Standing with Lena

I'm very disturbed by this recent media/Twitter storm against Lena Dunham regarding the depiction of her childhood sexual curiosity in her new book Not That Kind of Girl. The jump to call her a “sexual predator” for masturbating next to her little sister lying in the same bed, or for looking into her baby sister’s vagina (when she was seven!), is in my opinion grotesque. Somehow I feel like if Lena were a boy, this would not be considered such a shameful offense. The fact that she was a little girl curious about a vagina seems too much for our society to handle, and this I find really sad and upsetting. Even the fact that her curiosity about her sister’s vagina could be misconstrued as sexual in any way is frankly ridiculous.

It makes me reflect on my own childhood and how I was taught from a very young age to have no shame about my sexuality. Whatever I did or asked about, my parents indulged, never shaming me or telling me I was wrong or gross for thinking or feeling a certain way. And I feel like Lena’s upbringing was maybe similar in this way. And so she grew up feeling shameless about her sexuality, which has molded her into who she is today and given us, her audience, the body of work we love in Girls, Tiny Furniture, and now her memoirs.

I’d been working on writing a piece about how my mom bought me a vibrator when I was twelve. This is one of the examples from my childhood that I feel shaped me into the confident, sex-positive woman I am today. Now I find myself questioning if the public would have a different view. I wonder if my honest account of this event could potentially bring down a shitstorm of judgment on me and my mom—judgment that I know actually has nothing to do with me or how I feel about how I was brought up, and has everything to do with other people’s disturbing cultural denial of female sexuality. Because Lena’s sister Grace has clearly not been deeply scarred by these events. They have a wonderful healthy relationship, they’re clearly very close, and she is the first to defend Lena on Twitter, citing heteronormativity as the reason people are up in arms against her.

I just can’t believe the extent to which this has been blown out of proportion. Again, I reflect on my own upbringing. My parents coming to tuck me into bed at night, butt naked. My mom’s diaphragm sitting on the edge of the bathtub. The fact that she bought me a vibrator when I was twelve. To me, these aspects of my growing up naturalized sex and nudity in a way that’s made me more comfortable with my body and my sexuality than most of the women I know, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything. The fact that other people might then take my experience and put their own prejudice on it and tell me it’s wrong or sick or that someone should be punished for it—well, I can’t imagine what that must feel like and my heart goes out to Lena.

I was a very sexually curious and precocious child, and the stories I could tell that might be misconstrued are endless. I remember one time my godfather was babysitting me and I took off all my clothes to show him my naked body, and he looked uncomfortable and told me to go get dressed. When I was seven, I flashed my vagina at my best friend’s older brother and he told his mom on me, and I was sent home. In kindergarten, I gave my little male classmate a box of crayons to show me his penis—I had forgotten about this episode until I saw him again in high school and he wouldn’t talk to me for this reason. My best friend and I used to take off our pants and take turns sniffing each other’s butts. One time I kissed my mom on the lips and stuck my tongue in her mouth.

Yes, there’s no older person taking advantage of younger person in any of these stories, but they all involve a child’s curiosity about sex and bodies. And I think what’s really bothering people is not the harmless childish things Lena did to her little sister, but the fact that a little girl might have sexual feelings or curiosity at all. Somehow, as a society, we’ve tricked ourselves into forgetting these moments in our childhoods when we first started having sexy feelings, or we suddenly started paying attention to the junk between our legs—somehow, this is still taboo.

To me, this incident suggests a much larger conversation we need to have, as a culture. Sex education is still not taught in many schools throughout the country, girls continue to be ignorant about their vaginas, sex and nudity are still considered shameful topics of conversation. We can stop beating up Lena Dunham now. We’ve got more important work to do. 

The Girl Whisperer

I was just going to write about how I'm masturbating a lot. I sent a rough draft to my friend Sadie.
“What's up with Gaffer Guy?” She asked. “You're not having sex anymore?”
I realized I had skipped over this little detail. That I wasn't much interested in talking about it. It's more of the same, except that now we're not even having sex. At all. And even I'm getting bored of the charade.

