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Camp, according to Wikipedia, is “an aesthetic sensibility that regards something as appealing or humorous because of its ridiculousness to the viewer.”

Doesn’t sound much like porn, does it? Of course, if you Google “pornography” and “camp”  you’ll mostly find news items about molestations at summer camp, so maybe we’re not quite ready to be applying ideas of camp to our erotic consumptions.

Only we do. We really do.

Porn is, for lack of a better word, campy, even at its most ball-bustingly gonzo. Hustler is second only to MAD magazine in the number of cheesy parodies it puts out each year. The most expensive porn flick ever produced was a goofy satire.

Why the long association? I can only assume it has something to do with sex being, fundamentally, a really enjoyable activity. Like comedy, it makes us smile (and then some). Good smut should reward you at least as much as a witty joke, and it relies on many of the same stimuli to do it.

If you can’t get into camp I don’t think you should be getting into porn. The genre’s most time-honored tropes and traditions are those of the absurd and farcical: housewives opening doors to plumbers and pizza delivery men in their lingerie.

(The housewives are in their lingerie, that is. Though I can certainly see a niche market out there for rugged plumbers in lingerie.)

My own work winks at the audience — my first commercially-available title (which we will have links to in about a week now) is titled Space Station of the Sluts, and that gives you a good idea of how seriously I’m taking the whole thing. It is the kind of porn where, when there is a giant red button labeled DO NOT PRESS, you can safely count on someone to press it.

And then get fucked by robots or something, in all likelihood, but I do try to make it funny. The best porn always does.