You’re in the movie now

Naomi Wolf, she of The Beauty Myth, etc, has written a piece, “The Porn Myth“, for New York that sets out her position that the rise of pornography has essentially resulted in a devaluation of sexual experience.

For two decades, I have watched young women experience the continual “mission creep” of how pornography—and now Internet pornography—has lowered their sense of their own sexual value and their actual sexual value. When I came of age in the seventies, it was still pretty cool to be able to offer a young man the actual presence of a naked, willing young woman. There were more young men who wanted to be with naked women than there were naked women on the market. If there was nothing actively alarming about you, you could get a pretty enthusiastic response by just showing up. Your boyfriend may have seen Playboy, but hey, you could move, you were warm, you were real. Thirty years ago, simple lovemaking was considered erotic in the pornography that entered mainstream consciousness: When Behind the Green Door first opened, clumsy, earnest, missionary-position intercourse was still considered to be a huge turn-on.

Well, I am 40, and mine is the last female generation to experience that sense of sexual confidence and security in what we had to offer.

I her position somewhat plausible but counter to my experience–at least I have seen no evidence that the sexual currency of “a naked, willing young woman” has been devalued by any of my social circle (and some of them are 15 years younger than Naomi, and presumably in her target group.) Also, the bias of the piece–that this is something men do to women, rather than an instituational effect–gets up my nose a little bit…

In any case, the point was much more effectively made a long time ago by Nicole Blackman in a poem. You can listen to it (do it!), or you can read it after the jump.

“In the Movie Now”

There is no glory in trying to make love to men
who only know how to fuck —
man after man after man after man
raised on porn.

Out all day while he’s been watching $2 videos
now piled by the VCR,
out all day at work at class at the gym
while he’s been making plans
out all day returning with bags of bread
and tomatoes and bluefish for what you think
will be dinner.

Dinner is you
and you are nothing like
the dead-eyed blonde women
he’s been watching.

You’re in the movie now.

He is nothing like you remember.
No time for a condom, take a pill,
or put in a diaphragm.
Those girls never get pregnant anyway.
What are you trying to do?

Clothes cannot come off fast enough
get them off get them off
shoes are always left on
you don’t know why.
You’re in the movie now.

You used to scrape your nails
against the walls leaving
streaks like scars of where
you wanted to stay
and where he took you.

Now you just go
it’ll be over
in ten minutes
it’ll be over
in ten minutes
twenty at most.

A black envelope closes with you inside.
You’re in the movie now.

He winds your hair around his fist
like a roll and he keeps it nailed to the bed.
You swear you’ll cut your hair tomorrow.
You swear you’ll cut your hair tomorrow.

You still swim in memory sometimes.
It wasn’t always like this, was it?

You are becoming stone
stone desires nothing
stone cannot be moved
stone can only be worn down
little by little.

Close your eyes and think of England.

You are tucked in for the fucking.
You’re in the movie now.

There is no beauty in being held face down
on a bed of sheets that tear beneath you
and you are wearing him like a country
you haven’t the strength to carry.
You’re in the movie now.

You don’t fight
he takes it from you
he takes it from you
he takes it from you.
Now it isn’t yours, how could it be?
Isn’t yours anymore, never will be again.

One eye open, focusing on a window.
Years of this
and you don’t even say anything anymore.
This is how it is
how it will always be.
You’re in the movie now.

It doesn’t hurt anymore you shut down examining fibers in the pillowcase counting them until he’s finished 77-78-79 he says look at me look at me it’s no good unless you look at me you look right through him look at your bookshelf your grandmother’s patio your list of things to do this weekend the basil leaves drying by the window.

He says if you cry it makes him angry.
I fuck better when I’m angry you know.
You know.
He says it every time.
You learn not to cry.

You are startled that he is doing this to you.
You are startled that he knows how.
You are startled that you stay
knowing you would tell a friend to kill him
if he did this to her.

Your mouth is on fire with possibilities.
You say nothing.

You shut down your body one limb at a time
like you learned in drama class relaxation exercises.
Absence of pain makes anything possible.

Because you are pretty you are possessed.
You two are alone, owner and owned.

You used to confuse this with caring
you used to confuse these with caresses.
Desire doesn’t live here anymore
desire doesn’t live here anymore.

You are turned over and over
backstrokes in your own blood
(horses have been christened with less).

There is no glory here
only bloodstains
and apologies that come with the stroking,
only throwing up in a sink
you’ll have to scrub out later.