Our last 3 exchanges, initiated by him:

8 days ago, GG invited me to a party at his house that I had zero intention of attending. At 11:30pm, my phone buzzed.
GG: “Where you at fucker?”
Me: “Hi fucker!”
GG: “So I guess you ain't coming. Word up.”
Me: “You having fun?”
GG: “Yeah. All 40 of us are.”
Me: “40 of you?! Whatcha doin texting me??”
Felt really good about this response. He promptly followed with this:
GG: “Because I've got 3 horny single guys you can hook up with.”

4 days ago:
GG: “I want a goddamn beer.”
Me: “So order one.”
GG: “Yeah. I am.”
Me: emoticon thumbs up!
GG: “I'm gonna order 2 and hope someone I know shows up and pays!”
Me: “Good luck with that!”
VERY proud of myself for not getting dressed, putting on makeup, going to meet him, and spending the night trying to get him to fuck me.

3 days ago, I saw him hanging out with a new girl at an unrelated event. I was with another guy (my most recent potential sex friend whom I have only made out with thus far), and not that interested in playing across-the-room eye games with GG. I left before him, drove home, put on my Pjs, and just as I was removing my makeup, I received a call.
GG: “Where you at?”
Me: “Home.”
GG: “I'm going to get a couple beers. You can come or not, I don't care either way.”
Me: “Okay...?”
He mumbled some other nonsense and hung up. I put my phone down and wiped the makeup off my eyes.

So, that's what's been happening. Sometimes he comes by my work and we have tea time in the afternoon, and we don't talk about anything of substance or what's going on between us. We act as though we haven't spoken or texted since the last time we had tea time. It's better this way – we don't fight as much. Sometimes I enjoy his company in these platonic meetings because he drinks tea instead of beer and he's less of a dick. Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing there – what do I want out of this? The other day, we laughed as we watched a tiny little snail make its way across the concrete between us. I took a photo with his finger for scale.

So, I guess GG and I are “just friends” now. And I've decided to stop sleeping with my ex, and also still just flirting with my new potential sex friend (he's got a very busy schedule and – ahem – a teenage son). So, I'm not getting much action. And I masturbate a lot.

I've heard of this phenomenon whereby some people – albeit usually teenage boys and middle aged men - masturbate too often and end up losing interest in the real thing. I mean, if I can get myself off quickly and efficiently in under 5 minutes, why go through the whole rigamarole of actually having sex with another person – which often requires work to organize in the first place, potentially takes over 30 minutes of my time, and might very likely end in no orgasms for me and a very sticky bottom...  Why not skip all the beating around the bush?

And, to be quite honest, my pearl rabbit is better at sex than a lot of the guys I've slept with in the last couple years. A LOT better. An evening spent with my rabbit and a nice James Deen flick is an evening well spent in my book.

The other night, I was in the midst of a steamy little carseat make-out session with my new potential sex friend (the one with the kid – I will call him DILF), when he had to leave to go pick up his son at baby mama's house. So, there I was – all hot and bothered with nowhere to go. I resisted the relentless temptation to hunt down GG, or the nagging thought that my ex is readily available and very effective at getting me off – but rather than crawl down either of those equally complicated rabbit holes, I decided instead to crawl into bed with my rabbit.

When I'm with my rabbit, I have to try not to come. This is something that I don't recall ever having from sex. I don't know about most women, but for me having an orgasm from sex usually takes a lot of concentration and is not something that simply overcomes me uncontrollably. I wish it would. With my rabbit, the vibrating ears can make me come in like 2 seconds, so I've gotta be careful to drag out the climax for as long as I possibly can. If this level of intensity exists in sex, will the real Christian Grey please stand up??

I know the reason GG often doesn't want to have sex is because he's worried he can't please me. And I think he's haunted by the fact that he's never given me an orgasm. He doesn't quite believe me when I say I don't care. He's even apologized after sex for being a “dud.” I'm sure he'd rather just masturbate... guilt-free.

