Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Porno Dream: An Essay

As I write this, I am a reasonably healthy 22 year old male with an equal 22 year old sexual appetite. How then, with my healthy 22 year old sexual appetite, might I have a porno dream, but only about a dissatisfied writer who fell into the (according to my dream, ill-informed as it is) lucrative and friendly world of writing for pornography? How then, would the dream be about a 30 something New York Jew with an eight year old kid?
The dream started with a notably bland establishing conflict: the young boy, tear-stricken on the stair, mourning his lost opportunity. His class would soon be off to Washington and without him. And why? Because his father was a writer and not the Stephen King kind, not the Dan Brown kind, the boy’s father wanted to be, but the boy’s father was having less and less luck in selling anything at all.
Guilty and frustrated, the father calls up a college friend who he always remembered to be very ambitious and figured would have been quite successful. He finds that the man remembers him and remembers him to be a fair writer. He offers him a job writing for low-budget features. The scenario wasn’t so ridiculous or sexy as the father coming in for his first day of work to see a woman straddling a man atop his desk. The college friend, an eccentric black man, says the industry outright and the father thinks about the job for awhile. He takes the job and writes a slue of entertaining fantasy scripts, but wouldn’t follow the scripts into production.
An overwritten bit I thought, the father was followed from paycheck to paycheck. With each, the father says, “This isn’t what I expected,” in varying Woody Allen contexts, ending in the black man strapped into a Baby Byron on the writer’s back. They’re at a fun run they agreed to do together.
The rest could be expected, the increase of wealth, but at the cost of terrible existential angst. He’s whoring his art, but he’s whoring his art for his son. The son goes to Washington with extra cash in his pockets. He continues the job, as whores might, because the money solved problems the writer had gotten used to have. Bills paid on time and in the full amount, how incredible. Dinner, not horribly burnt by the writer’s hand, but made well by others.
The college friend insists that the writer view one of the finished productions. “Ladies of the Plates.” He caved and watched the movie and it wasn’t nearly the most interesting part, sex scenes as they are. It was only girls, college girls, fully dressed and running around like children, flittering paper plates at each others and laughing gleefully. It kept my attention in the lower sense, if you caught my drift, but it isn’t high art or very intelligible.
The writer didn’t feel as bad about his found occasion, seeing the ridiculousness of it. He doesn’t like the bastardization of his begrudged work.

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