Quiz: Can You Tell Which of These Porn Star Orgasms Are Fake?
Up to three-quarters of women have admitted faking an orgasm, and a third of those fakers reported faking it “every time.” Do you think you can tell the difference? We got five porn stars to provide us with two videos; one of them having a real orgasm, and one of them having a fake orgasm. Underneath each video we reveal which is the genuine orgasm.
Coming on Camera: Beautiful Agony’s Orgasmic Non-Nude Porn
Hundreds of people around the world have seen Kamee* come. They’ve watched her lie down on her stomach and stare straight into the camera as she rubs her clit, her red lips forming the shape of a rapturous O. They’ve heard her quietly pant and moan as she climaxes, with her big brown eyes clenched tight. Every so often her eyes flicker up to the camera and smirk, and for a brief moment it’s easy to forget who’s actually watching whom.
“It’s not like I just want people to watch me come or anything like that,” Kamee told me. “I did it because I wanted to support a project that is a safe space for people who wouldn’t video-tape themselves doing something like this.”
That project is Beautiful Agony—also called “Facettes de La Petite Mort.” It’s an Australia-based erotic website that posts daily videos of people masturbating until they orgasm. The twist is that the videos are only filmed from the shoulders up, so all you see is a succession of O-faces. The videos are basically webcam versions of Andy Warhol’s experimental “Blow Job” short film. Anyone from a DDD-cup porn star to your 95-year-old granddad can submit a video of themselves getting their rocks off. The videos range from one-man shows to group circle jerks, but you never see what’s going on down below. The name “Beautiful Agony” speaks to the almost painful tension you feel right before you come, followed by a zen-like state. The beauty lies in watching people of all walks of life momentarily lose control in the best way.
This could be the last summer. Bees are dying, ice caps are melting, there’s a Dunkin Donuts in Williamsburg. Oh, and the US and Russia might start the second Cold War. Time for the global village to band together and pump the brakes? Not likely, considering we’re busy pumping our private parts at home.
In the face of inscrutable military-industrial agendas, porn offers some kind of logic. I’ll never understand troop movements in Crimea, but I definitely know what to do with my boner once I get online. According to a series of charts compiled by the eggheads (dickheads?) at Pornhub Insights, the smut peddlers’ data analysis department, Russians are (mostly) just like us. Cultural geography produces intriguing local fetishes, but at the end of the day, we’re all repressed perverts beating our meat like dogs in heat.
These charts will either prove we’re better at busting nuts than Putin’s cronies or help us set aside our differences and agree that Russia is too jam-packed with boobs, butts, and cock-hungry MILFs to reduce it to rubble. Let’s find out!
Putin spent the last decade ramping up jingoism and openly icing opposition leaders while framing himself as a whale-hunting neo-Czar, a sculpted alternative to the West’s flabby Merkels and Cheneys—and it worked. His Crimean war games united the country against the finger-wagging West. As always, the political is personal, and Soviet pride extends below the belt. Who needs American resources when you have Russianmom anal? It’s masturbation as empire-building. Mother Russia, indeed.
America is less monolithic—the melting pot is full of cum. Our search terms read like an ethnography of a Disney show, with multiple races, four jobs, and wacky family dynamics. God bless the free market. In America you have the right—no, the responsibility—to imagine yourself landing a massive creampie in your 18-year-old step-sister’s anus while a hentai yoga teacher massages her squirting babysitter. In public.
1. When I was in high school I kept my porn in a white box. Inside the box was a stack of magazines—almost entirely Playboys, because I liked the clean stuff—as well as a purple folder full of the images I liked best, so that I could spread them out on my bedroom floor and sit in the middle of them, kind of like a crude manual version of Tumblr.
2. The internet really changed the way people masturbate. Today, if you want to see someone naked you just press the buttons and poof, there’s a boob. But as a teenager I remember thinking of pictures of naked women as a kind of secret relic, something you had to search out, anticipate and covet, which made them that much better when you got them.
3. I saw my first porn magazine in fourth grade when some kids in my class were passing one around under the lunch table. I remember feeling a weird sense of doom, like I was going to get caught the second I touched the paper, even though everyone else was laughing about it. I’m not sure what magazine it was, but the pictures were of naked women holding automatic weapons, dressed up like military personnel. I remember the feeling of seeing more than I actually saw.
4. The kid who owned that magazine briefly ran a business where you could buy a page out of other, similar magazines for a dollar. He carried them around in a duffel bag with a padlock on it. They were his dad’s magazines, he said, and there were more where those came from, if you had the money. I never bought one. Eventually he was caught and suspended.
