BijouBlog

Yes, the piss hard on, often called the morning woody, or my favorite, the pee boner. Why does it happen?
 

According to Dr. Joseph Alukal, assistant professor of urology at NYU Langdone Medical Center, "The penis is a very strange organ in terms of its job and the way it traps blood inside it." Thus it is not as if pee is just waiting to emerge or some kind of bladder control issue.

The most medically sound explanation, according to many sources, is that it has something to do with the brain. Certain parts of the brain shut down during REM sleep, including the one that keeps that dick in check.

From a more Freudian perspective, that bossy superego that often informs the social norms we adhere to to function in the waking world isn't keeping that primal id from taking over.

But also, think about this: so much of sex is tied to the brain, and so much of the brain functions like all that complex stuff going on in the background of one's computer.

There's another theory. Again, according to our expert Dr. Alukal, "There's no other place in your body that has to trap blood for an extended period of time. For example, if we took a tourniquet and tied it around your foot for a half hour, we might have some problems afterward. But your penis is expected to trap blood for a half hour or an hour and be fine afterward. This could be part of the programming that reminds the penis, 'This is how you do your job.'"

And we know what that job is, and it's not just making babies. Well, that could be the end result, but much as some guys complain about that supposed pee boner, don't forget it gives them the opportunity to begin the day with a orgasm. Alone or with your partner (and if your partner is a guy, maybe he's got a woody going too). Voila!
 

Why am I writing about this topic today? Now, that's a weird anecdote. I was walking to the office here, and I noticed one of those yellow school buses pulled up a couple of blocks away. It was not a bus full of students, as school was not out yet around here. No, it was one of those buses probably hired to take Cubs fans to a game (yes, that season is upon us) in Chicago).

The bus was empty, the door was open. I heard a gravely male voice, loud and deep (and not young-sounding) proclaim from the driver's seat, “You'll wake up with a piss hard-on.”

Obviously, I don't know the context of this conversation, but I am thinking maybe the person he might have been calling (again, the bus was empty) wasn't getting that morning woody. According to Dr. Alukal, researcher, once middle age hits, morning boners tend to stop as their testosterone levels dip.

The day I don't wake up with one, which for me is a visible sign of our God-given life force in all its myriad manifestations, I will be in Paradise or Heaven or whatever one calls it.

Now, as many readers by now have figured out, often times (more so in more recent porn, and I am showing my bias for Bijou Classics), there is a splice between the sucking and the fucking and the cumshot or cumshots. The viewer wants to get his money’s worth, even if, and readers probably know this fact, in the actual filming the actor’s cum isn't always caused directly by the action.

’ve heard some porn directors hired guys to suck the actor’s off to keep them hard, or to hurry the climax because time is money. 
 

I think the word actor is important here. Now some porn stars of the past (I think of the prolific David Ashfield and also, see below the legendary Al Parker) enjoyed the sex, and the acting wasn’t so much acting as more like someone filming a live sexual interaction, not filming something that was necessarily planned in advance. 
 

And also, many of our titles put the sex in the context of a story and in many cases, a fantasy. Yes, the story needs actors, but the sex doesn’t seem as staged, or, I might say, as clinical. 

For example, the scene in Turned On!, where Al Parker is worshipping the cocks of endless hunky men, is a fantasy. But it’s also a fantasy that Al probably enjoyed in his own sexual experience, and he was being daring, because Al usually topped, and he we see him submitting, and because the hunky men seem to merge into one man, they become something more like Man with a capital M. Man as the air we breathe and the blood coursing through our veins. It’s obviously not real, but it’s also somehow more authentic. Why? Because in order to get to that orgasm, the mind needs to be working as well as the cock and your sexual partner or partners. 

It’s just got to happen. In the moment. 

And when the context gets more kinky, in my experience I’ve noticed guys in elaborate bondage (a fantasy made reality) get hard, but the climax has got to happen. I’ve seen responsive tops, who in many cases are fulfilling the bottom’s own fantasy, often do actions not exactly bondage-related to make that money shot happen. In one case, I saw the top put his gloved hand over the bottom’s face, as a final dominant act. In another case, another guy sucked the bottom’s cock. Or, and most wondrously, do nothing to the bottom’s cock, and it just happens. 
 

In the recent funny and campy and touching movie Florence Foster Jenkins, Cosme McMoon, her naive waif-life closeted gay accompanist (played by the absolutely adorable Simon Helberg), is late to Madame Florence's infamous 1944 Carnegie Hall recital. Why? He claims breathlessly, implying perhaps post-coital euphoric exhaustion, he was “jumped” by a bunch of sailors, and that they were “most disrespectful.” (Interestingly enough, the real McMoon later in his life was a judge at ostensibly straight bodybuilding contests; some even claim he also ran a gay escort service or even brothel, but the latter is probably more faux news.) 
 

So, apparently, that “little McMoon” was into rough trade. I've thrown the term around a bit in blogs and tweets and other communiques, but I've always wondered what it actually meant, and, as it turns out, it isn't just the cliched doin' it with sex-starved sailors on the wharf (apparently, by the time McMoon experienced the joy of rough trade brothels for women weren't located seaside, another cliché, or were they?) 
 

Another variation is in comparison to regular trade, rough trade is more likely to be working-class laborers with less education and more physical demands of their work, therefore with a body developed naturally rather than in a gym. They may also exhibit a less polished or clean-cut style than an office worker or professional businessman. 

