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)

Throughout adulthood, the amount of time I’ve spent viewing porn is really dictated by a precise alignment of planets: 1. the primal urge strikes, 2. no one’s home, and 3. hey, look, there’s a computer. Any combination of two of these conditions may be present at given moment, but the absence of the third negates any sort of follow through. In other words, perfect alignment is indeed a rare occurrence, which ultimately is to say I don’t go foraging around in porn sites that often. But even if I did there are three factors rooted in prior experience that consistently put a damper on being able to enjoy the experience as others might.

Influence 1: Living in North Korea

The first of these factors stems from my childhood growing up under the specter of hardcore Evangelical religious beliefs, which if you’ve never experienced such oppressive bliss, is a great deal like living in North Korea, complete with little dictators sporting irreparably bad haircuts. According to the regime engaging in such innocent activities as dancing, listening to secular music, and going to the movies were crimes against the state as was the wearing of any article of clothing that hung above the knee.

By these standards then, sexual intercourse, and by extension, pornography were so grievous they were not to be even spoken of. Furthermore, with every adult authority figure lurking like the secret police around the corners at my school, the State did everything it could to repress the demonic hormonal urges yearning to be exorcised from our bodies. In an ironic sense it could be said that their tactics were effective given that every student spent every minute of our morning prayer time, from 7th grade until graduation, silently pleading with God to hold off on the Rapture long enough for them to experience the joy of sex at least once in their life.  

Technically speaking it’s probably some form of PTSD that, 30 plus years later, still resurrects the notion that even if the Christian Party isn’t peeking through my windows the instant I click through a porn site, God is. Ludicrous, I know especially when compared to the more realistic possibly of my parents catching me as a teen which, oddly, never worried me too much even when I was found out. Not that being caught didn't embarrass me to the point of death. And yes, it came with a serious discussion about the wrongness of objectifying women, but in the case of my mother, not before being preceded by a much harsher admonishment to keep it away from my father because she couldn’t put up with two solid weeks of him acting “twitterpated” as she often referred to it. Even at 14, the subtlety in her words was not lost on me. 

Influence 2: Occupational Hazard

The second factor affecting the enjoyment of porn relates directly to my job as a digital marketer. In my line of work I have a trained eye that’s quick to identify the shortcomings of a perspective client’s website and online marketing tactics. I’ve been doing this for so long I can shut it off even when it comes to porn sites. Keywords missing in the URL structure, not using alt-tags for pictures, too many flash elements—that’ll get you penalized by Google’s ranking algorithm. I once tried to open a video on one sub-par page and it had to buffer! Hello, 2002 called. It wants its website back.  

And yet, for the few sites that get it wrong, the vast majority I’ve come across nail it. They know their audience; the layout makes for easy navigation to find content; their keyword strategy keeps them ranked on the 1st page of search results; there are forms to collect lead information for follow up (albeit pushy) marketing campaigns; and social media buttons are present to share content with your friends (although, I don’t know anyone who would do this, and I’d probably unfriend them if they did).

I’ll stop with the technical jargon, but in short, it astounds me that multi-million dollar companies with full marketing departments and experienced marketing executives can’t grasp these fundamental strategies, and yet a couple of skeevy college dropouts with a moderate amount of programming skills are absolutely crushing it from the dark confines of their parent’s basement in between hits from a bong.

The issue, though, is that there have been more than a few instances when my original viewing intent took a back seat to my suddenly taking notes on tactics that could be adapted for clients. I’m not kidding when I say I’ve seriously considered the pros and cons of showing several of these porn sites to potential clients to demonstrate just how far behind the eight ball their companies are. In fact, I would content that if prostitution is the oldest profession, then Internet porn is the oldest form of digital marketing.

Influence 3: Satan's Girlfriend

The final factor influencing my viewing of porn is again rooted in my teen years. Like every 15 year-old boy, my simmering hormones were ready to boil over at any minute simply from the notion of catching the slightest glimpse of a breast, or inner thigh, or hell, in those days I would’ve been satisfied with a delicately shaved armpit.
     
