Writing about porn again. If I gained any new readers from Listless Ink: Hello! You’re about to be thrown into the deep end.
Prepare your hearts, dear friends… And please, don’t read this at work.
I’m told that cervix-bumping is painful. That seems reasonable. For most of us it isn’t even physically possible, the realities of penis length and vaginal depth being what they are. A high percentage of women can’t even come through penetrative sex. And yet, in H-manga, not only is coital climax overwhelmingly the norm, but pushing against the womb is the greatest technique of all. A higher level of pleasure resides there, in the secrets of deep penetration.
Is this something to worry about? Well, yes, somewhat. The pressure for real sex to live up to sexual fantasy can be profoundly damaging, especially when comparing oneself to horse-hung porn stars. But the deep-penetration fantasy is at times so unreal, and the boundaries it pushes so anatomically novel, that I can’t help but see something else going on.
I mean something a little more innocent. Bear with me.
I’ve talked before about the body grotesque, and how very good it is at freaking people out. Nothing draws out “squick factor” quite like physical deformity, or even physical normalcy brought into overly-sharp focus. But sometimes, in H-manga, the extreme close-ups and medical textbook-esque cross-sections of penetration serve a different purpose.
To illustrate by example: There’s simply no reason that the cervix should protrude and “kiss” the tip of the man’s urethra, preparing for impregnation like a hose attaching to a fire hydrant. That isn’t how lady parts work. But lately, in H-manga, I notice that internal depictions do exactly this. “Physical compatibility” goes to new extremes.
And the language is innocent, isn’t it? Kissing wombs and embracing cocks and such. The happiness it suggests is ironically very pure.
Sometimes it’s just disgusting. I won’t deny that. But I see enough of a pattern lately that I wanted to comment. It’s one more bit of evidence for my recurring thesis: That nowhere is sex and love more strangely intertwined than in the heart of a lonely masturbator.