Camera Lucinda

I'm going to write it all down. Just as I remember it. Try to pin the experience down, stop it flying away. Perhaps, if I can write it down, it means it really happened.

Friday, 5pm: you knock on my open office door and ask if I have plans for the evening. The tragic truth is that I'd been planning on grading papers until I couldn't bear it any more, then grabbing McDonald's on the way home. McDonald's for one. At my apartment, I'd probably pour a Scotch and doomscroll on my phone, same as most nights. So I tell you that I'm heading to the gym after work.

"Come for a drink," you say. "You shouldn't exercise in the dark."

A drink, then. A week-ending, sun-downing, steam-letting-off drink with a colleague. We walk a couple of blocks--you seem to know where you're going, so I follow along. A pretty unremarkable pub, where you ask the hostess for a booth. Anodyne conversation until the server comes over. I ask for a pint of Guinness.

"Oh, gross. Too filling," you say. "What we need is tequila. Two large ones, on the rocks." I raise my eyebrows when the server turns back to me, but shrug in acquiescence.

"Do you always start your Friday evenings with shots?"

You have a strange, secretive half-smirk on your face. "No, silly. We're not animals. They have the good stuff here, and we're going to sip it. Sip it reasonably fast, mind you."

"Do you have to go on somewhere afterwards...?"

"Still up in the air, this evening is." The drinks arrive. "Cheers."

I take a sip. You gulp down a third of your glass in one, then have a big swig of water. Your eyes sparkle.

"Tough week?" I say.

"No looking back. The week is dead. This drink is anticipatory, not valedictory."

And then we chat, like normal people with many common interests, acquaintances, and a certain amount of shared history. We chat until our first glasses are empty, whereupon you order another round.

"So. Christopher. You've not asked me about my research. Don't you want to know what I'm working on?"

"Um, of course. What are you working on, Lucy? Weren't you doing that project on Stevie Smith?"

"Was. No more. Never again, at least not while I'm still young."

"What's the new direction, then?" And here you take another big drink of your tequila, followed by more water.

"Thank you for asking!" A pause. "I'm doing porn now."

Now, I'm a humanities guy working in a notoriously liberal department at a fairly progressive university, and I'm not shocked by much, academically speaking. So I say "Yeah? That's more of a cultural studies direction, isn't it? Or are you looking at textual representations, or is it more a theoretical approach?" It takes me a moment to notice that you are blushing quite seriously.

You clear your throat. "Um, I'd call it media studies, honestly. I'm really interested in the image, above all."

"Gosh. So you're looking at a lot of..."

"People fucking. Yes."

"And how bad is it? I mean, not just as an experience--from a feminist standpoint?"

"Well, Christopher. I have got to tell you, there is some pretty heinous shit out there. Women are being exploited, terribly. Men too, but mostly women. Naturally. Some people are making lots of money off of the utter degradation of women. And that's without thinking about anything illegal at all."

"So you're with Andrea Dworkin et al.? Objectification, and so on."

"Up to a point, certainly. I've nothing but respect for my feminist foremothers on this. But things have changed." You sip, sigh, sip. "Have you looked at any porn recently, Chris? I mean online, like PornHub or something?"

"I am, um, aware of its work." You smile, brilliantly.

"Oh my God, it is a fucking utopia! I am such a PornHub evangelist, like you wouldn't believe. I want to tell everybody."

I probably goggle at you like a complete dope.

"Consider this: who can post a sexy video on PornHub? Anybody. Setting up an account takes two minutes. Take a picture of your ass, post it. You're a porn star! But you're also a content creator--what a cringey title, but it's true. Performers can be in control of their material like never before. Want to keep it anonymous? Do it against a blank wall, crop your head out of the frame. Had enough of porn stardom? Delete your account."

"But surely girls are still doing it for the money, so they're still making themselves into commodities, objectifying themselves for the male gaze..."

"Spoken like a true Duke graduate. And it's nice of you to worry. But have you asked any of the girls you--yes you, Professor Lehman--masturbate over why they do it? No? Because I have. I have a database!

And if you look at individual accounts on PornHub, individual women who aren't producing work for a channel owned by somebody else, and not the people who've become big stars on the platform independently, most of them aren't monetizing their content at all. You can sign up for advertising revenue, but that's chickenfeed unless you're getting hundreds of thousands of views. So hundreds of times a week, women with regular day jobs are uploading videos of themselves riding their husband's dick, or sitting naked on their washing machine or anything else you can possibly think of. And they're not going to make a nickel from it. Is that exploitation?"