I thought about taking you through the ins and outs (haha) of my masturbation sessions but my friend Sadie reminded me that masturbating is not that interesting. There's no conflict. As any writer knows, if there's no conflict, there's no story, and there's no conflict when I'm fucking myself. I know I'm going to get off – there's no tension there. And there's no mystery about what my partner might do – because my partner is an inanimate object whose actions I control. No expectations or disappointments, no reciprocation or guilt trips. Just pure pleasure. And pleasure without tension does not provide nearly the same relief.

I felt so great about myself a week ago because I really thought I would never text him again.
“I'm over it,” I declared to anyone who would listen. They all looked skeptical but encouraging. I really thought I was done. Then, I threw my girlfriend's bachelorette party. I drank a lot of Greyhounds and watched a lot of sexy burlesque dancers writhing on poles... and my fuzzy head got the better of me. I reached for my phone.
Me: “Watching burlesque... Putting me in the mood...”
Silence. I waited a half hour. Still no response. I took a photo of one of the dancers in full splits, gripping the pole between her legs, and sent it to him. A totally irresistible and boner-inducing shot. Or so I thought.
My phone buzzed.
GG: “This guy probably cares. Text him.”
Followed by a shared contact, his friend JC whom I'd talked to the other night at the event.
JC had asked about what was happening between me and GG. I told him it was over, that I didn't like the way he treated women. Even as I heard the words “we don't deserve it” come out of my mouth, I knew I was full of shit. JC listened intently, then responded remorselessly:
“You love it. He's the girl whisperer. You don't want a nice guy.”

I knew he was referring to himself. I could tell he was interested in me, and also a much nicer guy than GG. But he was right, I wasn't interested. Because I like the conflict – as frustrating as GG is, he always gives me something to push up against. The tension keeps building and building and I'm still waiting for that sweet relief. In my brain, I know it will never come. Maybe if it did I would lose interest. That's what's fucked up about this whole thing, and my dirty little secret – if I got what I want I probably wouldn't want it anymore. Oh well, at least he makes for a good story.

Oops... I Did It Again

I saved his number in my phone under Think About It. That was my friend Claire's idea. She's a couple years older than me and she's been through this shit before.
“If a guy treats me badly, it's over. I'm not attracted to him anymore.”
I so had no intention of ever texting Gaffer Guy again. I honestly tried to delete his number from my phone's memory and fucking iCloud foiled my plan and refused to forget not only his number, but also his goddamn name. So I saved his number under Think About It. I knew this would deter me.

And I do think about it, I really do. I'm laying in bed, in my PJs. Having already eaten dinner and watched three episodes of Six Feet Under. Already moved on to reading a couple chapters of Bright Shiny Morning before drifting into a deep sleep, when my phone starts luring me to do bad things. I stare at it. Think About It. And when I think about it, I come up with a brilliant idea. I'll text him three blank spaces, and he will receive a text from me with an empty dialogue bubble. In other words, I'm opening the door but not enough that I can't deny ever opening it. I mean, phones do weird things and text people random empty messages sometimes right? Totally could have been a technological gaff, just a friendly little digital blip reminding him I still exist. I text him the empty message and put my phone down, feeling good for smacking the ball right back into his court. Then I start to feel a tad remorseful. What if he looks at this blank text and ignores it, as he's done in the past with my accidentally-on-purpose, meant-for-him-but-not-really text digressions. What if his response is to roll his eyes at my childish indirectness and turn off his phone?
My phone vibrates.
Him: “Oh yeah? I'm going to meet some friends at a bar. Join me.”
Wow. One blank text and we're right back where we started. Is it really so simple to put all the baggage behind us? Wipe the slate clean.

