Thrill MebyCal Y. Pygia©
The problem with porn is that, like anything else, it eventually becomes boring, no matter what particular fetish a perv may have.
Me, I'm an ass man, when it comes to chicks, at least (although boobs are a close second). (I prefer cock to ass when it comes to men, but the cock has to be cut). (I count balls with cocks, so men's asses are the close seconds).
However, no matter how much a person loves women's asses, men's cocks, or anything else, enough is, eventually, enough, and the thrill is definitely not as thrilling as it once was, many moons ago (so to speak).
Even the greatest fan becomes jaded after a while.
Once one has truly acquired a taste for one sort of erotica or another, the eye begins to crave new candy. We're always on the lookout for something new—new to us, anyway—or at least different.
For me, for a while, it was bukkake and gokkun. Seeing women's faces plastered with cum (bukkake) was a novelty; I'd never seen anything like it before in my life. Others maybe had, but it was new to me. Pictures and clips of chicks drinking sperm (gokkun) by the shot glass and the bowlful was also new to me; I'd never seen anything like it before in my life.
I couldn't get enough of it. At first.
Then, by and by, the sight of many men's pearly essences splattering women's hair, brows, noses, cheeks, chins, and throats and of semen frosting their eyelashes, glossing their lips., and decorating their earlobes was nothing new. I'd seen it all before, hundreds, if not thousands, of times.
Once again, the thrill was gone.
Once the thrill is gone, it's gone. Oh, it can come back. It just takes a long time. The familiarity has to wear off a little, so the images are not quite so—well, familiar. They'll never become new, or even like new, again, but, at least, they can be refreshed. Allowed to become dim memories, photos of sperm-drenched faces and of semen-swilling chicks can be made vivid again—and intriguing again—by having been avoided for a while. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and sights that once were too often seen to be fascinating any longer can become at least arousing again. If familiarity breeds contempt, absence makes the cock grow longer (and harder and thicker).
While waiting for the vanished thrill to return, a perv does well to find a new thrill to tide him or her over. For me, just now, the new thrill, or the latest, at any rate, is butt cleavage. Not asses—or, at least, not asses as such—but ass cleavage, also known as the intergluteal cleft or the intergluteal sulcus.)
So, you may be asking, why would butt cleavage thrill even a perv like me, when I could be feasting my male gaze upon a delectable female derriere in its entirety?
Just the asking of such a question betrays abominable ignorance about what porn is and what porn does.
Porn is the depiction of the forbidden, and it works by not only by showing that which is forbidden, but also by making the show appealing. To make nudity (or sex) appealing, the pornography must find new ways to show the same basic body (private) parts (or sexual acts) over and over without wearing the luster off the part or act that is depicted over and over and over again.
Sometimes, this means showing only part of a of an act or a part of a part (the cleavage, for example, instead of the entire ass); other times, it means showing the part of a part from various perspectives (from the top down, from the bottom up, from one side or the other, or straight on, for example); still other times, it means displaying the part of the part in some way, framing it, perhaps, or juxtaposing it to something else of a different color, texture, intensity, or nature. Occasionally, it means doing all these things at the same time.
By showing just parts of the buttocks—the cleavage, viewed head-on, from the top, from an angle, from one side or the other, or from below—makes the ass interesting again, because showing it in a new, or different, way renews it, recovers it, refreshes it. Showing the cleavage in a variety of ways also makes its display fun and captivating.
Here are some descriptions, from a recent "examination" of the subject:
A brunette, she sits on her heels, her jeans pulled beneath the sleek globes of her buttocks, topless, a barbell through the piercing at the base of her spine, looking through a staircase railing as she cups her breasts. Since she faces away from the voyeur—or viewer—her face is not seen, and one cannot know at what she looks, if anything. Her bottom is not entirely bare, but it is mostly displayed, and the deep divide between her smooth buttocks is tantalizingly visible.