For example, remember that book Maurice by E.M. Forster and the movie made of it starring Hugh Grant as well? Aristocratic Maurice Hall, after being rejected by the bisexual Clive Durham (Grant's role) falls in love with Alec Scudder, the lower-class gamekeeper, played by Rupert Graves. Maurice and Alec's future as a couple is thus doubly doomed, not just because of their gayness, but because of the social division. It would be more acceptable if Alec was just a rough trade fling rather than a partner in a loving relationship. 
 

 

 

In fact, rough trade sexual encounters resulted in the deaths the gay silent film icon Ramon Navarro and the famous Italian cinematographer Pier Paolo Pasolini. 

Now, based on the above tragedies, I might think twice about the phrase “dick of death,” but I also remember how sex and violence and even death can erupt as one terrifying conflagration. Orgasm is after all le petit mort, both beautiful and terrible. 

I guess maybe the whole adult bed issues ties into marriage. You know, the marriage bed, and dowry chests often contained linens and other items to furnish the bed. And this bed would be for the couple only, a major rite of passage, as for many centuries siblings and unmarried family members routinely slept together in the same bed. Why? Most people were poor. Privacy was lacking. Bedding was expensive. 

Of course, in the United States, most young adults live with each other, cohabit before marriage. In fact, I even remember when I was living in the dorms, the sign when a guy and a girl (two guys was of course taboo at that time) began to cohabit was the double bed. Sometimes two beds pushed together, and usually in the guy's room. Apparently the guy's dorm was a more acceptable place for sex than the girl's dorm. The few times guys even visited the girl dorms was for let me eat with or even fix dinner for you in my room. Sexist, oh yes! 

I've often wondered if a certain type of bed makes better sex. I mean, some bed sex fantasies involve frills and canopies and flowers but also rough sex. Really rough. I think of those bodice-ripper historical romance novels, where the guy who ends up being Prince Charming, but not after some often an often mind-boggling I love him, I hate him, I love her, I hate her, and the result of this confusion is a heroine deflowered before the wedding, sometimes on the same bed where she ends up after the marriage. 

In contrast, the man-eating, predatory Sue Ann Nivens on the Mary Tyler Moore Show ended up doing the deflowering on her indescribable bed. We see this bed in one episode, where the WJM-TV gang congregate to comfort her when she realizes her sister will be staying in Minneapolis to host a rival cooking show. Erosville, USA. Cupids, flowers, pink satin. It vibrates. And when the climax occurs (and in Sue Ann's world, her climax is the goal), the florid theme from Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet sounds forth. 
 

I'm not entirely sure how LGBTQ persons fit into this dynamic, because for ages they were banned from participating in traditional heterosexual rites of passage. In the days of the closet, when lovers had to present themselves as “roommates,” I'm sure a double bed would more than raise eyebrows. But then, those were the days when heterosexual icons Lucy and Ricky had to sleep in separate twin beds after the first season of I Love Lucy as a double bed was too risque. 

I just bought some bed risers for my futon frame. I sleep on a futon, which used to be on the floor, then on a low wooden frame, then on a black metal sling frame (still low). Now the sleeping structure resembles a bed, at least the height. Have I grown up? Maybe, but the best sex I've had occurred on the floor of a van. 
 

 

 

 

Bijou Video’s social media is literally out of this world, and a major social media blitz by our esteemed videographer Miriam Webster actually increased sales and customers. I credit the brilliant Miriam with this development, and we are actually going to feature a different movie on Twitter and Facebook every Monday. Call it Movie Monday, and Monday rather than Blue Monday might actually end up being for our customers and social media followers Sex Monday. 

I do wonder though, as I’ve also noticed on Twitter even more retweets of our posts than usual, if what is really going on is an escape into sex. Yes, escaping into it, but what is it an escape from? The obvious answer: the profoundly shocking upset to America that occurred on November 8.
 

Yes, so shocking, to the point where I actually called my mother (we don’t communicate frequently). There’s that line from the movie Mildred Pierce, “everyone has a mother,” and in my case, I felt like my mother was all I had. We wept together for about half an hour. 
 

Now, I wasn’t necessarily escaping into my mother, but the election, especially for those in what are now liberal enclaves (I hate having to use that word, but it is true), triggered a descent into the most fundamental core, so deep, like the tohu-va-vohu of Genesis 1 (the primordial, undifferentiated waters, like the amniotic waters of the womb) of our personal and social psyches. And in that dark place everything gets mixed up together, what is taboo and what is pure, what is violent and what is peaceful, what is evil and what is good. It’s the place where we decide whether to cross or maintain boundaries, build walls or make bridges in the world. 
 

Sex is crossing a boundary, physically, mentally, spiritually. I wonder if this crisis just made people unconsciously desire to do so, to cross that boundary, to voluntarily experience the petit mort of orgasm, especially in a situation where they felt utterly helpless and powerless. And the orgasms perhaps were even more intense, more powerful, given the raw emotions surging through the person. There’s an intimate connection between sex and violence, and perhaps the external climate violence we are all experiencing viscerally connected with our sex drives, like an electrical charge so strong it could blow a fuse. 
 

I know in my case my horniness has literally skyrocketed, and I experienced some of the best kinky sex play the weekend after the election to the point where my playmate and I even decided to commemorate the day in the future. Yes, we were escaping from the election and into sex, but I think we were also in our own way taking back the night because in, around, and above those dark, primal waters is a living, breathing spirit.