Pity the poor pornographer.

The other day I was watching some pornography...if I mention that it was serious research for my forthcoming novel, Executrix would you believe me? Anyhoo... the piece in particular was filmed at an extremely raucous hen party in Denmark and featured, if I can use that word, three very naked and heartily-built men of quite huge proportions, dancing, cavorting, sweating, parading and exciting a room of about thirty females who were in their twenties I should say.
It was a clever set-up. Another two men, each wearing nothing but a black bow tie (!) and a pair of the tightest and briefest of white briefs, whilst holding a white towel over an arm, ranged about pouring free wine liberally into the women's glasses while (I counted two) unbelievably drably-dressed females armed with expensive video cameras also sneaked about making sure the action was not wasted, but committed to eternity.
The music was at a heart-attention getting, 120 beats per minute and was unrelenting. A good set up also was the staging area where this happened for it consisted of a round stage upon which the men danced and which was at the perfect height of about three feet, for the women, dancing and therefore upright, for their heads to be at the same height as the men's crotches. Perfect for film. However, fellatio was not the only sex act that was to be performed on those poor men. Oh no! This was Denmark after all.
At some point, about ten of the women jumped up on the stage and continued to do what the cameras enjoyed filming, when whoosh! A burst from overhead pipes, doused everyone in warm, and I would have thought, given the amount of time that it had taken them to get this far, refreshing streams of water. I could see the three men were almost eternally grateful that they had reached this point in their performance. One could really see it on their faces and they took a little time off to splash water over themselves before their attention once again returned to the two dozen or so hungry mouths which seemed to be all over them like drunken slobbering mastiffs.
However, the women, their Friday night party frocks (what there was of them in the first place) were now ruined and with the aid of that wine, were therefore shed and most of them disappeared into the watery mayhem, followed quite quickly by their bra and panties. Then, as if they were not before, the men became free-range and fuelled by the still flowing alcohol, the women went wild and a mass orgy took place, the women very much in charge and control and receiving absolutely everything that they demanded. I hope you can imagine this scene.
So what I am getting at? Why am I painting this picture for you? Well, it's because of the sudden attitude of the men. The three of them. Earlier, strutting and domineering, one would imagine that these guys would have been in heaven yes? But they were not. They were being overwhelmed and that's the most politest way I can describe it. In fact, they were losing the plot completely and that could be seen by observing what the women had paid good money to see. Hard manhood. Or not in actuality.
So in desperation, the men tried to resurrect themselves by the one thing that they had not tried. The one thing that this hoard of sexually hungry and perhaps frustrating young women had withheld so far. Kissing. And that's what these three men wanted to do. They wanted an emotional experience, a experience connected with some tenderness. Even perhaps some affection. Here were these men having an experience that almost any man, I would imagine would pay dearly to have and these guys just wanted to kiss. How girlie! Explain that!
It was very obvious to me and to tell you the truth, sad to watch. For in the end, all of the people in that club became diminished; the dancers, the women and the filmmakers. Even the bar staff which I could sometimes glimpse, stood quite still and shocked as the women, no longer being satisfied by the men, took to drunkenly pleasuring themselves and each other. I was diminished by it as well. So what was the point of that evening? Well, finer brains than mine have debated this point but surely it cannot be about money? But if it is, perhaps I ought to grow up and pity the poor pornographer. Not my finest hour.