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The Crying Game
While Art has been known to draw many to tears, pornography has done it one better by ensuring liquid actually gets back into the eyes of the weeping. Of course, not all examinations of art have brought intense pleasure for the beholder; just as Van Gogh’s Bedroom is Arles hinted at the late dutch painter’s eventual suicide, this teary-eyed husband must use the art around him to truly understand what exactly his wife is doing with another man’s cock in her. As you can see, his contemplation keeps him trapped in a Dutch Oven of incertitude; perhaps some art will illuminate his confusion, as both he and his wife seem in the dark about what exactly is going on.
The first painting we will look at is a landscape piece of Manhattan at Night with the Brooklyn Bridge in the forefront. Yes, it may be true that her London Bridge wants to go down for him, but the crying man’s wife has burdens of her own. This painting reminds us that the big city may be hard, but this Lady Liberty has two big apples to deal with, and if she must clutch his torch to allow the passage of millions of seamen along his Verrazano Narrows, then so be it. Deal with it. This husband’s tears are as legitimate as the Truther movement.
But there is another painting. We may wonder why this red-haired woman is standing lonesome in the portrait behind her, but there are a few things we must keep in mind: the girl’s purple wrist-warmers are essentially symbolic, reminding the man that his wife must deal with purple appendages the size of her forearms to be happy. Also, the artistic subject may appear sad to us, but the painting is a reminder that happiness need not be explicitly expressed, as evidenced by her overt likeness to Grimace. But how much can we really deduce from these two pieces of art? is it enough?
Another work stands behind the wife’s patron; this abstract piece combines faint streaks of white and black with hints of redness strewn about. This seems like another cryptic clue as to why this is all happening before him, yet the answer will be revealed to this husband given he solves the oedipal riddle. Perhaps the truth is right under his nose, even if his nose is intrusively close to his adulterous’ spouse’s partner’s scrotum. So I ask the age-old question: What’s black and white and red all over?
Well, after she’s finished with that member of his, I think the answer is quite obvious.
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Inside the Artist’s Studio
Art and pornography go so well together. While no two professions make better use of empty studio space, both visual mediums are better known for allowing the liberal use of ejaculation upon blank pallets. This artist, who has taken a break from his craft to employ a different kind of brushstroke, has chosen to forego abstraction and has rather gone straight for the jugular. All artists know that what hits deepest is visceral, guttural - and he wastes no time exploring the cavernous orifices offered by the human condition.
The man’s paintings may have hints of post-impressionism in them, but this man is sure to put enough oil on her canvas that her sight will be akin to Monet’s garden scenes.
Behind our young model is this artist’s wonderful take on the Last Supper, complete with grails of wine and loaves of bread. Considering the vigor of our fair lady’s fellatio, odds are she is also thinking of the last time she was fed. All hunger aside, the most essential part of this painting is the figure to the left, a curious man with purple skin. Yes, Catholicism may enjoy the pious gastronomy of the body of Christ, but it seems that there’s only one purple head that’s currently being feasted upon. Ultimately, we shouldn’t now be mournful of the death of our messiah. For the artist, it is his erection over resurrection, and I’m sure Christ will still be struggling out the cave while this Picasso is using his stalagmite to get his rocks off.
Wait, is that bull eating cereal?
Like other beatniks these days, our budding artist probably gains most of his psychedelic inspiration for downing Red Bull and Corn Flakes. However, we must stand back in awe to appreciate this masterpiece. Not since Guernica have bulls and missiles better fit into the same scene.
Although our tour ends with a bang, the art itself is exemplary in its use of nuance. The final painting depicts Princess Leia standing alongside a giant vagina. This is telling of the man’s sexual needs; one women is just not enough, as he apparently needs buns on both side of his face to be happy.
All needs aside, a man with such an accomplished cannon is bound to have a few loose balls.
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Putting the Wood in Woodstock
Pornstars and Hippies are quite similar in that they both spent their glory days swallowing very strange-tasting substances.
