RECENTLY MY ESTEEMED COLLEAGUE Patrick told me that he was contacted for a bit of an unusual task. A mysterious overseer came to him via e-mail with a mission. This mission: to construct a website. Not just any website, mind you, but the Holy Grail of websites. Yes, that’s right. Pat was contacted to make . . . a porn site.

Chesty LaRue, you are now Pat’s slave.

Despite the fact that the topics on which we write evoke preconceived notions of Cheeto-dust mantled pariahs tittering behind their keyboards whilst cracking jokes about gorilla cocks or ruminating deconstructions of deliberately formulaic sitcoms from the early 90s, Pat actually has some credentials behind the computer that a man can be proud of. He’s been designing websites for close to fourteen years now. Dude’s got some skill, I’ll admit. And I’m not just blowing smoke up your ass because he’s my partner in crime for this loathsome abomination we call a blog; he’s been getting paid to do what he does for seven of those years, and getting paid to perform your shit is the oldest proof there is for one’s usefulness.

But let’s get back to this unusual task with which he was bequeathed. Being a guy, I’m sure Patrick’s first course of action upon hearing the news was to immediately pat himself on the back, thinking, “Like so many starving artists before you, you thought your countless years of toiling away mired in misery would never be recompensed . . . but now: HTML and titties! By God you’re living the good life man!” But before Patrick could finish this lavish fantasy of creating header titles composed of nothing but skeins of bountiful women’s breasts while reclining on a seat reserved for classical Roman royalty, wearing nothing but a toga, being served grapes by several beautiful woman on his left, and nicely fanned by several beautiful woman wielding gigantic leaf fronds on his right, Patrick’s world came crashing down. You see… he was contacted to make a porn site alright. But as he scrolled to the bottom of the e-mail he’d come to find out his surreptitious employer wasn’t just anyone. Oh no. As fate would have it, it turns out his employer . . . was a woman.

Yes, that’s right. A woman overseeing a porn site. A concept presumably as rare as a straight man appreciating Oprah or putting people clothes on his dog. My initial reaction was to laugh haughtily. In my ignorant worldview, a woman overseeing a porn site holds about as much merit as did a woman trying to vote in the US before the Nineteenth Amendment or the WNBA. Either it didn’t happen or it sure as hell shouldn’t have. And if it did or they expressed any semblance of interest in said matters they were verbally lambasted or patted pityingly on the head with an accompanying, “Yeah, sure kid. Yeah, that’ll be just swell one day.”

How successful would the pervasive porn market be today if women had always been the ones behind the scenes calling all the shots? Instead of the doorbell ringing to reveal a pizza delivery boy with rigid dong firmly entrenched in the piping hot layers of cheese, we’d have androgynous looking sparkling vampires coming up to the door holding a fresh batch of Rhododendrons and tickets to the ballet; slightly more risque versions of what one might see on the Hallmark channel.

Pictured here: Every woman’s ideal instance of kinky, freak nasty porn.

But what if I was wrong? What if everything I knew about women and porn was wrong? What if women indulged in and derived about as much pleasure from a good old porn session as your typical, everyday male and wasn’t instantly branded with some Hawthornian stigmata as a result? No, that couldn’t be. I refused to believe it. But just as the 70s had its “sexual revolution,” the advent of the internet has brought about, well . . . I guess a sort of “everything” revolution, hasn’t it? (Google the term “Rule 34” someday when you’re not at work for sad, sad proof of this.) If droves of unwashed hippies could bring the idea of free love into the mainstream of societal norms, then why couldn’t the world wide web make me realize that, yes, there are some women out there who probably like porn way more than I ever will?

So Pat was contacted by someone that wanted him to make a porn site . . . that just so happened to also be female. Big deal. And who cares if as a result the site had a little less emphasis on “getting the venom out,” and a little more on all that “lovey dovey” crap and emotional investment? Or even more bamboozling: what if the opposite were true? What if this woman was catering to some new breed of uberwoman? One whose surpressed desires and inhibitions had become fully and truly unfettered? A terrifying gender empowered megaspawn that would make the most ardent example of male nymphomaniac look like some limp dicked cuckold in comparison? Pat assured me the woman was all business on the phone. I can only imagine:

Mystery Woman: A massive dick here in the header. Two girls furiously fellating it in the right hand corner. The title PENISCRAVERS.com in cum splashed letters. And please, for God’s sake, make that logo as jizz-permeated as possible.

Pat: Uhhh . . . you see, maybe I signed on for the wrong . . .

Mystery Woman: You have 24 hours.

Suffice to say, Pat was never contacted again after this initial offer. Perhaps mystery porn lady found some unwitting pawn more willing to capitulate to her aberrant needs and whims. But what if he had been contacted further? Should he have taken the job without any hint of reservation? After all, he would have just been nicely performing a task and then been rewarded for his services, just like any other job, voluminous ballsacs and undulating women’s asses aside, right? And in today’s job market, “any other job” is better than nothing.

Though I have to liken Pat to some sad parody of the CGI illustrators who found out they’d be working on the Watchmen movie; guys rejoicing upon the divulgement of the initial parameters of their work and then subsequently tearing their own hair out when finally discovering they’d be using their considerable skill to craft as realistic a luminous blue dick as possible. He’d have been the impetus for countless Adventures in Poor Taste articles to come, a tragic figure etched forever in the annals of an insignificant blog. And for that, my friends, I salute him.

“Damit Ross, I told you I want that illuminate blue cock to pendulate like a grandfather clock! A grandfather clock! Do you want to go back to making underground nudes of Jar Jar Binks and Avatar chicks 69ing for the rest of your life!?”

  • Blootster

    oh goodness, big boy Blooty had a big billowing bounty of laughter at this article. Just, such imagery.