Porn: A Personal History

I am by no means a porn fiend. I have no enslaving compulsions that keep me shackled in front of a computer screen pulsating with digital smut. In fact, my feelings about porn in general are on par with the same ambivalence I reserve for the release of another Fast and Furious movie, which is probably the reason why the whole idea of porn addiction baffles me.

I’m not denying that pornography has tragically ruined lives, marriages, and families. It's just that when I think of addiction I envision gaunt junkies shooting up the second they get out of bed in the morning or douchey Wall Street brokers snorting lines in the company washroom during lunch—quick fixes that keep you high throughout your day. In contrast, it seems to me watching porn would require something of a significant time commitment, and who can free up those kind of hours these days? By the same token, another part of me, the part that tends to gravitate to morbidly extreme consequences, views addiction within the context of death. With drugs, you can OD. Alcoholics can get cirrhosis of the liver. Cigarettes lead to cancer. And porn? Heart attack maybe? Friction burn?

To be fair I’m not downplaying the reality of porn addiction. I’m only saying I don’t understand the mindset much the same way I don’t understand why anyone would take anything that comes out of Ann Coulter's mouth seriously or how so many viewers could manage to keep The Mentalist running on TV for seven seasons. Then again I have so much wrong with the dysfunctional chemical fruit salad that is my brain, a porn addiction might be welcome change. (Click on the title to read more)

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