Time Out Articles IV

TIME OUT MAGAZINE

ONE PORN EVERY MINUTE...

'Oh go on, do it!' I pleaded. 'It'll be fun!' 'No, you do it,' my (then) girlfriend replied. 'You fancy it, so you can do it.' Forty minutes later, my charms had obviously overwhelmed her and before we knew it, we had the Adult Channel on cable, a snip at £6.99 a month for four hours a night of unbridled passion.

I switched on at midnight for 'Dish of the Day', a regular ten-minute programme of housewives wanking and pouting. I pondered how someone with such long nails could do that to themselves without causing irreparable damage. I yawned and flipped over to QVC. A CD set of pan-pipe music held my attention for all of five seconds, so I scanned the listings for future features. 'Bra Busters 11' and 'Jugsy' sounded good. I thought I ought to watch 'Miss Wet T-shirt' from Whitley Bay and should probably set the video for 'Killer Tits'. I noticed a number of spoofs but decided to give 'Foreskin Gump' a wide berth but might give 'Titty Slickers II' and 'Attack of the 50-foot Hooker' a perusal.

Tucked in amongst this festival of fucking was the odd gay or 'lesbian' feature. I took a deep breath and stayed up for one film starring Valaria, Montana and Misty Rain (I kid you not). They wasted no time, frolicking in a studio set park while a female voyeur excitedly stroked her genitals (well, nearly), concealed by bushes a scant 12" away. They were all unconcerned by detection ('I got caught before but it was only a $25 fine!') but judging by the amount of guttural noises they made (let along the boisterous buzzing of what was frankly a Barbie doll sized vibrator) I'm surprised the entire US Cavalry didn't come crashing in.

It was not hot stuff (you couldn't toast a marshmallow on the heat these two radiated), and the dialogue wasn't much more lascivious (the fans at Old Trafford put more effort into 'Ooh-aah!' than these women did). The music, no doubt by tradition, was a diabolical cacophony of lame 70's style bass and fuzzy guitar, with licks that were far nearer the mark than Misty could ever be in her wildest dreams.

The following week saw the premiere of a 50-minute vignette with two buxom tourists who accepted a lift from a 'lovely lady'. Again, the protagonists in this skin flick wasted no time in getting down to the nitty gritty, but the woman who picked them up won no prizes for pulchritude. As soon as their ample bums hit the back seat, they were pinching their nipples and licking their ruby red lips. No doubt it filled the time during a tediously long drive back to the driver's white-tiled flat in Tenerife. Very little was said, not even the proverbial small talk, but then dialogue is the weakest aspect of soft porn films. I assumed because the two girls, who looked about 14, obviously lacked intellectual acumen. I blinked and opened my eyes to see the three of them stripping off for an afternoon delight on a coarse fabric sofa. Then out came the Johnson's baby oil. Wey-hey! I thought, but my anticipation was sullied by the fact that they spent the remaining 30 minutes spreading it over each other. I switched over to a baseball game.

Not that you'll believe me now, but I just happened to be channel hopping when I caught one of the gay 'Boyzone' specials. It certainly wouldn't stop the traffic in Oxford Street* but it was far more provocative than the 'lesbian' scenarios. The plot was primitive, possibly as not to hinder the show of animal lust. I noticed that these men sweated buckets, unlike the women (it's probably considered unfeminine) and didn't waste time with crass endearments. They just got down to brass tacks. A 'Euroboys' special, featuring six young hairless and pectorally challenged men, was beautifully filmed and well framed (although the plot, as you'd guess, was paper thin), and had a throbbing vein of passion almost obsolete in the 'lesbian' films. The boys actually enjoyed the sex (trust me, you can tell and after all that's what it's all about, isn't it?) whereas the women were more like performing lap dogs.

Of course, I had a crisis of conscience about being turned on by men fucking each other but I distracted myself by ruminating on why gay films feature gay men doing gay things, but 'lesbian' porn almost entirely consists of heterosexual women with shaved pubes and acutely defined tan lines who blatantly fake orgasm. Does anyone know? Does anyone actually care? No matter how flagrant and tawdry these films are, you can understand how they can hit the G-spot. There's something about them that just makes your juices flow a little faster. My girlfriend agrees and she should know: she's the one who's been staying up until 3am to watch them.

