Day 32 and I’ve moved for a while. I’ll be dogsitting in Chatsworth. I still haven’t managed to get a car, although I think I might be able to in the next day or so, so I get an uber. My driver is a fast talking Jewish comedian, wisecracking constantly all the way there. He has a captive audience. He makes sure I know his name. He has a lot to say. I ask him about Chatsworth. “What’s the best thing to do in Chatsworth?” I ask him. “Get out! Get outta Chatsworth. That’s the best thing you can do there. Either that or have sex for money. It’s the porn capital of the world. It makes 85% of the world’s porn.
So there as well as all the downward dog, there’s other kinds of dogging going on round here. People going at it like dogs, doggie style. But it’s fine because my friend’s dog is a literal dog. And he wants me to take care of her. In the sense of feed and walk her, and carry round her poo in bags. This is a small price to pay for having a lovely roof over my head for a while in a peaceful part of town.
I reckon I’ll get some work done here. Also I’ll be able to eat some meat. The guy I’m staying with in Larchmont is a vegan, and even though I know he wouldn’t object to me cooking meat in his home, I don’t want to constantly make the place smell of it. Especially as he does it for humanitarian reasons. So I’ve not had much meat since I’ve been in town. Tomorrow I’m going to have a great big sausage and shove it in my mouth. Or slap a good juicy steak in the pan and jiggle it about until it’s tender. Hell I’m gonna to get stuffed up with with meat in Chatsworth. I’ll be in good company.
Porn is such a strange industry. And this quiet residential area with perfect lawns despite drought seems a strange home for it. I’m curious to see if I accidentally stumble into the back of a shot while walking the dog. I hope not. It’s tempting to joke about it but it’s a petty poisonous reality. It’s so easily accessible, and such a huge amount of content being generated. It’s changed the nature of so much. When I was a kid we would sometimes find damp magazines in hedges that had been hidden or discarded there. I have no idea why that was a thing but it really was a thing. Maybe guilty husbands hiding their stash outside… I just asked my friend and he is telling me a story about finding pictures of boobies on Boy Scout camp in a forest. Sometimes a kid at school would treasure a creased up piece of torn magazine with BOOBS which he would show you if you let him punch you or somesuch. I looked at the things with wonder, nursing my cheek. It’s a huge shift to where we are now, where a kid can get on the internet and in seconds happen on two surgically adjusted beings athletically engaging in a visually organised approximation of sex that has little to do with intimacy, howling like wolves, gleefully accepting everything with vast pneumatic boobs, cocks like arms and no hair anywhere. I was told a few months ago that people bleach their assholes! They BLEACH the SKIN on their SPHINCTER. Ow ow ow. You’d never eat curry again. But what can this be doing to people’s body image? Self esteem is hard enough already in a society tuned to showing you what you don’t have and making you want it, without making a good shag into some aspirational visual ritual with a structure to it. First we do this, then we do this, then we do this and then you come on my face and I smile like it’s the best thing ever. The stuff you hear about how the output is affecting kids and their behaviour and causing dependencies in adults gives me pause. I wouldn’t know how to parent that. Then there’s the abuse, self abuse, disease and medication that kills large numbers of the performers annually. It’s dark… and that’s coming from someone who misses eating meat, which is another mess of an industry.
Maybe I won’t eat meat after all. Although a good pork sword, a lamb lance and some mutton missiles would go down beautifully. Apparently they’re a speciality.