Are we really looking at Natalie Portman’s vag?

Maybe.

I can’t tell you for sure, but I think the dude had a pretty good view. One thing I can tell for sure from the second image is that he was having a really good time in this scene from the newly released May-December. Among all the duties an actor might be asked to perform, one of the cushier assignments is showing one’s dick while viewing a bottomless, open-legged Natalie Portman.

In other frames it’s obvious that he’s sportin’ a full erection, which they chose not to censor.

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10 thoughts on “Are we really looking at Natalie Portman’s vag?

  1. Sorry, but if this is a mainstream movie, then I’m not even convinced that’s a real dick. You don’t just get to casually rub your erect junk against an another actor – especially not Natalie Portman. My bet is that they’re both wearing studio mandated ‘scandal avoiding’ prosthetics.

  2. I’m calling “modesty garment” on her. You can see a difference in flesh tone in that bottom frame.

    There’s an intimacy coordinator on Instagram that covers this stuff. It’d be a very skin tight piece of material tacked over the pubes, like a stringless g-string, covering the vulva. So what you’re seeing in the top shot is a barest outline of lips or strip.

    1. Yup, James Franco got in the shit (deservedly so) for having his female acting students remove them.

  3. Netflix never censors penises but they do love to censor vaginas. Netflix’s dick agenda has been getting out of control in the last two years.

    1. You comment that sort of thing a lot. “Agendas” and all that BS.
      It’s okay, dude, it’s 2023, kick that closet open.

      1. Already taken.

        Here’s an excerpt from the immortal masterpiece, “Trouble On My Agenda”:

        It was a cold night in a cold town. I was weary from the day and ready for a drink. I poured one, then another, and through a haze of cheap hooch, my glance turned to the name on the door. It still said “Agenda and Fist.” I smiled to myself, remembering that Rocky Fist’s real name was Chad Pfister. That doesn’t matter now because he’s taking a dirt nap, thanks to some cheap mug unloading a roscoe in his direction. There’s no more Pfister, no more Fist. The agency is just me, Dick Agenda.

        I was alone in the office, as I always am now, when she walked in. The light isn’t good by the doorway, so I couldn’t see her face, but I could make out her shape, even in the dim light, and I got a whiff of her from clear across the room. She meant to show me she was a classy skirt.

        “Mr. Fist, I need your help.”

        “Fist can’t help you. He’s … retired. I’m Agenda, Dick Agenda.”

        “I need help, Mr. Agenda. If you can do the job, I don’t care about your name.”

        “That’s good, because I was thinking of changing it. What do you think of the name Sherlock?”

        “Are you going to help me, or are you going to pretend to be witty?”

        “Depends on what you need. If it’s too messy, I’ll go with the bad jokes.”

        “My name is Hortense Troublé, and I think my father is trying to kill me. Is that too messy for you, Mr. Agenda?”

        In my line of work I don’t meet a lot of dolls named Hortense. There are mostly a bunch of broads named after flowers and months, and maybe a Trixie or two. Hortense – I don’t know. But trouble – that I know when I see it. She may have pronounced it “Troo-BLAY,” like a fancy dame, but I knew she was just plain Trouble.

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