The 60’s were one of the most prominent cultural movements of the 20th century, as it marked the period in our society before cocaine and razors gained widespread use among the youth. For some people, though, the nostalgia remained. When it comes to the subject of my analysis today, she’ll be sure to have a gallon of semen in her hair when she goes to San Francisco.
Apparently, nothing better dignifies the validity of the 1960’s like the Ed Hardy poster to her left, though I can’t quite recall another time when wearing glitter on your clothing was cool. To her right is a labia-shaped poster straight out of Lewis Carroll’s collection, and it certainly fits the scene; not only will our young hippie’s paramour open up her doors of perception, but he’ll also be entering the depths of her rabbit hole.
He need not ask Alice anything, however. Taking some inspiration from Jimi Hendrix’s Star Spangled Banner, we must applaud the way this man this man blew her red and white beef curtains - with an improvised solo I can guarantee did not drop any D’s. We also must note his cunning ability to perfectly imitate this ill-fated guitar legend: he really should not be lying on his back, especially with the threat of regurgitation so imminent.
As you may know, hippies also espoused the virtues of free love, even if their notion of ‘shag’ meant carpets that felt like wet pubic hair.
While this young man may look like a certain member of pop-duo LMFAO, this transcendental experience is no laughing matter. Though they may not need to read Tom Wolfe or William S. Burroughs to truly communicate the spiritual experience they’re currently having, there is a great sense of liberation in sharing a Naked Lunch with your fellow flower-child.
Although these girls wait for their guru’s Age of Aquarius, acid isn’t the only thing they need to drop to all the planets to align. So in their nakedness, will the moment of truth come when Jupiter aligns with Mars? When Peace will guide the planets? Perhaps it will only come ever so often.
Perhaps once in a blue moon.
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American Psycho and the Creature Comforts
American Psycho is one of the most underrated novels in the modern Canon, and this pornographic adaptation fails not to convey the Romantic minimalism of a New York Bachelor pad. Just look at that art in the back - only something that looks like it was made with Microsoft Power Point Clip art can surely convey the rabid sexuality of this repressed investment banker. And look at that crockery. He may have all the stainless steel Black and Decker money can buy, but what he’s really missing is a good old-fashioned Dutch Oven.
Oh, how this filmmaker puts us thrusts us right into the shadowy cinema of film noir. What could better communicate the melancholia of a small-town girl hitting the big city than our favorite Lasagna enthusiast, Garfield? While she may love having two cocks penetrate her in the back alley of a New Jersey strip club, I can guarantee she sure doesn’t like Mondays. Who, then, is the Odie that salivates after her?
This Charlie Sheen lookalike right here has apparently coerced two and a half women back to this apartment. The Architectural image in the back is but indicative of his love for big white boxes.
But as we all know beauty is skin deep, our young mistress here shows off her love for dolphins with this aptly-placed tattoo:
While her gills are now being smothered by her friend at the moment, this art affirms that yes, her blowhole is always open. Oh, with such a pristine, slim figure as hers, it’s a mystery there has been such fervor in saving the whales. Such an endeavor has no porpoise.
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Our flowerchild here sniffs for pollen amidst a wonderful large-petaled display. She needs no man though; she’s the queen of her own beehive
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Big Sausage Pizza
Just like pornography, pizza is the haven of those whose only option for sustenance can be found at 3am on a Wednesday night. Pizza, too, has a history that has often intertwined with that of art. While it’s impossible to argue that nobody better combined pizza and the Renaissance better than the Ninja Turtles, our humble doughboys at Big Sausage Pizza have kneaded us another combo worthy of our attention.
Consider our Donatello above, who has just delved into the lair of a woman-of-the-world. Although she is somehow surprised that the man’s grease-stained weiner is lodged right in the center of the box on his lap, her vast knowledge of neoclassical art in to be reckoned with. Consider the painting behind him - a classical allusion, most likely, to the rape of Ganymede; While our young, hungry mistress seems to have been vying for a meat lovers to graze upon, her one wish is to be kidnapped by this Zeus to her left, who, in glorious posture, sits wonderfully statuesque with his member 8 inches deep in a cardboard box.
