I’ve been gone for a month.

It’s best to come back with a bang.

Yes, that’s a pun.

I’ve been promising to do the Panda Gang Bang for a while.

Today is the day.

This stars Ashli Orion. And, James Deen in a Panda Suit. If you can recognize Deen by the Peen alone, I salute you. It’s the lowest rated offering over at Bound Gang Bangs, last time I looked, and it made quite the splash last year.

Choice comments from the peanut gallery:

“I didn’t find out I was doing the panda porn until I got to Kink that morning. I got off the plane and I saw Princess Donna and she was like “guess what, we’re going to do a panda porn!” and I was like are you serious? Oh my gosh. Because it was Gang Bang, so I was like pandas? This is gonna be great.” Full interview can be found here.

Seriously, that is a hell of a thing to spring on a person. “By the way, later? We are totes doing furry porn. Neat right?”

Trust me. This is the final frontier.

“Yay?”

The real question here, is why pandas?

No one ever calls this thing anything but ‘The Panda Gang Bang.”

Our premise: Ashli passes out watching a nature program about panda mating. Like you do.

Ashli starts to see pandas every where.

At the bank.

“But pandas are supposed to be niiiiice?!”

At school.

“Fuck your book!”

She goes home and decides to get some rest, but the pandas follow her…

Don’t you hate it when sexually aggressive pandas sneak up on you as you’re brushing your teeth?

She goes to bed.

“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Panda Shadow knows!”

And, then things get worse.

Oh, now she’s fucked.

I would like to remind everyone, that this a porn.

Really.

Thanks to the internet I know that someone, somewhere out there, actually jerks it to this image.

This is gang bang porn.

So… well… things are about to get a little graphic.

THE PANDAS ATTACK!

We descend.

This is where one starts to doubt their commitment to Sparkle*Motion.

Despite their panda-ness, they have man hands.

Because this is still a porn, the pandas quickly convince Ashli that, hell yes, it’s panda gang bang time.

Because mysterious porn reasons.

The proceed to the the usual gang-bangish shenanigans…

The mind wanders at times likes these. I mean, really? Why pandas? Is it because they are so notoriously low libido? Is this porn irony? Am I to make reference to Chuck Palahniuk at this point?

Yup.

Yup.

I’m going to do it.

“Pounding that kid, I really wanted to put a bullet between the eyes of every endangered panda that wouldn’t screw to save its species and every whale or dolphin that gave up and ran itself aground.”

Panda porn, people.

Really.

QUICK, WHICH ONE IS DEEN?! I’m guessing Mr. 1 o’Clock.

This shit goes on for about half an hour.

I start to wonder about things like the history of shapeshifting motifs in world mythology.

If you hold James Deen fast and fear him not, does he turn into bear?

They switch up panda positions!

Someone is losing his panda head there on the left.

You wouldn’t want your panda gang bang to get stale and repetitive, right?

Feats of strength! It must be Festivus!

The try to feed her palm fronds, because, I suppose, there isn’t any real bamboo to be had in the entire city of San Francisco.

It’s strange to me that I really consider this the moment of “commitment to craft.” I don’t know why I am more impressed with the consumption of artificial greenery, compared to the willingness to bang a herd of costumed pandas.

Being a gang bang, it ends as all gang bangs do…

How most people feel after a long ride on the Panda Express.

Then she and the pandas all take a nap, to tinkling lullaby music in a creepy minor key.

Rejected Sanrio characters.

Then comes the usual Kink.com post-interview, where Princess Donna asks, “What was the hardest part of being in a panda gang bang?”

I’ll give you a guess…

Who needs to twerk when you can Ride the Panda Head?

Yeah.

Stop! Panda time. It turns out that James Deen is the shortest panda.

Pandamonium is available at Kink.com, if you haven’t had enough panda action for one life time just from these pics.

Ya weirdo.

Bet you didn’t see Elvis riding an artichoke coming, did you?

I love a good, weird, brain stretching fictional challenge.  A large chunk of why I write fiction boils down to ‘Just to see if I can pull it off.”  I read a lot of things just to see how “weird thing” + “weird thing” works.

So, when Heather at Vagina Antics threw down an artichoke gauntlet at Jenny Lynn a thousand pervy little angels got their dirty little wings. She made artichokes sexy.

The story should be available today, through Etopia Press.

Really, the best part of all this is that Jenny appears to have actually dented into Rule 34.

If you can imagine it, there’s porn of it.

But, so far as I can tell?

There wasn’t.

You heard it here, people. Artichoke porn. Newly minted genre.

Hell yeah.

Elvis salutes you, Jenny.  He’s all shook up.

This thing is actually called “Teens Goin’ Wild 17.” It’s Brazilian, no one ever speaks, and it’s really freaking weird.

And the world needs to know about it, so that I won’t be alone in my confusion.

Honestly, this doesn’t look weird, right? This looks totally boring. IT’S A TRAP.

The film is a three part, two hour long extravaganza from 2006, but I’ll just stick to the Aspiring to Bergman portion.

Bang for buck and all.

So, we begin with… witches.  Lesbian witches.  They dance around a fire.  They bring in the new girl and strip her naked and do lesbian witch things with her.

Witches always bring beach mats to their Sabbats. Duh.

Then, for reasons that aren’t really clear, a hot Lady Vampire shows up!

