There's a lot of gay porn from Central and Eastern Europe on the market these days, and, frankly, it doesn't do much for me. It's not, of course, that I don't recognize the hotness of eager-to-please Czech twinks. In spite of what their involvement in the adult industry says about the lack of promising employment opportunities in the former Soviet Bloc, many of the young men are, undeniably, hot as hell, and I would be pleased as punch to spend some naked time with pretty much any of them in real life. In fact, thanks to films from studios such as Bel Ami and others, my mental picture of the region is of a sexual wonderland akin to what older straight businessmen must think Thailand is like (I, however, have no interest in having sex with children).
But the fact remains that I don't particularly enjoy watching the films, and I think I know why: I don't speak the language(s). While sex in real life has a host of pleasurable sensations to compensate for a lack of verbal understanding, porn is strictly visual and auditory, and for some reason, all those guttural moans and cascading "ja"s--while not strictly scraps of language, true, but still different from the coital vocalizations I'm used to--make me feel alienated, left out, foreign.
Do you think this means my penis is secretly one of those English-only assholes?
ELSEWHERE:
My short review of Annoyance Theatre's American Lit is in this week's Chicago Reader.
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