But I really don't want to meet him and his friends at a bar. I don't want to give him the opportunity to humiliate me in public again. I especially don't want to be outnumbered by his weird friends. And I really just want to make out. Since he's told me definitively that he hates PDA, he needs to come over.
Me: “Why don't you stop by on your way and make out with me a little?”
Him: “Come to my house now and we'll ride over together.”
Me: “I want to get you alone for a minute.”
Him: “I'm meeting my friend. It's nice out. Come if you want.”
Me: “Have fun.”
Him: “You too! Happy friday!”
I feel disappointed, and annoyed at myself for feeling disappointed again. For setting myself up for failure. I delete the entire text chain out of my phone so I don't have the urge to write him back. I do this often with him. Virtually after every single text. It sounds a little crazy when I say that out loud.

Ten minutes later, he sends me a song to listen to. Blue October's Bleed Out.
Me: “I don't want your songs, I want your tongue down my throat.”
I don't hear from him again for awhile. But I'm excited. My heart is pounding. I don't know why this guy makes me feel this way, but it feels like I'm on drugs. Up down up down up down. I look up the lyrics to “Bleed Out.” The chorus goes “Bleed out/ I gave it all/ But you can't stop taking from me/ And way down I know/ You know where to cut me/ With your eyes closed/ Bleed out/ It won't be long/ til this heart stops beating/ So don't let me bleed out here alone/ Hear my plea/ you won't hear my plea.” So dramatic. I'm pretty sure he was the one who cut me, but whatever.

A little while later, I'm seriously getting ready to go to sleep, but also thinking he might text me again, which makes it impossible for me to go to sleep. I'm just turning out my light when... my phone vibrates.
Him: “Meet me for a drink. Yes or no.”
Me: “Why don't you come to me?”
Him: “The lady comes to the man.”
Me: “I think you've got that backwards buddy.”
Him: “No then. Copy.”
I stare at my phone. That old sinking feeling. That same old feeling that says 'why should I be the one to fucking compromise' mixed with 'I blew it.'
Beat.
I delete the text chain, turn off my phone, and switch out the light. Once again, Fuck You Gaffer Guy. My phone vibrates.
Him: “I'm willing to head your way, close to your home. Last chance to be human together. Meet me for a drink. Yes or no.”
I'm already in my PJs. There's no way I'm getting out of bed to meet this asshole. I read his text again. The “last chance” jumps out at me.
There's no way I'm doing that...
But then I just do it.
Me: “Promise to be human?”
Him: “I'm nothing but.”
Me: “You gonna play nice?”
Him: “Pick a destination. Quick.”
Me: “Same spot I guess.”
Him: “OK. See you in 15.”

I jump out of bed, heart racing. Mouth guard out. Get in the shower. Don't shave your legs, I say. Fuck that guy! I'm totally not shaving my legs for him.
But then I just do it.
I dry off and look at myself in the mirror. Don't put on makeup for that fool. I take out my mascara. Sexy underwear? Goddammit yes. If what I want out of this is physical, I need to prepare for it to get physical. I try not to think too much about the clothes. Throw on a sweater-like shirt, skinny jeans, boots. Not trying too hard. No cleavage. Fall is coming and I'm not gonna freeze for this fucker.
Even though I'm going from half asleep in bed to bar-ready in minutes, I still beat him there. I'm searching through the Friday night crowd. He's not there and I start to panic. What if he doesn't show? I can't stand another humiliating episode. I'm starting to get PTSD from our last encounter at this very same bar. Maybe I should have picked a new spot, somewhere with less bad memories.

I'm just getting a table outside when I see him at the door. I don't even try to give him a hug or a kiss hello. I coached myself on the drive over to play it cool, protect my heart, don't let the conversation spin out of control... blah blah blah.
The waitress approaches and asks how we're doing this evening.
He asks if she really cares or is just saying that.
I'm about to apologize for his rudeness when she shoots back with “well, now I don't care.”
I like this girl.
She says she needs a card to hold the bar tab. He asks if he can hold it with a hundred dollar bill. He takes out a wad of hundreds.
We order beers and he orders two shots of patron. I'm thinking, there's no way I'm drinking fucking tequila right now.
He tells me he's got to work at 8am tomorrow.
We talk about a lot of things. We talk about last time we were here. We have different ideas about what happened, but he actually seems to be listening to me. He's not on an all-women-are-crazy tirade this evening, so that's a plus. Maybe things have calmed down with the female wrestler he was fucking.