Tall, dark, and beautiful, she leans hard to the left, her right fist perched atop the raven tresses of her swept-back hair, her face in profile, a huge hoop earring piercing the lobe of her right ear. Her back is a sculpted landscape of shoulder blades, depressions, hollows, and dimples above jeans that are lowered midway down her lovely buttocks, showing her viewers the deep cleavage between the chocolate orbs of her delectable derriere.
She is young, and her upper body is foreshortened. Her face, close to the camera, is not only arresting but also rather overwhelming: red hair, straight and fine, arched brows, brown eyes, a pert nose, pink lips, a firm jaw, small ears, a few freckles, and a frank, confident gaze: she is watching the viewer watch her. A tight T-shirt covers her breasts and back as, elbows on her mattress, invisible to the eye, but implied by her posture, she leans well forward, over her bed, her tight, faded jeans hugging her ass, but low down, revealing the beautiful cleft of her bottom before covering its lovely twin swells.
Her dress is simple—or, rather, it is complex, but in such a sophisticated fashion that it appears to be simple or, at least, simpler than it is. Open down the back, to the waist, the green-gray fabric gathers at the spine, just above the waist, and falls, as a skirt, covering her to the middles of her thighs—except for the oval cutout that frames the intergluteal cleft, which is itself framed by her hands, the extended fingers of which touch her hips.
A similar feat is accomplished by a black leather bikini bottom that includes a cutout in its seat, the top of which features bands, one on each side of the cutout, that link, on either side, to a central ring of gold. The playful bikini bottom is a tease: it both conceals and exposes the buttocks, effectively playing a game of hide-and-seek with the viewer that leaves him (or her) wanting to see more.
The hot-pink-orange bikini bottom is all she wears. Her back is bare, so it is obvious that she does not wear a top, and her arms and legs are also naked. The bottom is pulled down, showing the deep cleft of her firm, tight ass and the sand that the buttocks have acquired, obviously as she lay upon the beach some time before this photograph was taken and before she waded into the water covering the sandy bottom of the sea among the rocks.
She stands with her back to us, a raven-haired lovely looking over her right shoulder and down, not at us precisely; perhaps she attempts to see her own buttocks, the bottoms and part of the lower cleavage of which show below her slightly risen—or lifted—top. Her legs are crossed at the ankles, and she wears high heels, but neither pants nor skirt nor shorts nor stockings nor garter belt nor panties nor anything else at all on her long, shapely legs, the crossing of which accentuates further the firm thrust of her tight, firm bottom and makes us wish, most fervently, that she would remove her shirt altogether, the better to display her gorgeous derriere, although, in truth, the top, a brown and silky affair, is itself lovely enough, in its own way.
The small of her back and her buttocks come together at an angle that is approximately forty-five degrees, the sharp, contrasting slopes accentuating one another, the inward tilting spine a foil to the outward-thrusting buttocks, making them seem all the more pronounced. The jeans, too, blue against her tan flesh, highlight the bare curves of the lovely orbs on either side of their deep divide. The label on the waistband seems huge, for it is close to the camera, and seems a brand upon her bottom, as if it is she, and not the jeans, that is owned by Wrangler.
The garment seems unable to decide what it wants to be: shorts or an abbreviated skirt, such as cheerleaders wear, or panties. Its seat features a Valentine's heart-shaped cutout that displays the upper portions of her buttocks, and the cleavage between them, to superb effect. The shorts-skirt-panties starts out black, but the inner edges of the heart shape are trimmed in red lace; then, there is, again, black for a short space, and then red once more, this time in the form of pleats. A delightful and attractive frame, indeed, for a pair of equally delightful and attractive buttocks!
There are many other presentations of the lovely feminine fanny as it is accentuated by its reduction to cleavage, whereby it becomes a part or parts of a greater whole. It is more fun, though, to check these depictions out for oneself than to read mere descriptions of them, and it is easy enough to do: simply enter an appropriate phrase, such as "butt cleavage" or "ass cleavage," into an image browser and, presto! Hopefully, if readers take anything away from this essay at all, it is how to refresh, renew, recover, and refresh the sexy images that, from time to time, for a time, sooner or later become more ho-hum than arousing, more prosaic than poetic, more mundane than marvelous.
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