Our pizza lovers don’t just deal with the dark baroques of neoclassicism, however. They also have a taste for the abstract. This young lady, who according to the painting appears to be influenced by the work of Rene Magritte, assures us curious viewers that yes, “C’est surement une pipe” that’s lodged esophagus deep down her throat. This isn’t the only piece of art lying in her house, though:
Our young art lover has successfully mended two great forms of expression: That of visual art and that of bastardized Italian dishes. In the corner of the room lies a penguin-shaped pizza man, a short, rotund sculpture. This fetish piece should’ve been the first hint to this delivery man that the crusts may not be the only end she wants to save for last.
I have been giving much praise to the hungry feasters of the Big Sausage Pizza, but I believe it is the delivery men to whom I owe the greatest commendation. Even though they are delayed - subject to dipping their pepperoni in their customer’s dipping sauce - they still manage to come in under 30 minutes or less.
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Sappho and the Museum of Dildos
Ah, nothing better satisfies the art curator in me better than the sight of two high school girls and their teacher going on a field trip for the sake of art, especially if the pupils both look like they’re old enough to be the capital M in a Milf porn. While its tempting to argue that the teacher’s Double D’s or her student’s Flinstonian dress constitutes art, one must pay homage to this wonderful, Pre-Raphaelite painting of Sappho.
For those who don’t know, Sappho was probably the first Greek homosexual not to have descended into the Underworld of little boy’s underpants. She championed the erotic beauty of the female body through poetry, which may seem a bit tame to us, but you must remember that this was long before footlong strap-ons could express the same sentiments.
Through a little research I have figured out that this work is by a seldom-known painter by the name of John William Godward. This man once said that the “world was not big enough” for him and Picasso, which is evidently false to anybody who’s ever taken the Great American Challenge. I’m glad, though, that his work is being preserved in such a cultured place.
Most museums insist that one not touch the works, though this is quite difficult to avoid the dildos when the velvet rope does nothing to stop them from sticking out. Good on that teacher, however, for disciplining her unruly students. Works of art should be treated with the utmost respect, no matter how tempting it is to insert them in your vagina or rectum.
I’m glad to see that the spirit of Sappho lives on in the young, impressionable minds of this teacher’s students. Pornography has taught me that all girls that wear catholic dresses are in some way also students of Sappho, and though they may not grasp the same erotic poetic as her, they can still beautifully express themselves with the tip of their tongue.
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Christ in Pornography
“Not only in a great house are vessels of gold and of silver, but also of wood.” - Timothy 2:20
Since the year zero, the Western world has concentrated most of its portraiture and landscape art on the life and setting of one man, a great man whose wisdom and love has made him ascend higher than anybody, higher than the tip of Peter North’s erect cock before it spreads its myrrh all over some naughty philistine. Jesus Christ has probably appeared in more art any other man, but rarely has he joined the avant-garde realm of art in pornography. This is one of his exceptions.
Consider how Jesus meditates in his own solemnity, since he will never be tempted into transcending the walls of the picture frame. Judas, on the other hand, the heathen, the tempted, the sinner - would have no problem trading in his thirty drachmas for a go at this golden dimepiece. In this painting, Jesus seems to understand the post-Edenic pain of humanity. He reflects on the darkness of this world, lamenting that youth of some third-world countries may never be able to experience the communal cohesion of the internet, the magic in finding that they are not the only ones who can get their rocks off through the periodic table.
Jesus may also be solemn, too, because he knows that he will never capture her virginity - he’d obviously be getting sloppy seconds, courtesy of her letting King Midas finger her satchel.
One of the main tenets of Christ’s teachings is forgiveness, so I figured I’d show him crashing the doors of a different type of temple. While it doesn’t take three wise men to know that isn’t actually Christ who is on the cross, one must remember that his body is alive within us all, whether we ingest it with bread and wine, or whether he’s straddling that ass straight into her Jerusalem.