Our drinks come and, when the conversation starts to go in a direction I don't like, I ask about the shots of Patron.
I say, “I can't really drink tequila anymore.” Then I clink my glass against his and shoot it back.
I explain to him that the smell of the shit he puts in his hair is like fucking catnip to me. I tell him I'm going to find out the source of the smell and make every guy I know wear it.
"Come closer so I can smell your hair.  I promise I won't touch you.  I know you don't like to be touched."
"You can touch me," he says.
He leans forward. His hair smells fine, but it's not the hair.
“Let me smell your face. I promise I won't touch you, I just want to smell your face.”
He moves his face in close to mine. I breath him in. Whatever the smell is, it's on his face. He rubs his nose against mine and we Eskimo kiss over the table. Okay, this definitely counts as PDA, which he supposedly hates. I don't question it. I close my eyes, heart fluttering.
He tells me it's not that he doesn't like to be touched, it's just that when I was “petting” him last time, it was just “too sweet.”
He says he obviously still feels the “magnetic pull” between us. Well I'm glad I'm not the only one.
"So are we going to your place or mine?" he asks.
"Well, I guess yours since you obviously won't come to mine."
He doesn't argue with that.
"I've got to go," he says.  This confuses me.  Does this mean I'm not coming over?
"Are you sure you want me to come over?"
"I thought it was already decided.  You're coming over."

I follow him in my car. He drives slowly and uses his turn signal so I don't get lost. I half expect him to floor it and take off, to change his mind and decide he wants to go home alone. At his place, his two sweet old dogs greet us. They like me, I can tell.

He pours us two glasses of water and apologizes again that his bed is not made, his place is a mess.
“I never have people over here.”
I don't think that's true but I don't honestly care. The new toothbrush he made me open last time is still on the bathroom sink. There's also a third opened toothbrush, but I don't ask about it. I peak into the shower, looking for the source of The Smell. I find VO5 shampoo and generic soap - clearly not what I'm looking for. I snoop through the bathroom cabinet. Aha! Three perfume bottles of Hei by Alfred Sung. I put my nose to the fullest of the bottles. I get lightheaded. The scent is absolutely intoxicating.
“Found it!” I gleefully carry the bottle into the bedroom where he is making the bed, and present it to him. He smiles at me.
“You obviously know this shit works because you've got three bottles of it in there.”
He starts lighting candles. I take a photo of the bottle so I can go tell every man I know to buy some and start wearing it NOW.

I return the bottle to the bathroom cabinet. When I'm back in the bedroom, he tells me to flip the light switch. Blue October's “Bleed Out” is pouring out of the speakers.

After we have sex, we keep kissing. He tells me when the CD ends, he's going to sleep. He has to get up in four hours to go to work. He means business and when the last song has played out, he blows out the candles and we lay back in bed. He kisses my shoulder and holds my hand across his chest. He doesn't turn away from me like that first night. It feels nice.

In the morning I watch him get ready for work. His hair is crazy and standing on end. I'm fond of that hair. For whatever reason, I'm fond of him. But I know I have to be careful. I know I must protect my heart, that he is fully capable of breaking it. He comes over and kisses me goodbye. I linger in that kiss. He gives in to me a little bit, then pulls away.

Later that afternoon, I'm at my friend Paula's house when he texts me.
“You ever wake up? I wish I was still asleep! I'm a zombie today.”
I text back. “I'm painting your house pink, hope that's cool.”
I can picture myself becoming his worst nightmare, and for the moment this is hilarious to me.

I confessed this latest episode to my ex-boyfriend.
His advice: “You can't write about this in your blog. No one will respect you.”
I know that's probably true, and I considered strategically avoiding the subject. But then I talked to my friend Paula, who is 40 years old and much wiser than me.
Her advice: “You have to write about this in your blog. Because it's you, it's your honesty.”
I chose to follow her advice because she's right, this is me, I am a woman in my 20s and the reality of me at this moment in life is that I'm choosing to live out this story, even though I already know the ending.

