Last Friday I had the leisure and privacy to do a little something I hadn’t done in a very long time. I turned the lights low, drew down the blinds, pulled off my pants, dropped my drawers, and then settled down for a long, sloppy session of masturbation. Just me and my greased-up inches. On camera. In front of a good, oh, hundred and twenty people.
Getting on cam and showing off my stuff was one of the things I did a heck of a lot back in the days I was first keeping my blog. Before that, even. I was showing off my dick on CU-SeeMe back in the early nineties, and over proprietary software before that. Hell, I was taking moving pictures of my junk to Eadweard Muybridge back in the days of the magic lantern, son, in what was the industry’s first example of the ‘long shot.’ Bam!
Anyway. It had been a while.
But as I said, I had the time, and the person I’d been expecting to meet that afternoon had been forced to cancel and I didn’t have the heart to meet anyone. On camera seemed like the place to be. I started off on Manhunt, where the video cam rooms can be either very hot, or deadly dull, with no in-between. They were deadly dull. I took my dick over to my cam4.com account, where I started off with a very small but appreciative group of viewers, including a regular reader of my blog. Soon this group swelled into a mob.
By the end of an hour, the mob was so overwhelming that I was having to spend more time clicking off private messages demanding that I show my feet or my hole, and accepting friend requests, than I was actually beating my meat.
That’s when I know it’s time to go.
I was still all boned up with nowhere to go, though, so I took it to Skype, where one of my cam4 viewers was begging me to meet him. He was a Latin boy, all of twenty, and pretty and furry in all the right spots. He had a killer smile, a lean body, and an enormous curved uncut dick I wanted to get to know better.
Once I had Skype fired up, I accepted the kid’s friend request and let him call me. Within seconds, that enormous curved dick was filling up my screen. “Hola, papi!” he growled.
It was right then that I remembered why I don’t show off on Skype all that often. For one thing, I prefer the places where I can show off to a bunch of different folk at once. For another, on Manhunt or cam4, I can turn off my sound. I don’t have to talk. On Skype, they expect you to talk.
And when I start talking during sex, I sound like a completely different person than what normally I am.
Oh, it’s not so bad in one-on-one sex. On camera, though, or on those three to five occasions I’ve growled obscenities in someone’s ear over the telephone, something happens to my carefully modulated tones. I start drawling. If a word ends in -ing, you’re sure as hell not going to hear that -g sound. I start using phrases I never employ in my everyday life, like Spread those ass cheeks for me, cowboy!, or Hoooo-eeee! That dick sure looks mighty good!
In short, I become very, very Southern.
Now, I grew up Southern. My mom married my dad straight out of the back hills of Georgia with the red clay still wet on her bare feet. As a child I had the cutest little Southern accent. I ate grits, growing up. I’ve lost the outward appearances of that cultural identity over the years, though. When I moved to the midwest for graduate school, I realized that no matter what I said, people weren’t taking me at all seriously because of my accent. I could put forth a linguistic assessment of a passage we’d read with all the correct jargon, using all the faddish theorists of the time, and I’d look around the classroom and see people beaming at me, right down to the professor, who’d eventually shake his head and say, “That accent is so cute. What part of the South are you from, again?”
So I trained my accent out of my voice. For the most part. It’s still there in there way my voice appears to be softer than it really is—it’s just the way my vowels are resisting curling up into a full Southern drawl. I developed a very neutral way of speaking that doesn’t really call much attention to itself, so that people could hear the message rather than the dipthongs of where I grew up.
But hoooo-eee, cowboy, does that all fly out the damn window when I’ve got my pants around my ankles and Skype fired up. Suddenly I sound like I’m Bo Duke behind the wheel of The General Lee, tryin’ to get outta the way of Boss Hogg before he up ’n’ starts causin’ some goddamn trouble again.
It’s fuckin' appalling.
I’m not embarrassed about my background. I don’t feel particularly self-conscious when I’m showing off on cam. But neither do I understand why, once I see that little green light glowing above my screen and I know someone’s listening to me, suddenly I’m making the exclamations “Daaaaaamn!” or “Shiiiiiiiit!” have three syllables apiece, or why I take on a good ol’ boy affect that I never had even at my most Southern-bound. I don't know why I start hootin' 'n' hollerin' like a redneck yokel. It’s not a matter of dropping the acculturation that’s stuck to me since, like barnacles. I don’t speak like that at my angriest, or my most depressed, or my most unguarded. Why do I do it at my horniest?
All I know is that it’s got to stop. If I regress any further, I’ll start babbling about not knowin’ anything about birthin’ no babies, at the height of some jerk-off session.
I'm pretty sure I'm correct in assuming that’s a turn-on for nobody, right?