Sex on Fire

In the sweet, recent past, pornography was a distasteful habit pursued in shameful secrecy. In The Current Year, the “rape” of a “feminist” porn actress by her also “feminist” partner-in-crime is top entertainment news in the Washington Post:

Arguably the most popular male star in adult film, [James] Deen is now fighting to restore his name after he was publicly accused by [fellow porn star Stoya] this weekend of raping her – a claim that was soon followed by similar accusations from two other adult film stars, effectively upending one of the most carefully crafted images in a formerly underground industry whose biggest names are now reaching for mainstream fame.

In the clown world, porn actors fight to restore their names not because being in porn tanks their credibility, but because of soap opera rape Tweets.

For what it’s worth, the beleaguered whoremonger denies the accusations and maintains that he “respects women.”

If, as I suspect, you aren’t au courant with the porn industry’s latest, you should know that “prolific performer” Bryan Sevilla, better known as James Deen, is more than your stereotypical skin flick stud. WaPo continues its jaundiced gushing:

Over his 11 year career, Deen has emerged as the unlikely darling of the industry – the kind of slender, sensative guy you’d expect to see in a boy band rather than a kinky X-rated film. His boy-next-door vibe and pro-feminist persona helped him capture the attention and imaginations of women of all ages…

Deen expounded on his ideal consent culture to GQ:

Allie relates a childhood memory, the gist of which is that when she was 9 years old, hanging out with her brothers, she was encouraged to perform sexual acts for their friends in exchange for marijuana.

Now Deen looks up from his telephone for the first timein a while.

“And you where cool with it?”

“Oh yeah,” says Allie James.

Deen hoists his eyebrows. “As long as you were cool with it,” he says.

What a charmer.

The press raved over his brand of so-called compassionate pornography, which dispensed with the delivery boys and “bang vans” in favor of deliberate eye contact and “whispering sweet nothings.” His much vaunted “Jewish boy next door vibe” strongly and unfortunately appealed mostly to broken girls.

Then there’s the raven haired damsel: 29-year-old Jessica “Stoya” Stojadinovic. The former homeschooled sci-fi geek fom North Carolina carefully crafted a cerebral smuttiness that fortitously extended her sex industry shelf-life, bringing her super stardom and even mainstream respect. She regularly pens pieces for Vice, the New York Times and the Guardian, offering her positions on the “Great Condom Debate“, theories about the “metaphysics of cocksucking” and even uplifting personal anecdotes like the time she told her infirm grandmother that she appropriated her name for porn work. Her worldview can perhaps be gleaned from her essay drawing a moral equivalence between a church collection plate and casino slot machines:

The congregation hands over money to the church as a tithe in exchange for feeling like they’re contributing to their community and following the word of God. In a way that feels very similar to playing the slot machines: they are paying for the intangible ability to feel good.

James Deen and Stoya were the carefully-marketed dream couple of a sanitized sexual liberalism where only the “good” kind of nastiness pervails. They were the glowing, grinning proof that enlightened debauchery could be beautiful, even virtuous. What a shock to this self-satisfied dream world, when such latent ugliness destroys the fantasy and undos the king and queen!

This pathetic state of affairs is a good opportunity to survey the real meaning of popular euphemisms used for damage control of the “random-sex-as-real-living” narrative:

“Rape culture” is a hysterical female reaction to a sexually exploitive environment. Sexual hostility comes not from “men” per se, but a violation of the sacred by a lascivious mass media culture.

A “feminist” today is yesterday’s lost woman in a different corset.”Sex positivity” is an adaptation to sexual trauma, which both perscribes and welcomes sexually predatory behavior.

“Consent” is a euphemism for alienation from a truly unwanted act, enabling the person to act without registering shame.

A “safe word” is reserved for when a soul’s threshold goes past its limit for corruption, as if the whole exercise is a perverse way for an individual estranged from their soul to reach it. A soul’s crying out for life is diminished to a sordid “safe word”.

These euphemisms collectively form a coping architecture that enables “performers” to live in a sickness unto death. The porn industry is consumed by “consent” because “consent” is the closed door that ensures no gusts of wind blow over their house of cards.

How sad that this common creep was ever percieved as a “darling,” a “boy next door,” and “sensative” at all. Such men promote “sex positivity” as a craven way of “protecting” women—not from violation, but from the shame that follows, so that they will continue their path to perdition. As more then a few feminist women have noted, wheedling “feminist men” exploit bleeding heart solidarity to gain access to emotionally compromised women (often unsuccesfully). Feminists would never admit it, but these “feminist” men are vastly more predatory than the “alpha men” they rail against.

The progressive, sex positive Camelot is, without Kali Yuga goggles, a ruin sliding downwards inexorably, vaudville on a lake of fire. The fallout over rape claims from spatting ex-lovers in the pornography industry, the women screeching in the streets in fishnets for the right to be sluts, are the piteous “heights” of sex unleashed by the deeply civilizationally naive. The fallen woman was not a Victorian contrivance. The illusion is cracked. Mere “sexual” anarchy is loosed.