Porno Fantasy

I spent some quality time last weekend masturbating.  This is because I have a new crush.  On someone I don’t really know.  Well, I feel like I know him, in fact I feel like I know him intimately.  Through his work.  Hint: It’s not Ryan Gosling.  Answer: It’s James Deen.  And no, I’m not spelling his name wrong, because I’m not talking about deceased black and white 1950s film star James Dean, I’m talking about the porn star James Deen.  

Maybe James Deen is old news to a lot of you but, believe it or not, I’m not a porn connoisseur.  At least not an up to date one.  I’m quite familiar with the work of Jenna Jameson, Janine with the tats, and that hilarious guy with long blond hair and an enormous upward turned cock who is the star of Pirates and Dreamquest and like every big budget porno movie ever. 

I first heard the name at a dinner party like a week ago when I was gathered in the kitchen with a couple girlfriends (we’ll call them Friend A and Friend B) talking about our sexual fantasies and masturbation preferences.  I couldn’t believe we had never shared this information before, some of it was too good.  Friend A told me she loves masturbating in the car, especially on long road trips when she’s driving!  Talk about multi-tasking!  I guess it’s safer than texting while driving because you don’t have to look down while you’re playing with yourself.  Both friends shared about their ability to give themselves multiple orgasms at a very young age.  I couldn’t believe this – I never had an orgasm until I had sex, and even now they’re not multiple!  They were shocked to learn that I always come from sex alone whereas they need some kind of oral or digital stimulation.  From this we deduced that how a woman orgasms probably has to do with how she learned to orgasm for the first time.  Friend B then gave us a visual demonstration of the position she needs to be in to stimulate the G-spot when she’s getting fucked laying face down on the kitchen table.

We started to talk about fantasy.  I admitted that I fantasize a lot during sex.  If I’m not getting there, I close my eyes and a fantasy plays out in my head in which a man in a corporate office is lusting for his big-titted secretary.  He coerces her into letting him eat her out from behind, but gets a raging boner and has to hurriedly put it in and fuck her fast before his next meeting.  She tells him not to come inside her and he grabs her tits and can’t help himself.  Such a male fantasy, I know.  The hot secretary, I mean COME ON!  My girlfriends also admitted to fantasizing during sex, but we all shared this with guilty expressions on our faces, not meaning to imply we had to fantasize because we didn’t enjoy sex with our partners, quickly covering with “I prefer not to, it takes me out of the moment.” 

Then, we started talking porn.  I like the “romantic” stuff on YouPorn’s X-Art contingent, where people look like they’re actually couples, and the women have real boobs and apparently real orgasms (who can tell the difference??).  Friend B likes this conference room video where the girl is obviously faking her moans and bored out of her mind and the guy is this big hairy ape-man who groans loudly.  We all agreed that porn in which you see the guys’ faces and they’re making noises and apparently enjoying themselves is the hottest.

At this moment, a cute Southern Boy my friend works with wandered into the kitchen and joined the conversation, looking very pleased and amused to find a bunch of chicks talking about porn and masturbation.  This is when I first heard the name James Deen.  Southern Boy mentioned this “real” movie coming out called The Canyons with Lindsay Lohan.  I had heard of the movie but wasn’t really that interested.  My girlfriends hadn’t heard of James Deen either, and Southern Boy was not very forthcoming with the deets. 

The next day, I was on the phone with a Friend C, again talking about porn and fantasies (my mind is constantly in the gutter).  She was telling me about how she recently realized what she consistently searches for on porn websites and that it’s a little embarrassing and difficult to admit to herself.

“I like gang bangs.  With like one chick and a bunch of dudes.”  I burst out laughing. How have we never talked about this??

“My favorite part is at the end when all the dudes come on her face.”  I’m dying with laughter. 

“I also love squirting.  I think it’s fucking hot.”  I pee a little in my pants.

Then she asks me a life changing question.

“Do you know James Deen?”

“No.  I mean, I’ve heard of him.”

“Dude, check out James Deen.”