"Why do they do it, then?"

" Ask them! There are thousands out there. Presumably they have different reasons. But the one that fascinates me is this: women like doing it. I mean sex, obviously, because I think most feminists accept that women do like sex and that's okay, but also exhibitionism. Some women like being looked at. The male gaze turns them on. Or the female gaze. The gaze can be a source of erotic delight for women."

"Isn't that social conditioning, though? The patriarchy has objectified them for so long that women have internalized their objectification? Or they feel they need to show themselves to men, sexually, to gain validation as women, to have worth in society."

"Hey, maybe you're right. There's something in that. But consider this: a woman props her phone on her coffee table and films herself stripping. When she's naked she caresses herself and spreads her pussy open with her fingers and you see that she's wet. That arousal--is that real? And is that woman's real arousal a symptom of a sexual Stockholm Syndrome millennia in the making, or is it just that being seen, really seen, seen erotically, can be hot?"

"But the male gaze is, well, a bad thing! Catcalling--catcalling's bad! If women are objectifying themselves, aren't they complicit in, um, something... well... bad?" I sound lame and not terribly well informed, but I am obviously discomfited by the way this conversation has developed.

"Women are in control of their environment on PornHub; it is so much less dangerous than the streets. And why isn't that obvious? The virtual sphere can be a safe space for sexual expression, and it becomes safer the more explicitly sex-oriented the community you belong to is. If you're feeling sexy, you can log in, post something, chat with people. When you've had enough, go do something else. If you're reasonably cautious, the risks of posting homemade porn affecting your real life are minimal. When you've had enough, you can quit. The woman is in control. And PornHub is incredibly strict about the really bad stuff. You won't find anyone underage on there, not that anybody should be looking. There are murky waters out there, but PornHub is a massive corporation--they're open to scrutiny.

The best thing about it, though, and God I love this: did you know how nice people are to each other on PornHub? I think they enforce commenting standards pretty strictly--that's something I want to dig into more. But in general, you don't encounter trolls on PornHub. You know what men say to women in comments on PornHub videos? They say they'd like to fuck you, sure, which is absolutely not a bad thing to hear when you're in the mood to hear it. But they also tell you you're beautiful, and sexy, and they say they hope you have a nice day. And if your video has helped them come, they say thank you. You're not expected to respond. You can flirt a little if that's your thing, or you can delete all your DMs unread, or turn them off. You can make connections or you can stay totally aloof. And these options are open to any woman who finds being gazed at makes her feel sexy, and men, and non-binary folks, because here is the single most beautiful thing about it. Somebody out there will find you sexy; somebody will touch themselves while looking at your body if you put it out there. It's a big world, and the more mainstream this type of porn becomes, the more chance there is that you will be found by somebody exactly whose cup of tea you are. Perhaps you'll find love through it; more likely, you'll find acceptance and validation. What could be more self-esteem enhancing than knowing that a fireman in Sweden thinks your feet are the most enticing thing that he's ever seen? Or that a butch chick in Montreal would be interested in fisting you? But the great thing is... you don't have to do anything about it! That nice lesbian won't be offended if I don't let her fist me IRL. If I don't feel like roleplaying foot-worship with Olaf this evening, I can just log out."

I notice the pronoun change. You say "I" instead of the impersonal "you." Is it inadvertent? I see that you are staring at me quite intently. I hold your gaze for a moment, look to the side, look back.

"I have a channel," you say.

"Okay," I say, and sip my drink.

"I have a very small, very anonymous personal channel on PornHub, and you are the first person I've told about it in real life."

"Really? Why on earth...?"

"Look. Here goes. Damn. I'm more nervous about this than I expected. Some forethought has gone into this, I can tell you. The thing is, Chris. I like you. That's important. More important, I trust you. I know we don't hang out that much these days, but we've been through some shit together. I need help--no, not like that! I mean I need practical assistance with my project. I need a collaborator. I thought you'd be a good candidate. You're hella smart, you're cute, and you have tenure. That's important, because I really am going to write this stuff up and publish it, and it might ruffle some feathers. I can't lure some kid fresh out of the PhD and subject them to my crazy notions."

