The Japanese Porn Imagination And The World Of Yesterday

There is a lot more to Japanese porn than the justly infamous schoolgirl and rape genres. Some seems to be intended, or least unintentionally to function, as rather sharp socio-psychological commentary. I have seen a clip, for instance, about a girl who had been painted the greenish-blue of weathered bronze before perching on a park plinth. A nude variant on the Living Statue plague of the Western tourist city! And yet the folks in the park, including the keeper, seemed oblivious. Either they were all extras, which would have made the movie more expensive than usual, or else our assumption that a naked greenish-blue girl on a plinth simply must be a bronze statue is a lot stronger than we think. The next phase was for a similar verdigrised bronze male to turn up and fuck her, giving our suspension of disbelief a real workout. They froze when people took too close an interest, such as the elderly couple who happily photographed one another against what purported to be a statue of a couple doing it doggy-style.

The punchline to this brilliant goof was when the he-statue ejaculated on the small of the she-statue’s back and then ran off, leaving her to be cleaned by a middle-aged keeper exactly as if she were washing away pigeonshit. Or was the intention to suggest that the fussbudget knew she was cleaning cum from a real girl, but that in 2016 this counted as standard park maintenance? It could work either way. Likewise, the tourist couple could be read either as thinking it was real statuary, although of a kind that most municipalities would be reluctant to commission, or else as wanting a souvenir for their friends back home: Look, living statues painted bronze and fucking like bunnies! In the latter case, they obviously don’t make little old ladies like they used to. The final clean-up scene made me lean towards the “scripted with lots of paid extras” theory, but even so, I could not be absolutely sure that this was not a genuine field demonstration of the human ability to see only what we expect to see.

“Invisible” sex right next to you is quite the Japanese trope. There are other variants such as the business meetings where nobody seems to notice that a naked woman is fucking one of the suits; the others have eyes only for the boss and his Power-Point presentation. No way is that not a satire on the corporate mentality. Another weirdness that only the Japanese could dream up is some sort of game with cut-outs of the kind associated with the seaside. Four friends out for the day strip off and put their breasts through detachable panels, and what looked like teenage boys come to squeeze and lick. There is a gamesmistress type with microphone, and I dearly wish I could understand what she is saying. Of course it graduates to pussy-fingering, then the camera moves round to the back of the cut-outs, where the girls are chatting to one another. And inevitably the final step is intercourse a tergo, with the mistress of ceremonies again hovering with her mike and giving the impression that this is normal behaviour. For here we are undoubtedly dealing with a satire of the game-show, spliced with the Western porn genre of the glory-hole.

In this fiction, what is supposed to be the motivation for the four girls on their day out? I by no means buy into the idea that faceless sex through a hole is a common female fantasy, but somehow they make it seem credible. The way the girls stay perfectly in character as “four little maids on the town are we” would only be possible in Japan, where AV stars can actually act. It almost, but not quite, has you believing that this is something the average office-lady foursome would do on a Sunday excursion to a beach resort.

To me, and probably to other men of my vintage, this seems merely an extension in degree from what we now suspect is normal sexual behaviour for unattached twenty-somethings. At that age my female contemporaries were pretending to be virgins offended by the slightest reference to human sexuality or even anatomy. The change seems to run from, “We don’t talk about that” or even, “How dare you believe I have one of those!” to “Do you like my new labial jewellery?” The distance between my youth and modern disco behaviour may actually be greater than the distance between modern disco behaviour and being fucked through a seaside cut-out to an encouraging microphone commentary. No, I am not saying that this really happens – only that, for a person of my generation it seems somewhat less incredible than it might appear to younger people.

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