Porn For Peculiar People
[What follows is a guest post by Molly Ren. There’s a sense in which you could read it as a stylish advertisement for her erotic ebook Gummy Bears, and I’m perfectly fine with that. Why? Because it’s also a rare celebration of minority erotic sentiments and hard-to-satisfy erotic urges. And finally, it illustrates many of the points Dr. Faustus argued so persuasively in his seven-part epic series on making your own porn. — Bacchus]
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Porn for Peculiar People:
by Molly Ren
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Recently, at a geek convention, I found myself sitting in front of a demonstration of a card game a friend of mine was very excited about. All of the cards depicted different versions of a slim-waisted naked woman, joyously decked out in ribbons, sparkles, and delicate crowns. She looked as if she’d just descended from space to either bury your face in her boobs or vaporize you with her astral power.
“I love fanservice,” my friend gushed as he showed off the cards. He went on to talk about how naked people added a bit of extra joy to what was already an interesting game, and suddenly I was sad.
“I want fanservice,” I said.
Another friend patted me on the back consolingly. “For you,” he said, “that would be more difficult.”
For the past seven years, I’ve known that I was into what’s often called “feederism” or, more lately, “feedism” — a fetish that revolves around eating, weight gain, and fat. I’m either very rare, or a very hard sell in a fat-phobic culture–though anecdotal evidence says it’s probably the latter, as someone has to be giving my stories thousands of views. But, in practice, what this means is that porn is very seldom being made for me,
Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to simply have porn — so much porn that it could range in quality from something as slickly finished as a fashion shoot to as cheap as a pair of fluffy handcuffs. I dream about meltingly soft boys decked out in ribbons and delicate crowns — much in the same vein as those fanservice cards, only with big, grippable love handles. Or about glorious queers wandering through a pleasure garden where everything just happens to be edible, and yet at any moment they could meet a cleverly camouflaged beast that could devour them in turn. I fantasize about seal maidens, as soft-bodied as their animal forms, leading handsome arctic explorers closer and closer to the ocean until they trick them into devouring raw flesh and becoming seals themselves. And other times I just want the simplicity of a well-described sushi feast — the gleaming roe and transparent pink ginger slices, the look of his lips as they wrap themselves around yet another morsel of rice and crab, and the way in which he swallows.
Unfortunately, what I actually find is often very different. That isn’t to say that there is nothing for me to wank to — Rule 34 is always enforced. But many of the feederism stories I find on the web cater to the same strict gender essentialism that I last remember encountering at my grandparents’ rural church.
Women are often the objects in these stories, having the secondary sexual characteristics that are thought to gain (heh) the most from exaggeration, and the stories often have a bizarre moral edge. There’s revenge fic, where the snobby, conventionally hot girl falls to the freshman fifteen, or to a boyfriend who secretly augments her diet with cream or lard. It’s all so very middle class, oh so very “naughty” (as if fat were something to be ashamed of or hidden away), and oh so very hetero. I read these stories and pine for queers and femme boys and tender long-term poly threeways… and so, finally, I’ve decided to make some.
Sometimes, being told to just “make your own” can be close to an insult, but in times like these, it’s a necessity. So I’ve started, for the first time in many years, to write stories about rock stars binging on jewel-colored gummy bears for the gratification of their soft-spoken girlfriends. Or of a clever, femme boy with lots of time on his hands and nothing to do but create all kinds of deliciously tormenting machines that pump sweetness into one hole and probe into the other. Or, someday, a 400-pound genius lady, so powerful that she has been able to bend her whole life towards her every comfort, whose dogsbody assistant is sent into hysterics over the thought of losing one of her gifts.
My friend suggested that I publish them under the name “Apocalypse Bear Productions”, as some people might be terrified of some of my scenarios. But once you read them, you’ll never look at erotica the same way again.