I immediately Google Image Search him.  Oh yeah, he’s cute.  Kinda my type.  Beautiful blue eyes, sly smile, nice-looking Jewish boy.  He looks like a guy I’d pick up in a bar.

I want to talk more but I’m meeting another friend for a hike.

She immediately sends me a link to this video entitled Nicole Ray and James Deen: Passionate Fucking.

“Have fun on your hike,” she says.  We hang up.

Well, now all I want to do is watch this video, but I’m due for my other friend, so I decide this will be my treat at the end of the hike.

Later, I sit back down at my computer.  The video is 34 minutes and 38 seconds.  I watch the whole entire thing without stopping.  And by god do I masturbate.  James Deen is the most unbelievable lover I have ever seen.  He is attentive and sensual and decisive.  He makes this girl Nicole Ray come in every single position.  I count 7 orgasms.  A special prize to someone who finds more!  The way he squeezes her breasts and hips and whispers into her mouth, the look on his face as he watches her come, basking in her pleasure, is utterly intoxicating.  I don’t care if they’re acting – if they are, it’s fucking good acting.  James Deen is loving this girl so hard, loving every inch of her body, he is getting so much pleasure out of pleasuring her.  I want some of that.

I am not the only girl who is in love with James Deen, nor the only one who reads his blog or follows him on Twitter.  It’s clear on his blog that he’s like a totally normal guy who just happens to be a porn star.  On Twitter, he likes to talk about his cat.  He also shoots his own porn scenes.  On his website, you can apply to shoot a scene with him.  It looks like he invites a girl over, sets up a camera, fucks her, and edits the footage himself.  Yeah, I thought about it.  90% of the comments on his blog are from women doting on him.  This is interesting to me because I never realized so many women watch porn.  I think more do now that James Deen is a star.  Young women too.  My friend sent me this great profile that Wells Tower did for GQ.  According to Tower, Deen appeals to a similar demographic as Justin Bieber and Justin Timberlake – you might say I’m a little old for this demographic; I say, stop judging me! 

Although some might find it disturbing that 16 year old girls are watching and responding to porn, I find it kind of great that there’s porn like this available to young people on the internet.  Because we all know kids are watching it whether it’s teaching them well or not.  This is where they’re learning about sex, and I’d personally rather they learn from James Deen than, let’s say Ron Jeremy.  I hope young boys are watching him and taking notes. 

As an on-the-market single gal in Los Angeles, I’ve had my fair share of experimentation with what’s available on the male market.  And it’s quite frankly dubious.  Apparently a lot of these guys learned about sex from the kind of porn in which girls don’t have orgasms and guys get lots of blow jobs.  I had sex with this guy once who literally came three times while I never came once and kept pushing me down towards his crotch, expecting oodles and oodles of blow jobs.  A legitimate question for you to ask right now would be: why would you go to bed with someone like this?  The answer is a little embarrassing and certainly naïve: I was horny and kept expecting more from him.  James Deen fulfills my fantasy that there’s a guy out there who’s willing and able to have casual sex and make it great for me.  That I can find a nice looking Jewish boy who has the confidence and skill to deliver what I want in the bedroom.  I am apparently not the only girl with this fantasy, because James Deen has a ridiculous fanbase.  So, I hope the next generation of single males are learning how to "love" from porn stars like James Deen, because we deserve better.

I’m trying to convince my ex to do porn.  I know, you’re probably thinking, hasn’t he taken enough abuse?  First you write all this private shit about him in your blog and now this!  Maybe I’m just hoping for more of the James Deen breed of porn star, and I’m taking matters into my own hands.  I mean, according to Tower, a third of the porn audience is now female so there’s certainly a market for it!  Apparently, before James Deen was famous, he heard Jenna Jameson on the radio giving this advice to a man wanting to get into porn: if you can sit in a room with 20 people, jerk off for an hour, stay hard, and come on command, you can do porn.  I called my ex right away.

“You could totally do that!  I think your porn name should be Willy Wanker.”

His retort: “How about Henry Hardon?”