Blue Movie

Vincent ached with nostalgia for eras that had come and gone long before he’d even been born. Navigating to the vintage erotica web site he’d most recently added to his favorites, he realized he was getting an anticipatory hard-on without even looking at anything except a red-and-black screen with a disclaimer on it. *Like Pavlov’s dog with the bell,* he thought.
Clicking on the word *Enter,* which sat at the bottom of the screen in an ornate calligraphic font, and going right for the *1920’s* section of the site, he thought about how looking through the contents of a person’s computer was like looking into their soul. The history, the files, the favorites—the truth about a person could be found there. Machines didn’t lie. God help him if anything ever happened to his computer and he needed to take it to a shop to be repaired. That would be awkward… though probably not as awkward as the time he’d taken a few “boudoir” photos of his girlfriend, Azalea, and taken the film to be developed, only to get the envelope back with all the pictures *except* those few printed, and a terse form letter stating that the company’s photo department refused to print “pornographic material.” He had deeply resented having Azalea’s body described as “pornographic,” especially since he’d taken those pictures in his own bedroom, strictly for his and Azalea’s enjoyment.
Azalea was an amazing woman in and of herself, but Vincent found her just that bit even *more* amazing because she not only knew of his somewhat unusual “obsession,” and not only understood and indulged it, but indulged it at times he hadn’t even asked her to. Like the time he’d gone with her when she was shopping for a dress to wear to a friend’s wedding, and while in the fitting room, she had completely surprised him by sending him a picture via phone, of herself in front of the mirror stripped down to a lacy bra and panties, heels, and apparently new black silk, seamed stockings, clipped into place by a garter belt, striking a coquettishly Bettie Page-esque pose. He hadn’t even known she’d been wearing stockings that day, much less the old-fashioned, seamed silk ones that were getting increasingly difficult to find.
He had wept the day he’d learned Bettie Page had died—genuinely wept, as if he had known her. The article in the paper had said she’d been 85, but he had not been able to help but imagine her lying in an open coffin, surrounded by candles and red roses, arms crossed serenely, and looking exactly the same as she had nearly 60 years previously, red lipstick and all. If art was indeed the means to “immortality,” then Bettie had gone to join the goddesses.
The 1950’s were all fine and good—eroticism in the face of overwhelming repression always made for an interesting contrast, and a delightful degree of tension and friction–but tonight, he felt like the 1920’s. After a leisurely scroll down each of the pages dedicated to 1920’s *Still Photos,* *Stories,* and *Films,* he clicked his way to a film clip of a burlesque dancer in Chicago from 1922.
The stage was set a little sparsely for a burlesque show, with just a dressing screen and a plush loveseat with a throw-pillow and a bolster on it. That was fine—the dancer was a real knockout.
However, there was no sound. He paused the film long enough to put some up-tempo orchestral music on the CD player, to make the experience like that of watching a silent film—only sexier.
He returned to his seat and clicked the *Play* arrow again. While the woman on-screen strutted slowly and confidently for the cameraman and whoever else had been in her audience on that long-ago night, Vincent undid his belt, unbuttoned, unzipped, and got his jeans and boxers worked down to his knees. Not that there was any real hurry. Women back then had understood the Art of the Tease. These days, he reflected melancholically, the Tease wasn’t a dying art. It was already dead–as dead as the woman he was watching now in black-and-white probably was. Back in this dancer’s day, all the 21st-century blonde assembly-line anorexic porno stars that he’d ever seen get naked and start swallowing cock before he’d even had time to get fully erect would have had nothing on her. Why the rush? What in the 21st century was so much more important than fucking, that people had to five-minute slam-bam to get to? What was more important than fucking, period, in *any* era?
Things hadn’t been quite the same since the 1970’s. Not that he would know from personal experience… It was just his opinion that the emphasis had shifted from the journey to the destination during that decade.
He started to stroke himself while the dancer casually removed her evening gloves, rolling and tugging at each one in increments. Once they were both off, she reached behind herself, unzipping the back of her flowing black dress. She held the bodice to her breasts for a few moments, swaying her hips, rolling her shoulders. She turned around, showing off a cascade of black hair, adorned with rhinestones and feathers. Then she turned to face her audience again, and, looking straight at the lens, she was out of the dress in seconds, in one of the most seamless, shameless shimmies he’d ever seen. She hooked her ankle through the puddle of fabric and tossed it to the side of the stage with a showgirl high-kick that actually made Vincent laugh a little bit. Now she stood in frilly black panties, a garter belt with sequined fringes all along the back, seamed stockings, heels, and a corset. She did a slow turn to let her viewers have a good look, running her fingers through her hair, fluffing it out a bit.
