August 29, 2013 | Posted in Hardcore by
From Bang Buses (to boats!) to Couples Seducing Teens to Farrah Abraham, there is nothing real about reality porn. So what's so appealing about it, and why does it keep getting made?
It speaks to the idea of accessibility. One of the reasons is that, even though porn studios aren't making or paying as much money these days, individual porn performers are cashing in on 1-to-q1 cam shows, connecting with their fans in ways that trump any appearance in a movie.
The accessibility of a porn star flopping around in her bedroom, speaking in a normal voice and looking the consumer straight in the eye, gives the fan hope that the bank teller, neighborhood dog walker, pre-school teacher might be similarly uninhibited.
Thus the reality porn niche in its various incarnations, and the hoops a studio will jump through to make seasoned porn pros look spontaneous.
In "See My Sex Tapes 2," Tyler Nixon and Joey Ambrosiano (was director Nicholas Steele looking for people with sexually ambiguous names?) drive in a convertible, eat strawberries, and fuck—just like any couple.
And the idea is that they are making a sex tape for themselves. Nixon (the dude) chews gum and mugs for the camera while Ambrosiano drives. They seem to have zero chemistry beyond not being turned off by each other. They kiss loudly and smackily like only couples' porn movie couples do.
What's more, Ambrosiano wears high heels to her sex tape, and makeup. Unless you were actually in the stalls of the Viper Room or in a porn movie yourself, when have you ever fucked or been fucked in high heels?
Sex tape and hookup culture has become so prevalent that any self-respecting couple would think about lighting and camera angle. One wonders what was the role of the director in this movie (a movie like this is a no-win for a director, I bet).
In its effort to appear spontaneous, something that would occur to any real couple went right out the window. But at least Joey had her high heels.
The worst part is that neither participant refers to the other by his/her name.
Listen: our suspension of disbelief is prolapsed like an—well, I won't go there. But we want to believe that these actors who have been paid, STD-tested, outfitted with temporary cars and homes for the afternoon, etc., are really into each other and earnestly up for some sex with a stranger. Make it easier for us to believe it, OK?