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Pornography is a many-splendored thing. It heals, it enriches, it enlivens…your genitals. Actually, I’m not sure how it would heal your junk if you get it caught in a door or whatever. But hey, I’m not ruling it out. Porn is one of the top seven awesome things that exist.
Now, although Becky and Jess asked me specifically to write about porn—meaning that they thought me a pathetic enough soul to have wandered amongst its riches for long enough to become a connoisseur—I have to admit I’m not really an obsessive when it comes to the subject. I don’t have a storage space filled with meticulously labeled VHS tapes or a terabyte hard drive containing Peter North’s entire oeuvre. But I do know who Peter North is (in my opinion, he makes too much noise during his performances and has a weirdly small and squarish head).
Anyway, I may have been exaggerating a bit with my first paragraph, but I respect and cherish pornography and will do my best below to offer something worthwhile.
I’m single – unlike the previous porn guest blogger – so I don’t have the whole girlfriend-porn quagmire and can deliver myself wholly and unalloyed. So double you tee eff is up with porn’s effect on a single man’s love life?
Well, it can certainly offer the path of least resistance. Most nights, I go out to meet ladies, regale them with elaborate lies about how I race cigarette boats, and then attempt to utilize their lady parts’ compatibility with my man parts. Other times, such as when I realize my vermillion silk shirt is at the cleaners, I just put my legs up, throw on soothing jungle sounds and watch seven hours of porn.
It can make you a little lazy this way. It’s like, hey, do I want to get all gussied up, hang out in a crowded, loud and dark place, just to awkwardly start an interaction that most likely will lead to mild humiliation or ambivalence? Or do I want to hit a button a few times and be presented instantly with naked, undulating hot chicks?
After a fortnight of hardcore porn immersion, though, I’m ready to get back out there. The world of internet pornography is a dark place. Sometimes you’ll be on some totally wholesome website about knitting or something, and then in two clicks you’re looking at a rhinoceros dressed as Sponge Bob Squarepants penetrating an octogenarian tranny. It’s a clearinghouse for fetishes (Mr. Potato Head, elbows, old timey boxing match scenarios) that dared not speak their name before the internet; a rabbit hole of insidious pop up windows and dishonest links and low res clips; a horn of plenty of c-list sex tapes (Lawrence Fishburne’s daughter? Really, internet, that’s the best you can do?).
And has my 15 years of porn consumption changed my expectations of how people have sex? Yes.
Before I began having sex with actual women, I thought that women only came if you had sex with them in at least eight different positions. I also thought that all women howled like banshees during sex, and learned quickly that earplugs were not necessary. I got a tattoo of barbed wire around my upper arm because I thought that if you didn’t have one, you weren’t allowed to have sex with women. Once I said “yes I like your tight pussy,” then quickly learned that I hadn’t been asked.
Sometimes I wonder if it would actually be that good to have sex with a porn star. I feel like I might just be like, “please use your inside voice and yes, I get it, you are adequately lubricated in your vaginal area. Also, what happened here, were you sown up with shoelaces?” And then there are some porn stars who make me think I don’t even know what a women is. Like Gianna Michaels. Having sex with her must be amazing and terrifying at the same time. This pale, voluptuous creature seems like she would be able to bang a heard of elephants while doing her taxes. There’s no way she hasn’t broken some poor guy’s penis bone.
After awhile, I got used to actually having sex with an actual women, and despite the pains and hassles of it all—example: I recently received a coital rug burn on my elbow because my sheets are of a paltry thread count—I do really prefer it to the self-duping and virtual world of masturbating to porn. With an actual woman, I get in touch with my cave-dwelling ancestors, whose porn sucked (stick figure glyphs on cave walls a do not a hard-on make). It makes you feel like you are an animal with an actual, corporeal body, rather than a being floating around an ethereal pleasure-cloud of constructed verisimilitude.
Actual sex – with an actual women – makes you feel like an actual man.
For more on men and porn, check out THE MAN COMES AROUND: WHY WE WATCH PORN by ThinkRootbeer
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Wally J