As I’ve written, I’m kind of a big fan of James Deen. He is cute/hot in a way I can relate to, and he fucks pretty much as I would aspire to fuck.
But the longer he’s around, the more I see of him, the less I’m feeling that way.
But he’s ubiquitous. He’s not just in these glam places, he’s not just with gorgeous, lithe young things. He’s also with seriously trashy, far less appealing (to me) women. Women with cheap boob jobs, extensive tattoos, decidedly unglamorous looks, on decidedly less appealing (to me) porn sites.
On the one hand, there’s something endearing about his democratic fucking: he seems not to discriminate, and non-discrimination is in many contexts a lovely ideal.
But when it comes to fucking? I’m not so sure. At a certain point, partner catholicism (with a lower-case ‘c’) becomes a turn-off to me. Part of what turns me on about sex – whether it’s sex I’m having or sex I’m watching – is the sense of special-ness, of its being other than normality. Also, because of the way my brain works, sex driven by acute desire for a particular person, in a particular context, is hotter to me than sex devoid of character or context. Maybe I’m a chick that way.
As I come to see James Deen with more and more women, in more and more ranges of contexts – from the raunchiest, most degrading settings all the way to super-glam – it becomes increasingly hard for me to suspend my disbelief, and to imagine what I’m seeing is real, or at least, really like what is being depicted. It feels increasingly as if James Deen doesn’t care about the women he fucks, or the circumstances in which he fucks them – not that he’s insensitive, but that the women are almost irrelevant, just holes for him. I want to believe that the fucking that’s getting me off reflects genuine interpersonal chemistry, and not just a piece of wood being put in a hole.
Images of James fucking women with rock hard silicone breasts in putative “casting studios” – images that do nothing for me – are intruding on me when I’m watching him fuck creamy, natural women in elegant surroundings. I can’t sustain the fantasy that what I’m seeing is what’s happening, because all these other images of James keep popping up in my head.
James, a plea: take a little time off. Don’t be quite so prolific, so ubiquitous. The less I see of you, the more I want to see of you.
Postscript: Stoya subsequently accused James Deen of having raped her. Deen didn’t handle it well. There were ways he might could have handled it that would have left me a fan, notwithstanding the accusation. He didn’t manage to find any of them. I don’t like James Deen anywhere. I don’t watch his porn. And I won’t patronize web sites that continue to feature his porn. I encourage you to do the same.