"You do remember that I work on Shakespeare, yeah? I have no credentials as a media person, or really as a feminist, honestly. I'm not sure what I'd bring to the table."

"Your bona fides have been thoroughly vetted. You're the man for the job." You pronounce it "boner."

"And what is the job? What's your action plan?"

"I need to use the bathroom. While I'm gone, watch this short educational video. The sound is off on my phone--don't turn it up. You'll get the gist without it."

You stand up, hand me your phone, smile, take your exit.

The screen shows a PornHub video, with the play button right there. Its title is "Lucy goes for a ride." The channel name is "Camera Lucinda," and under the name it says "6 videos" and "128 subscribers." "Lucy goes for a ride" has been viewed 1,011 times since it was uploaded six months ago.

My heart already hammering in my chest, I put the phone out of general sight under the table, take a deep breath, and press play.

A coffee table in front of a bookcase. The books, a couple of shelves of the classics of poststructuralist theory, very much the sort of stuff we'd read in grad school in the early oughts. Kristeva, Genette, Derrida. There is Barthes' Camera Lucida, of course. A large dildo is attached by suction cup to the table. I guess that's probably more noteworthy than the titles on the shelves, but I'm a very particular type of nerd. After about ten seconds, a woman's naked body walks into the frame. The head isn't visible. And I guess I should describe it, the body, I mean, since it figures so importantly in what happens to me afterwards. It's a beautiful body, of course, as any body is in the right mood and the right lighting. And yes, that's almost the most notable thing about the video: it's extremely well lit, with a soft and flattering light that is nonetheless bright enough to give definition to every hair and goosebump. There are breasts and nipples that appear to be hard; thighs, knees, wrists. Pubic hair trimmed quite neatly.

Facing the camera, the body climbs onto the table, kneels, shuffles forward, grabs the head of the dildo and directs it towards the... what should I think to call it, in these circumstances?... the vulva. Another hand reaches down, spreads the labia. The, um, vulva is soaking, dripping, literally dripping. Inundated. The dildo disappears as the body lowers itself, rather slowly, down its entire length. When the body rises again, just as slowly, the dildo is shiny and flecked with white foam. Liquid streams down its length. At that moment I am convinced that I have never seen anything so wet in all my life as this vulva, and I've done the boat ride at Niagara Falls. Up, down, up, down. An even pace. One hand cups a breast while the other continues to expose a dark pink pebble of a clitoris to my view. A smooth riverbed pebble or a saliva-streaked strawberry hard candy half way through its sucking. I watch for a couple of minutes.

Look, obviously, my penis is erect. I think it might have been hard before you'd given me the phone, but now it is seriously interested in a ride on that particular water slide. My body would like to lie on that little table, understudy the dildo, let the waves wash over me.

When I look up and around to check I'm not being observed, not making a scene, you are approaching the table. I swallow, and my mouth is dry. After a while I say "Is that you?"

"Yep."

"You're so..."

"Yes I am. Very. It's my superpower, but there's a simple trick to it. I'm just well hydrated."

You do always have a big water bottle with you at meetings and in the hallways. I had noticed.

You're smiling at me with a truly friendly smile.

"So now you know my secret. A couple of my secrets, really."

"Aren't you scared people will find out?"

"Oh, people will find out--but only when I'm good and ready. Because you're the only person who knows, and you won't tell."

"Well, of course, but how can you be so sure of me?"

"Ask for the check and we'll go for a walk, and I'll tell you."

*

Your proposal takes a couple of blocks of strolling to come out. You seem surprisingly shy for somebody who has just shown her companion high-definition footage of her fucking herself in front of a hit parade of French theorists. But eventually you pull me down onto a bench and say, "Okay. Here's the pitch. I'm making porn. I like it. It turns me on. I'm not doing it for money, and nobody is making me do it. It really is related to my research: I've got a paper on the semiotics of squirting almost drafted, and there will be a book in the end. But this side of it, this is a hobby. And it's nice to have someone to share one's hobbies with. In this case, that's you." You jab me in the arm with your finger.

"I'd like to film a scene with you. In fact, I'd like you to come home with me right now. The lights are set up, the camera's on the tripod..."

"Oh yeah, I meant to say, your lighting is excellent."