5. I used to occasionally go to work with my dad. I remember feeling an insane sense of agency whenever he would stop at this one gas station that had a rack of tattoo magazines with tits in them. I would stand in front of the rack and wait until I knew I had half a second with no one watching, and then I would open the magazine as if I didn’t mean to, in case someone caught me. So instead of full visions, I caught flashes and tried to embed them deep in my memory so that I would be able to see them for a long time afterward whenever I shut my eyes.
6. A very brief, insanely vivid memory from when I was probably four or five, of picking up a magazine my dad’s friends were passing around at a camp in the woods, and the men laughing as my dad took it away from me before I could see. I remember my uncle saying something to the effect of, “one day you can have that,” and everyone laughing. I don’t remember many other things from that early stage in my life.
Nobody Wants to Talk About Bestiality Until Somebody Fucks a Horse
On July 2, 2005, Kenneth Pinyan was dropped off by an unidentified man in the emergency room of the sleepy Enumclaw Community Hospital, about 25 miles outside of Tacoma, Washington. By the time doctors reached him, he had died of a perforated colon. When police began to investigate the death, following the trail of events that had led Pinyan to the hospital that summer day, they found themselves balls deep in a ring of bestiality the likes of which Washington State had never seen.
As it turned out, Pinyan had sustained his injury while letting a horse have sex with his ass on a farm outside of Enumclaw. After tracking down the man who dropped Pinyan at the hospital, authorities found and searched the farm where he’d sustained his injury and discovered a videotape of the act, along with over a hundred others depicting men having sex with or receiving sex from various farm animals (aside from horses, there were violations of goats, sheep, and chickens), taken by a man named James Michael Tait, who lived nearby. Confronted with the sheer scale and duration of the videos, police and reporters alike swallowed their discomfort and dove into the world of zoophile chatrooms and websites. After a little digging, it became clear that the Enumclaw farm was known in the community as a major bestiality brothel.
But when police tried to charge Tait with a crime, they realized that Washington did not have any laws on the books prohibiting the ungodly union between man and beast. The best they could tag him with was trespassing, resulting in one year of probation, a $300 fine, and one day of community service.
Stacy Martin Talks About Having Fake Sex with Shia LaBeouf in Lars von Trier’s New Film Nymphomaniac
Landing a role in the most infamous movie of the past decade—Lars von Trier’s four-hour epic, Nymphomaniac—isn’t a bad way to start your acting career. In her screen debut, 22-year-old British model Stacy Martin spends the majority of her time groaning, moaning, and doing weird things with a set square. Dark, depressing, and funny all at the same time, it follows the often brutal sexcapades of a woman (played by both Martin and Charlotte Gainsbourg) from birth to the age of 50.
I met Stacy in Soho, London, where we drank free coffee and spoke about sex addiction, porn doubles, and the awkwardness of shooting sex scenes with Shia LaBeouf.
The trailer for Nymphomaniac: Volume 1
VICE: What was your first reaction when you read the script for Nymphomaniac? Stacy Martin: I loved it! I read the script before I went to Copenhagen for a screen test, and I really fell in love with how dense it is and how there are so many different elements to the film—and the dark humor, which is very specific to Lars.
Shia LaBeouf said that, when he received the script, there was a note saying he had to send a picture of his dick to the production team. Did he?!
Yeah. I’m guessing it wasn’t the same kind of deal for you? No, I don’t have a penis[laughs], so I didn’t get that.
No weird requests? No, actually. I just got the script on its own in a little brown envelope—pretty standard.
How were your sex scenes worded in your contract? We had a nudity contract. Everything was set in stone before we did the film, so we all knew what we were doing. I was told that I would have a porn double—that I wouldn’t be doing anything sexual. We all agreed—and Lars agreed—that we would be using prosthetics and just stuff like that.
The blowjob scene in particular looks incredibly real. Yeah, it looks real. I mean, I’m convinced that it looks real—but no, it’s not real. It’s not a real penis… They made fake vaginas and fake penises and we used them for that.
In an era when fetish was still an anthropological term and men’s magazines relied on code words like specialty and mature, a pioneering Armenian pornographer with an unerring instinct for cultural taboos was busy inventing his own daring adult genre. Though his name is no longer mentioned alongside Hefner and Flynt, Milt Abdjourian’s bold, single-minded dedication to fabric, attire, and hyper-specialized contextual perversion lives on in dozens of colorful titles and still-provocative covers.