Bergman would have included more leather jackets, if he’d been a pornographer.

She accepts the witch’s offering with much sneering and eye-squinting.  The camera moves around a lot.  There are filters.  There’s lots of gratuitous shots of the fire.

The vampire does her neck biting thing, and the witches appear to be cowed and terrified.

Nothing says “get your masturbatory fantasies on” like hot chick theater blood.

Now, just a reminder:  This is called Teens Goin Wild 17.

It should, by all rights, involve a lot of clearance furniture from Ikea, pigtails, and neon panties. That’s the Teens + Wild + Random Integer formula.

This is already way out of the ordinary.

And then…

The corpse arrives.

*Sad Trombone Noise*

We endure vaguely necrophilic “lingering over the dead girl” shots.

And, then!

Knights!

I don’t know why!

But… Knights!

Note the Vampire and her evil smile.

The knights fight for a while next to a lake, while distortions and extreme close-ups occur for no particular reason, until one of them is defeated.

He has no idea what’s going on.

Then we cut to The Lake of Mysteries and JC Penney bedroom sets from 1987.

I don’t even know.

The Victim and the Vampire alternate between a daylit lesbian fun time session and grooming at a vanity.

In a bed in a lake.

Dada in a swamp.

While Death and a Mime play chess.

While Death… and a Mime… play chess.

A Mime.

No, really. A Mime.

And, I think maybe I need another shot of whiskey, because holy shit.

NO, I AM NOT KIDDING.

You would need booze, too.

And, then, in the first move that actually doesn’t surprise me, the knight shows up for a little three way action.

Due to budget cuts, Death now has to wear a polyester cloak.

Eventually, Death and the Mime decide to hang out at the head of the bed, alternately watching and staring sullenly into the distance.

Because that’s not at all creepy and weird.

There’s not enough whiskey on Earth to make this okay.

Then the Vampire is bamphed a sword, which she then gets busy with.

NOT ENOUGH WHISKEY.

Even she looks a little confused.

BY THE POWER OF GREYSKULL!

This goes on for ages.

Then, POOF!

The blue filter has returned! The victim is left without even a beach mat, covered in ketchup!

BONER WILT ALERT!

We then, for some god-forsaken reason, have to go through flashbacks of the entire thing not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES IN A ROW.

Face-palm is the appropriate response, my friend.

Then, DUN DUN DUN.

The victim wakes up!

She’s confused!

As is everyone else.

Fin.

So. Yeah.

That’s just the first part. There’s also segways with apples and snakes.  Cyberpunk video hells. Lizard stroking. Not that kind. The actual reptile version.

Dude.

Not enough whiskey.

It’s not about titillation. It’s the gawking urge. It’s what kept freakshows alive. Or, reality TV.

Most weird porn is just weird for the sake of being weird. Shots set up like it’s Bergman!  Decorative lizards! Singing about magical tacos! Why is grandpa in the back of the room? What the hell is going on here?

Those are awesome.

And some of it is specialty material for the fetish market.

There is something terrifically honest about genuine fetish porn.

There’s a lot of fake fetish material out there. It’s not actually fetishistic. It’s porn with BDSM dressing. Hot chicks in chains. Dominatrixes in goofy costumes, where, in the end, the man reasserts his penis. ”Fetish” as a sex industry marketing term.

No. I am talking about the stuff that’s not actually sexy, unless you’re part of the club. It starts somewhere in the latex encasing/pet play/adult baby zone, fully includes the feet and nylon people, pure spankos, pure bondage enthusiasts, the furries and woolies, the baked goods/mud/washing machine sitters, and ends up out there in a spot where it’s possible you’re not even clued into the fact that you’re watching fap video at all.

Like balloon poppers:

Or, shoulder riders:

Or, pedal pushers:

That is an actual fetish.

If you’ve got an actual weird, out-there sort of fetish?

You’re uniquely isolated.

You’re riding the internet version of asking for the magazines wrapped up in brown paper. You’re stuck with a limited pool of people on the inside, and there’s just not an enormous amount of room for being shallow about physical appearances.

There is no pick-up line for being into genuinely weird sexual activities. You are automatically without game.

At best, you’ve got, “This is my weird thing. Please don’t leave.”

This is, of course, in comparison to people that enjoy “fetish” like it’s it’s a customization option on an electronic gadget–they want the black one that plays industrial ringtones. BDSM lifestylers. People with scene names. Conspicuous collars and goofy sets of rules and “earning your leathers” and Gor. Talks about “true” this and that.  Bragging about your credentials. “Munches.”  The whole hideously generic social “scene,” complete with predictably stylized attempts at seduction. That’s not really about “fetish.” It’s a flavor. It’s about game. Which is why it’s so rife with men that send the “get on your knees, bitch” email out en masse. And 18 year old boys that insist they’re “dominant” because they like the idea of getting blow jobs on demand.

It’s “fetish” the way that Suicide Girls is “alternative.”

So, you know, I run across these people that have these really weird, out there sorts of fetishes, and yes, sometimes I flinch. And, sometimes I cock my head to one side and just marvel at the oddity. And, sometimes I just don’t get it at all.

But, you know, even if I am flinching or gawking or totally confused, I have to salute the commitment. I can respect someone owning their sexuality. It’s brave. Even if I don’t get it.