There are those miles of porn you forget as soon as the fap session is over, and then there is the other type of porn: the rare moments that hound you along the narrow roads of a life by proxy. Among those, if there is only one I should keep, one I would make my personal porn totem of, one I could erect an altar to, where I would lay down a thousand virgins as an offering, it would undoubtedly be NetVideoGirls. This fascinating site and his creator have been embodying our subculture for more than ten years, far from the genre’s clichés.
Everything started where porn cropped up, in the course of a technological bend when the RJ-45 connector came out of the drawers. It was the second mutation of high-speed connection, the evolution that opened the doors to infinite treasures and meter-less research hours, to a world I strolled through seeking my first perfect tags. Soon going from a silly “sex” search to more precise demands, I sucked up whatever I could get my hands on, and used my mojo to sift out the very essence of what made me hard.
A virgin, needless to say, but hungry for adventure, I was looking for everything that could bring me closer to a hypothetic First Time. I had already grasped that the fantasies stemming from the imagination of guys that knocked about the game too much were boring and impracticable. When you’re a teenager, you stick pure aesthetics upon your ear; what you really need is expressed through sensations. That’s when I abandoned the half-assed scenarios and practical porn to focus on my own yearnings, desires that I wanted to see coming true on screen. Since life had decided to kindly throw a damn wrench in my gears whenever I tried to accomplish the yet rather simple kiss-complicity-my sex into yours pattern, why not live it through someone else?
I forgot the how, but I would like to remember why it started. Let’s say a superior entity dropped my first netvideogirls link in a hidden file, some sort of cyber-stork intending to quench my frustration, unless the Internet is just huge and we owe it everything. So one day I opened the thing and clicked on the play button, jaded.
This wasn’t usual porn. It was a story, the best scenario, for it was the matrix of all the others wiggling inside my head. A phony audition, pretext for sex, girls next door, and a POV playing on the ambiguity of an intercourse that could be forced. The basic plan, all in all, comparable to the ones you could already find in the horn of plenty the Internet became in the early 2000’s. Only that instead of being lead by tedious low-life Woodman, the casting is staged by a dude who never shows his face, and speaks in an obsessive voice. From the very beginnings, when the waiting was interminable, until now, when I wonder what to do next, the arousal has remained intact.
It’s invariably the same plot: a girl calls up our pal to have some pictures taken for a calendar we’ll never see the colour of. In the next shot, our hero opens up in a whisper and outlines the girl who is about to show up, and then, editing magic, the doorbell rings. The ellipsis is dazzling, and the spruce and happy victim enters the wolf’s den. She flinches when she sees the DV. All the credibility of Net Video Girls resides in this mistrust feigned by the actress, often an amateur, part or whole, but certainly never duped.
The questions follow on and the girl looks uncomfortable. He reassures her and uses his authority to remind her that plenty of other chicks are battling it out, and that she’d better follow his instructions if she doesn’t want to end up chasing mosquitoes on the sidewalk. Our friend gets close to the girl, closer and closer, his voice captivating, fraught with perversion without ever being coarse. He is the little lad inside your head, who moves you to action even when the eel is slipping through your fingers – he is the dark side of Jiminy Cricket. Facing his prey, his leitmotiv is the famous “Oh my God, look at you” punchline that reverses the roles, and urges his victim to stop feeling guilty by imagining she’s in front of a mirror and to forget about the rolling camera.
Finally, he touches her face, and that’s the signal, the transition point of these auditions, the moment when the girl changes her attitude and moves from resistance to opening. That hand reaching out to the girl’s neck is the symbol of a tender domination that turns the alarmed beast into a docile animal. Excitation is total.
The innocent girl-next-door willing to shoot some photos without really knowing why becomes a girl determined to get fucked and have a good time. Reality bursts from the screen: that lambda girl you wouldn’t have dared approaching, thinking you’d find a better target, was hiding a cheeky minx ready to rule it all. NVG’s purpose is to fall in love. It’s the girl’s gaze that matters, and the confession she indulges in while she unclasps the pants of our John Doe.
For this guy is more than ordinary, he has an average-sized penis, and doesn’t flirt with performance. The humanity involved in his little business is flipping the bird to those battalions of soulless actors out there. The girl is just as mundane, her sexuality a little clumsy, an approximation that strongly resembles an embarrassed first time and sticks to reality. She promises she isn’t acting or games, she is a true naughty girl, and swears all this wasn’t supposed to happen. When porn gets closer to us, it submerges us, and we do believe.
The result is sweet and dirty like a heaven-sent afternoon fuck. We are clearly moving away from the image provided by the Porn Valley, to step into the hard facts of life: the moment you turn away to put on a rubber, the expectation, the flaws that bring out the real flavour of things. Contrary to the disposable videos you lose track of almost instantly, Net Video Girls links each video to the girl’s name that thus becomes a memory. They become fetish images you collect, share, and hang up above your head like some kind of Porn relic, with a capital P for Possession.
I fell in love with each and every girl. One by one. Because I was him, I lived a thousand adventures. I dived into those pixels the way you throw yourself into the sea on a drunken night out. I swam in this ocean of frustration, so long and so far that I went under, swallowed the salted water, and spat out gallons of tears, yelling at this life that kept refusing me the delights I was craving.
Each scene is a story you take over. Every detail belongs to you. I could talk about this site and its treasures for hours. I’ll tell you about a few threesomes and dozens of minutes of negotiation, girls giving in easily, others leaving and coming back, some nasty, some blowing your brains out, others who embody the ultimate porn. There is also this scene I cannot find anymore, where his head appeared furtively; his weird shoes, his voice, his cock, his accomplices… There is so much to say we could all write a collection that would become our own Bible.
So then you, you anonymous small-penis-endowed dude delivering the famous look at you formula to your consenting victims, let me dedicate you my sloth afternoons, my loaded nights and those moments of hope. I have walked by your side for very long, trying to find out the truth, and to learn how to overcome that jinx clinging to my guts. I keep following you from afar, ‘cause brother, I’m a dreamer, nostalgic with the state of mind…
The relation I bear to porn is simple: if sex is a moment of sharing, then masturbation is just as much. Even if it seems to be one-way, an interaction does take shape inside our smoking skulls. That’s where imagination was; it hadn’t disappeared; it was just hiding, fearing this visual overflow might blind us. The ultimate porn, le tag parfait, is the one living and swashing inside of us; the one taking us away from practical masturbation to lead us to a true sexual relation with ourselves.
Thank you Net Video Girls.