Finally! A selfie stick I can actually get behind. Or under. Or over, even, depending on my mood.
A couple of weeks ago, in a splendid scene of suburban domesticity, I’d made a batch of gnocchi and we were eating them at his table while watching a little porn.
Not the kind I’d normally pick – a squirting video where a creepy guy (wearing an already-damp t-shirt) deploys the “gold standard” G-spot stimulation technique – I gestured to the supine lady still pulsing on screen.
“This,” I said, jabbing my finger at her contractions, “is why I don’t understand how women get away with faking orgasms.”
The ultimate in faking an orgasm? That Scene in When Harry Met Sally.
Rhetoric of course. In fact, I understand it perfectly well.
Cinema, porn and more recently TV have offered up plenty of female orgasms. (Except in Fifty Shades of Grey where they’re curiously absent, but that’s a conversation for another time).
Such material has taught us the all-importance of ragged breathing, of passionate pleas to the almighty, about the need for hair-tossing and groaning as essential proof that we’re having a jolly time.
As opposed, say, to providing any information whatsoever on the physical stuff happening to our bodies during these moments of great splendidness.
This is of course, completely unsurprising. I have a journal article coming out shortly with a focus on hetero anal sex. While sure, the act is seldom ever presented on screen, equally it’s important to recognise that we’re rarely given enough information in mainstream scenes to know which hole is being penetrated anyway.