Those natural adolescent desires were fulfilled by my cousin (allow me to finish this sentence before jumping to any conclusions) who had a talent for sneaking into his older brother’s room to pilfer from the abundant stash of porno mags hidden neatly away under the bed. During the summer once everyone had left for work, the two of us would lounge around his living room wordlessly flipping through pages, ogling the centerfolds with a mix of awe and tight-lipped befuddlement as to what to even do with a naked woman should she be sitting in the Microsuede La-z-boy across the room from us.

It should be noted that these particular periodicals were no Playboy, exuding sophistication and catering to the modern gentleman. These were more of the variety encased in greasy, impenetrable plastic sheaths and leering suggestively from the top shelves of display racks found in convenience stores with questionable cleaning practices and colorful language carved into the restroom walls. I don’t remember the magazine’s exact title, but it was along the lines of “Cherry” or “Spank” or one of those other libidinous publications that rely on crude one-word double entendres in an attempt to be clever without challenging the critical thinking skills of the trucker and trailer park demographic that formed the majority of their target audience.

Whenever a new issue appeared, my cousin and I would sit side by side, each making our own silent evaluation of the models until I would pensively announce, “ready” at which time my cousin would reverently turn the page to reveal yet another blonde or brunette or ever exotic red head, their smooth exposed flesh splayed alluring and unabashed from corner to corner across the page.

On the surface, nothing, and I mean nothing was left to the imagination. This might have been more than enough for most boys my age, but not me. Call it a quirk, but I couldn’t merely accept what I was viewing for what it was. Without some context I just wasn’t buying it, and so as a remedy to my unusual conundrum, I devised stories to go along with the pictures.

Perhaps it was a stressed out teacher (Incidentally, stressed out teachers and librarians were often my go-to persona of choice since these were basically the only two jobs women could find in my small town until Wal-Mart came to town.) who was enjoying a much needed weekend relaxing at the pool when she decided she'd avoid tan lines by removing her bikini. Admittedly my creativity was often challenged by what these stressed out teachers and librarians began to do to their bodies once their outfits came off. Even so, by the time my cousin asked if I was ready I’d have a fairly solid character arc going. “Ready,” I’d answer.

And that brings us to the afternoon when the page slowly fell to the side, exposing me to the most awkward and revolting image I had ever seen in my life. Staring up at me through thick dark eyeliner was the nude figure of what appeared to be a woman who by the menacing smile on her blackened lips seemed to be responding to my horrified expression.

My reaction wasn’t due to her glossy thigh-high leather boots with murderous six-inch heels or her equally black hair pulled austerely into a pony tail that reminded me of a scorpion’s stinger, nor was it the matching leather whip she held eagerly wanting to snap at me from beyond the page. Although, not exactly my cup of tea per se, I at least could grasp the whole mean-girl get up. What truly frightened me, however, was the eight inch, fully erect flesh cannon attached to her as naturally as if on a man, the sight of which caused me to gasp noticeably. Adding to my trauma was the fact that I couldn’t manage to avert my eyes from the page. It was simultaneously repulsive and yet utterly fascinating at the same time. She was what I imagined Satan’s girlfriend would look like assuming the devil had a love life.

After the initial shock wore off I noticed the unambiguous deading at the top of the page—"Chicks with…" (rhymes with sticks, starts with D). The implied suggestion that more than one of these “chicks” existed fueled the wave of nausea already rising within me. It was at this exact moment in my life when I realized that the world was evil.

Doing my best to sound bored, I excused myself explaining that I was going to go play Combat on the Atari in the other room to which my cousin responded with an unconcerned shrug that told me he was glad not to have to wait for me to invent backstories for the centerfolds before turning the page.

The Rules of Porn

Of these major experiences, I can say I'm actually thankful for this last one. The searing trauma of Beelzebub's babe resulted in an evolving set of unpublished (until now) rules that govern what porn I deem acceptable.

Rule #1: Nothing unnatural. To each their own, but for me this is non-negotiable. Conservatively speaking eliminates roughly 83% of the material out there including you-know-who.

Rule #2: Nothing cheesy. This means no movie parodies, wearing cheaply made sexy Halloween costumes, and anything occurring in outer space.

Rule #3: Location, location, location. If the backdrop is a stained, tattered couch in a frat house, or next to a backyard swimming pool in a subdivision built before Jimmy Carter took office, then I’m out.

