Seymour Totti’s Foreign Policy

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Hooray for amateur porn. We’ve come a long way since the Polaroids of the early seventies. Back then the innocent young lad that I was couldn’t think why on earth anyone would buy a Polaroid camera. The pictures quality was rubbish and you couldn’t make reprints.

Then one day, in a fit of pre-adolescent light-fingeredness, I chanced upon a copy of Fiesta Magazine and there, towards the back, all was revealed. Readers Wives.

At first I didn’t find them all that horny, I was more interested in the shiny centrefold girls. But they did have something about them, perhaps it was the thought that perhaps one day I’d open it and see Charlie Paget’s mum. If anyone I knew was ever going to be in one of those it would be Charlie Paget’s mum.

She’d already figured in a couple of fantasies. So had his sister for that matter but his mum had snuck in uninvited when I wasn’t expecting it. But I never did see her. I was a regular reader for a few months but then I got rumbled and I couldn’t find another news stand that was as easy to … erm … subscribe from.

These days you no longer need to mail your irreplaceable poloroids to a distant editor in the hope that you or the object of you desires will be selected for inclusion on the hallowed half page. Anyone can shoot and upload pictures of themselves … and they do … loads of them.

But what makes them fascinating for me now is not so much the thought that I’ll see someone I know. It’s more that these girls are just like girls that I do know, or girls that I see on the subway or at the mall. It’s also the knowledge that they are only doing it for the kicks they get out of knowing that we get a kick (and a sticky mess) out of looking at them.

So gentlemen, lets give a big, firm hand to the girls in the mirror.