Last night, my ex-with-benefits came over. We went out to dinner at the little Italian restaurant around the corner. When we went back to my place, we watched some exceedingly stylized porn – it was nothing but long, lingering shots of a woman in various latex outfits, pretending to be distressed at the various situations she was tied up in. No other person. No narrative. No dialogue. No music. Just her little moans and the various sounds of her predicament. I started reacting to it as an art film, not as something designed to turn me on; I envisioned an installation piece, a 24-hour loop of nothing but various scenes like this.
Eventually we did the kinds of things that tend to happen when one is curled up on a big comfy beanbag chair with their ex-with-benefits, and went to bed.
I feel incredibly urbane and adult when things like this happen. Especially when they’re intertwined with incredibly mundane things like pouring baking soda and vinegar down the sink to try and tame That Foul Scent That Occasionally Visits The Kitchen.