Rule #4: No cartoons. As a parent this form of porn is unsettling on many levels and for obvious reasons which is why the perfectly animated likeness of Elsa giving Olaf’s repositioned carrot oral pleasure, (what kind of sicko likes this stuff?) has given me yet another reason to avoid watching Frozen or to build a snowman.

Rule #5: Only 2 people. Just no.

Rule #6: No looking directly at the camera. That totally weirds me out.

Rule #7 (and it’s a big one): NO MEN ALLOWED. Permit me a moment to elaborate here. Frankly, I find men in porn films laughable. My first thought is always, “No one can last that long,” which of course is followed by an unsettling doubt that maybe that it is normal and it’s just me with the problem. But on another level, there’s something uncomfortable and degrading about the way men seem to treat women in pornos which does not sit well with me at all given my feminist leanings.

Rule #8: Toys--you know, as I think about it my list has grown to be quite extensive over the years, and perhaps, for confusion’s sake it might be better if I explained instead what actually does fit my preferences. For starters, if you quickly review my earlier stipulations then you should be able to deduce that I have very specific tastes, but even that’s only the half of it.

About the best way I can describe what I like is if Nicholas Sparks wrote lesbian porn that could be made into movies. Something to the effect of two lovers who kindled their romance in their youth, but circumstances, say for example, belonging to different classes of society, keeps them from being together. Years pass and war comes, making them only memories in one another’s hearts. Then, as if by fate, the one sees a newspaper story telling of how her first love rebuilt a stunning home near the river just as she promised when they were together all those many summers long ago. The gesture is too much to resist and the lovers are dramatically reunited despite the odds. Now they are passionately kissing in the rain. Now they are in the bedroom. Now, they are—you get the idea.

Granted, most porn videos, on average, run about 20 minutes give or take minus the credits, which does make it difficult to cram in that much rising action before the climax (pun not intended). Still, I have to at least be convinced of the possibility that a scenario like this is entirely plausible, that and it also helps if you can make me believe both women are highly educated and have successful careers because, again, feminism.

The Truth About Porn

Given everything I’ve just shared it’s entirely understandable that you might be wondering why I’m expounding upon the gory details behind my personal history and preferences pertaining to porn. I mean, after all, is this not a “dad blog,” one I intend for my sons to read at some point in the future? Yes, that’s absolutely true, and this post in particular is one I hope they happen upon. I hope they laugh. I hope they can relate. I hope they understand they are not alone in their own experiences. But I hope, too, that they see how open I am, and I hope it makes them feel safe in approaching me about this or any other taboo topic. That, however, is not my only motivation behind this post.

In light of my recent relationship status, or lack thereof depending on how you view it, those planets I mentioned earlier tend to be aligning more than usual. That’s not to say I’ve been wasting copious hours searching for Nicholas Sparks-inspired lesbian porn, but the increased opportunities have given me more cause to reflect on the topic. I wasn’t exactly sure why until a bleak, rainy Saturday several weeks ago when the appeal of navigating through a few erotic sites seemed a worthwhile endeavor. 

Of course for reasons already mentioned, it took me a while to find material that met my standards, but eventually I located a few pearls from among the swine that I could sit back and enjoy. However, after a few minutes, I stopped focusing on the action, and began staring intently past the computer screen instead.  A sudden dull ache seemed to be eating away at my insides, yanking back a curtain that exposed porn for what it really was—an illusion that taunted me with the reminder of what I don't have in my life currently. As the rain outside beat against the window, I was keenly aware of the depths of my loneliness. 

Being alone hurts, but porn (or any number of other distractions) is nothing more than snake oil that not only fails to remedy that dull ache, but also intensifies it. I gave this realization a moment to sink in, and once it did the earlier appeal faded. Leaning forward I closed out the windows on my computer before the video ever made it to what might have been a very promising second act. The dull ache, however, remained like the ringing in your ears after an explosion. Somehow I knew this feeling would last for a long while until time permitted it to fade. It was a truth I would have to accept if I ever wanted to move on with my life. Relocating to the couch, I turned on the Xbox and started playing Modern Warfare.      


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