Five Things I Hate about Porn and Why I Hate Myself for Loving it

“So what have you been doing all day?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean what do I mean?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I’m a big freaking loser.”

“No you’re not!” says Deb. “You’re not a loser!”

“Yes I am.”

“Did you write?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re not a loser! You wrote! Now, if you were online gambling all day and watching porn, then you’d be a loser.”

I stare off through the window into the backyard, trying to strike the pose of a winner.

“I didn’t gamble,” I say.

I can’t help it. I’ll do anything to avoid writing. I check my email. Empty. I check Facebook. Nothing. And then I stare at my screen. All that power. I could look up anything in the world and have a whole plethora of answers instantly. I could study Chaing Kai-sheck. I could learn about the Great Wall. Or the history of the War of the Roses. If I wanted to hear Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata played by the Cuban American All-Stars, I could probably do that. No problem. But somehow it’s not enough. Is there no more reason to delay? Is there no answer here on the internet? Does nobody have anything to say to me in particular?

All I need to do is press the R button with the pointer on the search bar and the website redtube.com comes up. I used to go to youporn, but I found that redtube has higher quality porn. Most of it I have come to find disgusting. Guys with incredibly huge penises banging away on women who say, “Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah.” Or, “Give me that big, hard cock! That’s right! Give me that cock!” You can tell they’re not having fun. They’re certainly nowhere in the neighborhood of orgasm. And their pubis is always waxed clean. They look like little girls with huge tits. It’s incredibly perverse and, at the same time, the norm.

A woman comes into an office. The “casting couch,” they call it. She thinks, ostensibly, that she’s interviewing for a job modeling, and by the end of the fifteen minutes, she engaging in anal sex with the interviewer with his cameraman coming in for a close-up of the action.

A woman gets into a taxi. She’s wearing a miniskirt and a tight sweater. She wants to go to Piccadilly Square. She’s not sure where it is. Because she’s from France. She’s surprised to find that the fee for the taxi ride is very high. She is unprepared for that high fee. What can she do? She can suck the taxi drivers cock and then take it up the ass is what she can do. Never mind all the cameras in the fake taxi cab. They’re just for security.

A woman wearing fishnets answers the door. It’s the piano tuner.

A secretary is called into her boss’ office.

A woman in a fake fur coat is walking down the sidewalk is propositioned by a guy carrying a video camera. If she shows him her tits, he’ll pay her five thousand rubles. And she winds up completely naked somewhere performing sexual acts in a fake-moaning, perfunctory manner.

I hate this porn. I don’t even want to see any more of it. The huge dicks. The waxed pubis. The fake tits. The fake enthusiasm. The misogynistic men and women. The spankings. “I’m a bad girl.” The public intercourse.

I get sick of this shit and I want to get back to something resembling real life, so I search the word amateur. What I get is more professional sex, the cameraman too aggressive; the poor girl a bit shy and I end up feeling sorry for her.

I hate it all. And I’m disgusted with myself for hitting the R button. And yet I go there often enough so my computer knows about it and finishes typing the address for me.

I hate this type of porn the way I hate people who are overly aggressive and competitive on the highways; yet I watch sports.

I hate it the way I hate fast food; yet I eat it.

I hate the way we’re reliant on fossil fuels; yet I’m reliant on fossil fuels.

German porn, for the record, seems to be a little bit better. More husbands and wives. Normal people who set up cameras before they have sex with each other. Checking the camera every now and then for framing. The women actually seeming to enjoy it.

“What do you mean you didn’t gamble?” says Deb.

“Like I said. I didn’t gamble.”

“So you watched porn?”

“No,” I say. “Yeh.”

“Should I be jealous?” She says.

“No!” I say, laughing. “Why would you be jealous?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Why should I be?”

“She didn’t mean anything to me,” I say.

But I know this isn’t the absolute truth. She did mean a little bit to me. Just for those brief moments. Before the moment of truth. When she was wiggling around beneath the slightly overweight, normally-endowed guy I’m guessing to be her husband and making noises and not saying stupid, slutty, unbelievable things like, “Oh yeah. Give me that giant cock!”

What I’m trying to say (and I hope you don’t think I’m being highbrow here), is I like German porn videos more than American or Russian or British ones. They seem more honest. More poignant. And I did care about that slightly overweight brunet for a few minutes.

Before.

But not after.

The instant things were finalized, she became a bit ridiculous and vain. Who would watch this type of shit? And I banished her with the click of an icon. Goodbye, Hilda! And I wondered if I’d gotten any mail in the last ten minutes. Had anyone liked one of my music video postings or invited me to play Candy Crush Saga or posted anything on my wall?

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