie moment that soon interrupted the fun.

At about minute five of heavy petting we were both still clothed when I ordered John to sit back and watch.

While he rested on the edge of the bed, I slithered backward to the center of the mattress on my knees. In each hand, I clutched a bunch of my flimsy yellow dress and flashed John a glimpse of my nether regions. I was in the process of flinging the frock aside and closing with a naked human y-shaped “Tada!” when my arm unexpectedly assaulted the ceiling fan.

Bang!

“Holy shit! Are you okay, Sweetie?”

“Yes,” I whimpered, scowling at the low-hanging fan that had just Kanye’d my femme fatale routine.

John rushed to get ice.

“Maybe we should cancel the shoot,” he said.

But I was I determined not to let a little mishap be my Jesse Spano–does-Showgirls downfall. “I refuse to be put on the disabled list!” I said.

“Walk it off,” he replied.

“Maybe you can fuck it off,” I suggested.

Comments

  1. Henry Baum says:

    This seems like half an article.  “Suddenly, sharing a homemade porn
    with the cyber world seemed as important a societal contribution as
    recycling.”  Yeah, that’s funny, and there are ways that exhibitionism
    can be healthy, and maybe it’s ripping away taboos so that sex becomes
    the normal thing it is, but online porn also seems like the product of a
    desperate kind of narcissism – something that’s getting more rampant in
    the culture, which isn’t exactly healthy. To claim as cover that this
    is all healthy is really putting blinders on, but maybe that’s the only
    way you can think public fucking is a good idea.