I’m sitting here pressing my thumbs into my eyelids thinking about the poor fucker who’s probably doing the same right now but for different reasons: this imagined fucker’s got some porn footage open in Premier or Final Cut Pro, wondering how they got to that point in their lives. They scrub the footage, looking for good transition points, bite their lip at the audio spikes on the transport at the bottom of the screen. That audio spike is gonna be the start of a great orgasm that’s gonna explode into white noise. You can’t unclip a fuck-up like that. It’ll have to go—nobody’s gonna cum to that. Hours and hours of footage like this. Scrub, snip. Fade out. Sneak in a sexy J-cut if they’re feeling fancy. 

This cum’s for you.

The erotic arts are such labours of lust, but sometimes I wonder if editing a porno is actually a joyless experience. With so much dick and ass on your screen, how could a little smile not break on your face? How could you not wanna take a whole lot of fifteen-minute smoke breaks? And then have an actual smoke afterward, of course. Is it exhausting to be the kind of person who cares about cinematography, good lighting, consistent colour grading—and have to stare at the same flesh tones day after day? Or deal with the chaotic footage of some inept camera operator who’s distractedly massaging the wet patch in their trousers when they should be keeping the camera steady, or pulling focus?

This cum’s for you—and honestly, not saying I blame the camera operator.

Does the young buck holding the boom over two screaming, flailing, sculpted porn stars regret the sore arms he has from holding the boom and worry that he’ll be too tired to jerk off later? Or are his arms already sore because he spends so much time jerking off, because he spends his days staring at porn stars while they drill each other? Hell, do studios even use boom mics anymore? I’m sure I’ve seen them in shots before: some fluffy grey muff coming in from the corner of the screen threatening to startle me out of an erection, some boner-killing rodent leaving its pixelated droppings on my screen. 

I’ve overcome worse obstacles. This cum’s for you—even if I hear a voice in my head shout boom in the shot and have a weird little laugh to myself before boom, I shoot. We all make mistakes.

But my poor editor! It must be so lonely, so tiresome assembling your erotic masterpieces! I hope the cum that lands on your belly as you export your scenes and enjoy the fruits of your labour keeps you warm for a moment. Your own sticky reward.

This cum’s for you, and for every step that leads you to me. The actors, the fluffers, the directors, the editors, the distributors—the vast networks of all people connected to them to make their lives possible. People who work need to get paid. I cum for their accountants. For their mail carriers, their waiters. They all made my pleasure possible, even by proxy. We all make each other’s pleasure possible. This cum is why we’re alive on this wild rock, rimming the elated solar anus and spinning in delirious ecstasy. Cock in hand, bush under palm, we ride the cosmos, filling ourselves, each other, the tiny voids between all things—cum fills those gaps, too. 

This cum is for all of us.