It’s strange, too, that this pious lover does not include the disciples in her amours, as Christ seems to be the only one enjoying this last supper. Matthew 13:44 tells us that “The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field”, which, for some, would have seemed to be the direction that Christ was heading in had she not taken some Nair to her fertile pastures and left it bare. It’s a wondrous and symbolic scene, however; this immaculate conception bears not a new child, but it reinforces the continual tryst between the realms of art and pornography. It imitates life itself, and reminds us that there are things that generic lovemaking can do without:
Amen.
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The Cheerleader’s Room
It’s easy to criticize the cheerleaders of this world for having a less-than-distinguished taste in the arts. For one, they are often so focused on landing their pirouettes and repaying their coaches by fellating them that a nuanced taste for the classics is often not there. Our subject today, however, has transcended into the great, esoteric realm of visual art with a couple of paintings that reflect a side of her much broader than one may deduce from merely gazing at her gargantuan behind.
This shoot, which happens to contain a cameo from the lead singer of Chromeo, is centerpieced by a wonderful painting of two owls, wide-eyed and cute, cuddling with each other. At first, you may think that this is just a cheap design piece you can buy at your local department store, but it’s actually much more than that. Not only do the owls reflect the cheerleader’s characteristics - a large chest, eyes like big breasts, a habit of howling at penises, a tendency to happily perch on wood - they represent her nocturnal side, where she beckons to stay up and not have to do the splits at 6am every morning while her coach looks on with 9 inches of morning wood.
If you doubted she had another side, her second prominent piece shows that her artistic virtue is entrenched in more than just owls and deepthroating. This dog, who uncannily resembles celebrity movie canine Beethoven, shows that she is surely in touch with classical 19th century German music. While she doesn’t let her guilt of missing practice fall on deaf ears, she will no doubt be singing “Drink milk love life” at the end of his niner.
The final piece of art that we should reflect upon is no painting, but it’s her portrait that is sure to draw intrigue into the nature of this coitus. Not only has the coach taught her the basics of being a flag-bearer, he has surely developed her into something quite different than her younger self. It’s a wonder how he could’ve transformed her from a curly-haired, olive-skinned brunette into a straight-haired, Aryan bleach blonde for the sake of cheerleading. Then again, her ability to be both an artist and a work of art have paid dividends in getting her at the top of the pyramid, or in this case, the obelisk.
I’m glad there are people out there like her who give a hoot.
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Musée des Beaux-arts
“About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position” - W.H. Auden
Sometimes we need a reminder that, in an age of staged reality shows and dubious cinéma verité, those who echo the world’s oldest profession are they themselves the artists, not the haughty directors chomping on cigars while manually preening stuntcocks behind the camera. This scene reminds us that yes, we must take pornstars seriously - not only can they seamlessly pose like pig roasts for several minutes, but they can outperform other artists around them - namely, the dull Picasso behind her.
This painting is the first deception the set designer had in mind; He wants us to think that the woman in that painting is the actual artist, but ultimately she is a representation, a false idol. The only person who’ll be stroking long-necked wood is our prone-stanced bobber in the forefront.
Next, to this image’s right, we see another woman portraited in a glum, taupe-shaded setting. This painting, reminiscent of Edouard Manet’s Olympe, reminds us that visual art cannot capture a certain visceral pleasure that comes with getting doggy-pounded in the worst-curated museum in the world. Though she herself is beautiful in a melancholic way, she cannot hold the artistic standards that come with coming. Catharsis has always been missing in visual art, and even the most tentative creampie can offer more purgation than all of the Expressionist works combined.
This final painting we will look at merely confirms her superiority to all art. This piece seems a final challenge - should our statuesque slut be striving for a higher moral aesthetic? Some would say yes, but in my opinion, she has no time to get her face whitened and to wear extravagant hats. In fact, the only obtusely-shaped cap she is currently donning is 8 inches past her labia. As for her face getting powdered, that is, let us say, surely gonna be taken care of.
Thus, after the oil has been spilt upon her canvas, she realizes through Lacanian self-realization, that it is she who is the art. If only she weren’t so busy getting his acrylic off her face, she’d realize this triumphant truth.
