There was a time when the portmanteau term “cumshot” wasn’t a fixture in the English lexicon.
Before mass media forms made us intrinsically self-aware of our appearances and physical prowesses, it’s doubtful the male climax carried the visual wallop it does now. More likely it was internalized — regardless of the sexual pairing — and not subject to the self-direction and theatricality that it is now.
Porn forever changed how we have sex. Thanks to the visual medium of sex, we’re aware of how to frame, position, and pace the act. Certainly the bulk of our sexual fantasies are staged just like fuck flicks, with awkward transitions edited out and big finishes lensed at ideal angles in the porn shoots of our minds. That’s not necessarily wholly bad or good; it could be argued that porn has created unrealistic expectations and a glut of camera-fetishizing narcissists, but I can say it helped me figure out exactly what I want, who I want if from, and how I want it.
It’s not enough to just hit the mark anymore — you have to time the big finish, choose what body part you want to land it on, and really deliver a gusher of a crescendo. The element of performance — of offering a bravura turn — now preoccupies us. I remember seeing a stand-up act on TV in which a comedian related how everyone in L.A. was an aspiring star; when he stopped at a gas station, even the attendant told him he was an actor, and he knew exactly what sort when he finished pumping, pulled out of the tank, and proceeded to spray all over the windshield. (read the full article)