He’d already started dripping pre-cum copiously. He slowed his jacking just a little, while the stripper turned her back to the camera and began a playful dance intended solely to emphasize the sway and glitter of the long, sequined fringes trailing from the back of her garter belt, just barely offering a glimpse of her panties every once in a while.
He wondered what had happened in history on the day this reel had been shot. What had the weather in Chicago been like? What had this woman’s name been? What else had she gone on to do, and how old had she lived to be? Had she thought much about her mortality? Judging solely by this film clip, it appeared doubtful that she had. She was dancing as if she would live forever, and glancing over her shoulder at the camera lens, smiling conspiratorially as if she’d found the secrets to invincibility and eternal youth.
She started to undo her corset. Once she was about halfway through doing so, she paused, glanced around, and, with a sudden coyness, stepped behind the dressing screen.
Vincent took this brief break in the action to get his jeans and boxers off the rest of the way. He vaguely wished computer chairs were more comfortable, as he continued his autoerotic caresses. Hadn’t anyone thought to design the things with masturbation in mind? Just a little more padding on the back, and a slightly longer, broader seat so one wouldn’t be in danger of sliding off when one’s body arched and locked up in those final critical seconds…
The dancer reemerged, topless but covering her breasts with a mink stole. After some more hip-rolling and can-can kicks, she extended first one arm, then the other, revealing that she wasn’t entirely bare, but had pasties with tassels hanging from them covering her nipples. She dropped the stole onto the loveseat, and began a beautifully—artistically, Vincent would dare say—protracted tassel-twirling dance.
This woman never would have imagined anyone would be watching her on their computer screen in the year 2010. The word “computer” hadn’t even been in anyone’s vocabulary at the time this footage had been captured. She never would have believed it. She never would have believed the sound of an orchestra could be recorded on a disc that was designed to be read by a laser. Or, would she have? She *had* lived in an exciting era when, surely, it must have seemed anything was possible—the auto industry had begun gaining real momentum, jazz music had come into its own, and she had seen the appearance of “talkies,” the Golden Age of Radio, the age of the flapper, and the passing of the Nineteenth Amendment.
Was it weird to lust after someone who was six feet under? Was it a subtle form of necrophilia to become aroused while watching Audrey Hepburn or Marlene Dietrich films, or to jack off to images of burlesque performers or pinup girls who were now dead? If it was, so be it. Necrophilia, he decided, must be the highest form of nostalgia.
The dancer sat down on the loveseat, unclipped her garters, and took off her garter belt and tossed it behind the loveseat, but, Vincent was glad to see, she did not remove her stockings. She kicked off her high heels and leaned back, hugging each one of the pillows in turn to her breasts, covering herself provocatively while she lounged and posed. Then, she let the throw-pillow she was holding drop, and hooked her thumbs through the waistband of her black panties. She kept her stocking-sheathed legs pointed straight up in the air and her body angled in such a way as not to actually allow her audience to see anything but a side view. She did this so gracefully that it wasn’t until her panties were almost all the way off that he realized—she was wearing a second pair of frilly panties underneath, this pair white. Damn, she was good!
She stood up, letting the black panties drop to the floor, and stepped out of them and left them where they were. She started to pull the white panties down, but then appeared to change her mind. Vincent knew he was dangerously close, but he didn’t want to finish before the film clip did. The dancer, hands on her hips, walked over to one side of the dressing screen with an exaggerated sway, keeping her back turned to her audience. Then, she turned to face the lens again, and with a fluid, feline motion, she dropped the panties down to her ankles and stood for a proud moment showing off her muff, which was covered in luxurious, dark curls. An instant later, she kicked the panties away and disappeared behind the dressing screen with a balletic leap, and the film ended.
He was just… about… to—
The woman in the film never would have believed that, one day, people would carry wireless, miniature telephones in their pockets.
It was right then that Vincent’s went off.
Grumbling, he leant forward and grabbed his jeans off the floor to retrieve his cell phone from the pocket. This had better be important…
As it turned out, it was *very* important. It was a text from Azalea, which read, *hi, vince, i just got home. u want 2 cum over? (;*
He texted back, *i’m on my way, angel.*
Rather than finish what he’d started right there, he signed off, got dressed, and found his keys as quickly as he could. No real man would pass up such an invitation in favor of spending himself all over his own hand.
Besides, there was nothing like… anticipation.