©Megan Radclyffe 1997

* At the time this was written, Boyzone were scheduled to appear at Virgin in Oxford Street but due to the vast number of screaming fans who turned up, the road had to be blocked off and the band had to cancel.


UGLY LESBIANS

Flicking through the listings a while ago, I noticed that the infamous Gay's The Word discussion group were planning a debate on why the lesbians of today try to make themselves look so ugly. My intrigue was, to say the least, aroused. I resolved to attend with support from my partner and ex-girlfriend. Unfortunately, I was quite ill during the previous week with a heinous ear, throat and chest infection and wasn't looking my best. I decided not to haul myself off to King's Cross because a) I might fall over and b) I might add fuel to their fire.

I decided to mull over the question without the aid of a mirror. Of course, the first thought that popped into my fashion-addled brain was "You'd have to define what was ugly or attractive." Okay. What's the stereotype? Fat women with short hair and wearing dungarees, right?

I am what is termed "morbidly obese" by doctors and I have short hair which, while not quite a No. 1 buzzcut, does set me apart from the cosmopolitan locals of N16. I wear jogging pants (the 90's equivalent of those comfortable breeks) because clothes stores fail to stock enough denim to cover my ample bum. And I wear sensible shoes (size 7 Doc Martens) at the bottom of my 5' 6" frame. Am I one of today's ugly lesbians? My girlfriend (5'3") is skinny enough for people in the street to comment out loud. She wears jeans, football socks and T-shirts with cartoon and Sci-Fi characters emblazoned across her chest. Could she, Lord forbid, be described as repugnant? My ex-girlfriend (5'9") wears combats, Fred Perry's and Timberlands. She'd probably have a pink fit if someone told her she was repulsive. Della Grace and a few others have grown facial hair and it only caused a ripple. But we're all average dykes who - despite wearing aspects of a proscribed uniform - feel quite unique. If people like us are not in the running for first prize in the GTW's Ms Hideous Pageant, who would be?

I racked my brain, but the problem exhausted me. Before now, it was only heterosexual women and fearful males who called us ugly. I thought, with the rise of the beautiful kd lang, Beth Jordache in 'Brookside' and lesbian chic, that dykes are generally far more acceptable to the majority. If Demi Moore and Tanita Tikaram chop their hair off, dykes the world over dribble uncontrollably. Winona Ryder is about to pull on military kegs for 'Alien 4' and no-one has batted an eyelid. Jodie Foster pulls on a pair of ripped jeans and sits astride a chair and dykes actually wet themselves. If that's okay, why can't the rest of us do it?

I'd like to think that anyone can wear what the hell they like. I believe that it's not the image that counts but the personality. I also like to think that no-one has the right to stroll up to someone and say "Fuck, you look like a pig!" (Doesn't seem to stop them in my case, but there you go.) However, most people are attracted on first impressions, and that's only ever about what someone looks like from across a crowded bar. Usually the personae doesn't match the carefully chosen attire but at least they'd look good hanging off your arm, right?

Then it hit me. Maybe the women who go to Gay's The Word now are of the same ilk that frequented the group some ten years ago when I toddled down every week for some illuminating and stimulating discussion. They all wore jeans and T-shirts then, DMs and leather jackets covered in political badges. They had shorn heads. There wasn't a scrap of make-up between them. They even drank pints. Maybe they think the 90's lesbians are ugly because they wear full slap, strap sandals and thin, floaty dresses. Maybe they scream in horror at the sight of long flowing hair...

I tried to phone the organiser to get a few quotes but had no luck. I was dying to know what they came up with. Is fat definitely defined as a state of hideosity? Are denim and leather de rigeur or démodé ? Is short hair only appreciated in debauched sexual fantasies about straight movie stars? Why should Andrea Dworkin be derided for having frizzy hair and wearing faded dungarees when kd lang is hailed for wearing sequinned jackets? As Gay's The Word are famous for recycling certain topics (coming out seems to be a perennial favourite) maybe they'll return to this subject. Next time, I'll be banging on the door promptly at 7.45pm, wanting to know just what on earth they're carping on about.

©Megan Radclyffe 1996

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