"Thanks! I'm glad you noticed. It's the biggest difference-maker in homebrew porn. Any girl can be a princess with the right lights.

Anyway, the scene is called "Netflix and chill" and it's another masturbation scene. Totally vanilla, really. We pretend to watch something, jerk off, upload, profit. I could do it on my own, but I like the idea of company, and now that you've seen me do it, I wouldn't be too embarrassed to let you see me do it again."

I stare off to one side for a moment. You poke me again. "Why so serious? It's simple, like a throwback to your teens. Couple of pals goof around, get a little frisky, relieve the tension as nature intended."

"But you're going to film it--I don't want to be on PornHub!"

"If you don't, you won't. 100% consensual, every aspect. But, yes, I will film it. I'll film it and see how we feel about it afterwards. If you don't want to upload it I will let you delete the file yourself. You can flush the memory card down the toilet if you would feel better. Try it, is all I ask. See what it adds to the experience. And if you like it, my secret will also become your secret. We'll be co-conspirators, and then I'll know you'll keep my secret and I'll know there's one person in all the world who understand where I'm coming from with this project, and that's a big deal for me. Say you'll do it!"

I make a show of thinking it over. "Fine. It's not like I have other plans." (Of course I'm monstrously aroused at this point, and though I certainly have misgivings, I don't know why I try to be nonchalant about it.)

"You're a sweetheart! Let's get an uber, and while we wait for it, we'll rehearse."

We both start giggling. After a moment, I say "but for real, what do I have to do? Is there a script?"

Grinning from ear to ear, you say, "oh, indeed. I am the David Mamet of homemade pornography! You will come in through the front door and go into the kitchen, while I am already on the couch. When I hear you come in, I will call out 'Hey honey, how was your day?' And then you say your line, which is 'Same old, same old. What are you up to?' And I say, 'just watching TV. Come join me.' And you come into the living room, sit down beside me, and improvise from there."

"I guess I can remember that."

"But, and this is super important, you must take your socks off in the kitchen. Serious research on my part has revealed that no man is sexy in his socks, and moreover no man can be sexy while removing his socks. It's a fundamental gender difference. God, there are some girls out there who can make you come just by pulling their socks off, I swear, but I could never get wet for a man in socks."

"Bros, not hose. I get it, I guess. I can manage that. Anything else I need to know?"

"Two things, actually. The first isn't supposed to be a downer, but it pays to be upfront. I'm not looking for a boyfriend, Chris. This will be fun and intellectually rewarding, I hope. An adventure. But I am not in the market for somebody to go out and bring me coffee and pastries on a Saturday morning. Bad example, that sounds divine. Put it this way: I don't want to have to involve another person in my plans for the holidays, okay? See what I mean?"

"Sure, okay. Independent contractors, working together on something on a temporary basis."

"Perfect. The second thing is more fun, if embarrassing. I'm not sure it will become relevant, but if it does: my nipples are weirdly oversensitive, and if played with too early in the game, they get super ticklish, and that can actually kill the mood. But when I'm close to the goal-line, they love some attention. If I need help with them, I'll let you know, and in that case I'll expect you to respond quickly and vigorously. Oh look, this is probably our car."

It is our car.

*

At the door to your building, you pause. "I need a few minutes to get things ready. Would you go down the street to the bodega and get a pint of ice cream?"

"What flavor? Vanilla?"

"Hell no. Surprise me. And get condoms, okay? They're not in the script, but I don't want to rule out any spontaneous artistic expressions that might occur to us. Buzz up to 312 when you get back, and don't forget about the socks."

*

Fifteen minutes later, I am standing outside the door to your apartment. I figure I can't knock, in case the scene has already started. I feel extremely light-headed, from tequila and hunger and probably from the rush of blood away from my brain. You've left the door unlocked, and I'm glad that the floorplan is pretty straightforward: kitchen off to the left, bathroom on the right, living room and dining area straight ahead. You're sitting on the couch, which faces the large window. The TV is in front of the window; it's glowing, but nothing is playing. You seem to be looking at something on your phone. I go into the kitchen, easily locate the freezer, deposit the ice cream, pour myself a glass of water. And I wait. And after a longer gap than I'm comfortable with, during which I almost begin to get cold feet... feet! I quickly take my socks off, just as I hear you call out "Hey honey, how was your day?"