You finally found it. The perfect video. After minutes of sifting through trash – the nine-minute one with seven minutes of striptease, the stepsister one that’s pretty hot but just doesn’t do it for you anymore, the one that looked like it might have some kinky butt stuff but was really just an extended blowjob scene – you’re ready to blast off.
After skipping through the irrelevant plot details, you get to the heart of the video. Tension is building. The chemistry between the actor and actress is palpable. Every camera angle is perfectly engineered. You’re almost ready to bookmark this shit.
And then, from out of nowhere, for seemingly no reason, comes a voice you haven’t heard since “Alexis Texas has horny hotel fuck.” Yep. It’s the fucking cameraman.
The moment is ruined. When the cameraman cuts in, you just have to move on and bop the bologna to something else. There’s no coming back once the guy behind the screen calls out, “Yeah! All right!” like a fucking little league coach. Centimeters of dick length are being lost by the second. The thrill is gone.
Listen up, buddy: I didn’t click on this video for you. I clicked on it because I saw a girl with bare tits in the thumbnail and goddammit, I wanted to objectify her. I never asked for your commentary.
All I wanted was some sick dick-in-vag action, but no. You had to burst in and egg on the performers like an alcoholic pageant mom. What were you thinking? This is a beautiful connection between a man, a man, a man, another man, a woman, and me, and you need to get the fuck out.
When I order a burger, I expect a warm patty between two buns. When I get on a plane, I expect the pilot to fly me wherever I paid to go. That’s how it’s supposed to work. If that burger isn’t cooked right, I get sick. If that pilot screws up, I spend Christmas Eve whacking my weasel in the bathroom stall at JFK. Once people stop caring about their job, the entire system is broken.
You know what, cameraman? This is my vicarious sex to be had, and you better back the fuck up. If I wanted to hear someone talking over beautiful footage I would have looked up the director’s commentary of Planet Earth. But I looked up “teen redhead sex” for a reason, and it wasn’t to hear a 40-year-old film school dropout’s excited moans. Undesired outbursts from the cameraman are an insult to me, to the internet porn community, and to the human reproductive process.
I don’t ask for much. All I want is for you to shut the hell up so I can admire Faye Reagan’s ass cheeks and rub one out in peace until I grow hair on my palms or my roommate gets back.
But if I hear so much as a peep from the guy behind the camera, I’m gonna have to spank myself blind elsewhere.
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