Who doesn’t love the words “free sex tape”? Seriously, I’m wondering, because it seems to be a lot of people. And by “a lot of people” I mean every man, woman and child with internet access on the face of the planet. See, literally no one—not a single human being, living or dead, gay, straight or other—has downloaded my sex tape.
Confusing. I was under the impression that people love sex tapes, and they love free things—put the two together and it’s like, “Oh, I’m pretty busy since my sex tape blew up but I guess I’ll come on your show, ladies of The View—how’s next Thursday?” And yet, while my sex tape has been available (for free!) on finer file sharing networks for nearly eight months, I’m no closer to a daytime TV appearance than Paris Hilton is to solving the Fibonacci Sequence. (Is that hard? If so: burn!)
Maybe there’s some misunderstanding about the level of hotness of my sex tape. To clarify: it’s insanely hot—like put-the-kids-to-bed, lock-the-doors, get-out-the-butter, melt-two-tablespoons-of-butter-in-the-microwave, honey-have-you-seen-the-pastry-brush-oh-never-mind-here-it-is, zippered-facemask hot.
And yet no views. What do I have to do, throw in a free trowel?
You’ve seen that old Pamela Anderson-Tommy Lee sex tape. They were on a yacht (boring, predictable, expensive). I’m in a canoe in the middle of the Klondike River—a canoe I crafted myself out of sleek black PVC, garter belts and dildos. And while a lot’s been made of Tommy’s endowment (and I’m not talking NEA grants, but rather the endowment of gigantitude bestowed by God/genetics upon his penis), a simple fish-eye lens can achieve some real proportional magic. I’m just saying.
So why no downloads—not even one? You’d think that someone—even by accident!—might click the link. It just doesn’t make sense. My sex tape is the Silence of the Lambs to the whole British-guy-in-a-cage genre. Most sex tapes look somewhere between Jihadi martyr’s confessional, a drunken Mardi Gras cell phone video and a 1984 Danish snuff film. Mine, though, is high quality, hi-fi, hi-res, hi-def… so, hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to erotic ecstasy you go, viewer. Or would go. If you downloaded it.
Do you like choice and technology? If that’s the case, I could look into making my sex tape available in a number of formats, including Blu-ray, iPod thingy, Imax 3D, Laserdisc, Betamax and Viewmaster slideshow; I could transfer the audio to THX digital stereophonic surround sound, or even vinyl for that analog, “in the room with you” naturalistic feel. Whatever you want. Just tell me. I will do it.
I suppose it’s possible that people were turned off by my earlier free tapes, “Sweatpants vs. Viagra vs. Church” and “One Divorcee, Several Cups.” I’ll admit it: both reflect errs in judgment. But years, and several rounds of therapy, have passed, and my new sex tape is made with a certain poise and maturity lacking from my mid-career work. For example, at no point do I scream, “Stop looking at me, stop looking at me,” into the camera. I mean, the whole point is that people are looking at me, right? Except, you know, no one is.
Download now and receive a free trowel!
Few sex tapes, free or otherwise, offer extras such as mine: behind-the-scenes interviews, audio commentary and a making-of featurette that details the delicate art of self-fluffery. The “erector’s cut” (get it?) features several “circumcised” outtakes, such as when my “canoe” “springs a leak,” and while those scare-quotes might make you think sexy double entendre!—well, my canoe actually did spring a leak after going through some Class-3 rapids and it’s a good thing I had my “bailing bucket,” if you “catch” my “drift,” i.e. pubic hair.
What’s the best part of my sex tape? Good question, though unanswerable. I don’t believe in spoilers. That said: probably the part with the wolves.
What’s the worst part? Trick question: there is no worst part! It’s all the best part, again and again. I’d say it gets better with every smash-cut and star-wipe, but that would suggest that some parts are better than others and also that the end is way better than the beginning, meaning the beginning is the worst part. But, again, there is no worst part. So this is to say that even the part with the wolves isn’t the quote-unquote best part either, because all the parts are the same level of good/hot. Which isn’t monotonous. It’s just so good, and so hot, the whole time.
A lot of people ask, or I imagine they might: “Why would I want to watch a video of a sad, hairy guy masturbating in a canoe?” While I won’t stoop so low as to answer this question, I’ll answer it with another question: “Shut up, ‘doctor’!”
Can I just say something about doctors, quick? Or as I call them, bullies? Have you ever noticed how the word bullies has the words bull (as in shit) and lies in it? Doctors = bullshit liars, basically. Psychiatrists especially.
In conclusion, the sex tape business is like any other. Fame doesn’t come lightly. It’s about hard work and stick-to-itiveness. The thing is, I’ve really stuck to it. I poured my blood, sweat, tears and several other bodily fluids into my sex tape, sometimes literally. It’s out there—42 seconds of tantalizing erotic spectacle cast adrift on the great Klondike River of the internet. Won’t you haul it aboard the Alaska-bound cruise ship, or even hijacked Somali pirate vessel, of your hard-drive? Please? You don’t even have to watch it. Just download the thing, please. Please download it, you assholes, please.