Poorchella
The horrors are indescribable, but I've got to serve!
This past weekend I was with a creator who orbits my larger friend group. He has a gargantuan shlong and that’s about all I can say without being a cunt. One thing about OF fags is they will worship a fat hog no matter the body attached to it. I perused his porn after seeing him, taking notes as it were, and was increasingly surprised by the sheer caliber of men he pulls. Their eyes swing back and forth like the Cheshire Cat's, hypnotized by this troll’s pendulum. They wait hungrily to be penetrated, though in each a curious stupefaction takes hold once fully impaled. The light leaves their eyes—in euphoria or pain or dissociation, I can’t tell.
These bottoms’ inscrutability was the least of my concerns. In one video, the creator is adorned with a pup mask cradling a bottom’s prolapse. Maybe he was inspired by the fact that the bottom’s slinking mess of insides was the size of an actual infant. The creator’s cock towered in the center of the frame, pulsating with glee. The bottom was a trophy: rock hard, shining, and arguably inanimate, his golden thong hopelessly entangled in his own engorged rosebud. Talk about Midas’s touch.
This has been my porn philosophy thus far: take the backseat, watch and learn. This has been a mistake—I’ve seen too much and learned absolutely nothing. Ask a million different fags how to make porn and get a million different answers, all riddled with contradiction or garbled by GHB and low IQ. Porn’s utter lack of coherence and compounding horrors have, paradoxically, clarified its sole and obvious rule: There are no rules.
Whether this constitutes “learning something,” I’m not sure, though I have noticed a qualitative shift in my personal playbook. Most recently, I applied for a Coachella press pass and was swiftly rejected. Under normal circumstances I probably would’ve shrugged this off as a swing and a miss, but instead I swung again. Bludgeoned, really. I threw a fit over email, railing the press team for snuffing a story that was designed to “center support staff and voices typically relegated to the sidelines of the festival and media ecosystem.” Fearing reprisal, or maybe just further inundation of their inbox, they begrudgingly awarded me the pass. Congrats! We can squeeze you in. Mind you, I have no story—it was all for sport.
Squeaky wheel, oil, etc. Self importance works well for porn—and, apparently, entry-level PR associates. The payola is finally rolling in, though it remains allergic to staying in my bank account. I’m still posting lewd pics online, a towel gripping my ass for dear life, caption begging for free housing in the Indio Valley. It’s giving Poorchella. She’s got the goods but she doesn’t have the funds!