In the Key of Porn

Leave a thirty-year-old guy at home for any period of time greater than one hour, and he's going to look at porn. At least, I hope he is because, if he isn't, than I'm abnormal-- and we all know how much people dislike being abnormal.

I hope that what I do is normal. And, when I'm alone for more than one hour, T.W.B.P.

Yes, that means, "There Will Be Porn."

There will also be blogging, of course which, for me, is like porn. A little bit. I am wearing trousers right now. I swear to God.

Some people say that married men who look at porn are essentially cheating on their wives. I do not subscribe to this rather narrow and puritanical school of thought. If I did, I would be even more overcome with guilt than I already am-- about lots of things. About nothing in particular. I even feel guilty about feeling guilty.

I do not, however, feel guilty about looking at porn.

My wife knows. I am transparent. When the internet history has been cleared, she knows. She jokes with me about it. Thank God we have this kind of relationship, or I would have to be all secretive about it, and I hate secrets. When people tell me secrets, I keep them, but I'm not very enthusiastic about it. In fact, I'm kind of hoping I slip up and say something to someone about the secret, but I never do. Because then I'd feel guilty about it.

And then I'd have to punish myself for that guilt by, you know, looking at some porn.

They say that porn objectifies women. I think it celebrates them. When I see a really good streaming vid online, I sometimes nod my head and make that, "Wow, I'm impressed" face at the monitor which, to me, is akin to pinning a medal on a soldier's wool coat. I mean, these individuals are providing an excellent service. They're going all out. They're taking those money shots and donning their pearl necklaces with pride. And the ones who are really good at what they do (you know who I'm talking about and, if you don't, well, you should) are skilled artisans. And not just the performers, either. The camerapeople, too, are to be credited. I'll never forget the first porno I watched. I was probably twelve or so, and I was at a sleepover at my friend Michael's house, and one of the first shots of the film was taken from behind some hairy dude's ass, at crotch level, while a pair of furry balls slapped mercilessly into this chick's thighs as she was drilled from behind, and the camera couldn't have been more than two inches away from this guy's bouncies. Everyone in the room, ensconsed inside their polyester sleeping bags, was dead silent. I, of course, broke the silence.

"Wow-- can you imagine being that camera guy? What a job!"

I mean, seriously-- people get paid for that. And, even at twelve, that pretty much blew my mind.

Some people dream about sex. I dream about porn. Last night, I had a dream that I was sitting at my computer, watching porn. That's kind of fucked up, don't you think? I dreamt that I was watching this dude lying face-up on a table and this tattooed chick was riding the squirt out of him. I mean, this chick was doing the reverse-cowgirl thing, just absolutely going to town and she was gritting her teeth as she was saying, I guess to the "camera":

"The trick is to pretend like you're enjoying it!"

And, in my dream, hearing this was like some sort of stunning revelation, and the dream-self of me was thinking, "Oh my God-- you mean it's all an act? She's not really enjoying getting drilled like some sort of highway works project? Jeez!"

Who fucking knew.