Electric Feel: A Glass Of Wine, A Stack of Smut DVDs, And A Night of Solitary Pleasure

"And the Hitachi Magic Wand sang the music of the spheres..."

"And the Hitachi Magic Wand sang the music of the spheres..."

I am an apologist for adult movies.

No, I put that too delicately, I adore them, and they’ve helped me through many droughts. I unabashedly enjoy watching attractive performers vigorously frig, even when wrapped in the slimmest of narrative conceits.

Last weekend, alone again, I decided to revisit the 2002 series “Naked Hollywood,” of which I own several DVD volumes. They are discontinuous: I have 1, 3, 5, 7, 10 and 11, from a series that I believe extends to 20. It stars Nina Hartley, Asia Carrera, Keri Windsor, among a host of generic cocksmen. But this does qualify marginally as a “film,” with admirable production values and a baroque plot that I have yet to fully parse.

Of course, it is also a tableau vivant of highly enjoyable collisions between striking cast members, and I really just wanted to watch hot fugging, with the express intention of arousing and gratifying myself.

Don’t flinch—you do it, too.

I poured myself a glass of El Coto Spanish red, and brought out the Hitachi Magic Wand. The credits rolled, the dense plot unfurled, and the copulation commenced without hesitation. In particular, I enjoy the connoisseur’s affection and commitment that Nina Hartley brings to her scenes– In volume one, she is blessed with two consummated encounters, the final lick off the bone being with radio intern Charlie, a soft-spoken Italianate gentleman, with whom she shares a glass of whiskey and a spirited rut. In the heat of battle, he wears what looks to be a pink truck stop condom, striking in its rapid ascent and descent, blazing its frantic path with startling visual clarity, a delightfully blushing beacon. At one point, Nina chants rhythmically “That…Feels…Real…Ly…Good…Char…Lie…” in what I imagined as endearingly awkward, unscripted enthusiasm.

At this point, feeling the glow of the El Coto and a mounting physical response to the onscreen action, I unleashed the Hitachi Magic Wand, placing the transcendent device where nature intended as I chanted some unscripted, rhythmical encouragements of my own.

By then, the tableaux had shifted and Asia Carrera was mounting veteran ace Randy Spears, grasping sultry air, showering her dark tresses across her shoulders in undisguised, unalloyed pleasure. I mounted the Hitachi in ardent solidarity.

My bathrobe dropped to the floor and I exposed myself to my ecstatic onscreen counterparts. The Magic Wand sang its music of the spheres.

XO

Syl

sylvialowry1 (at) gmail.com

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© 2009 Sylvia Lowry, All Rights Reserved

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