Put Marilyn Monroe on YouJizz: A Plea for Internet Porn

Sex versus porn, two erotic extremes

I reject prejudice against pornography. There is an idea that adult film on the internet desensitizes an individual, making him a stranger to real human contact. I submit an alternative view. Watching pornography should not be interpreted as a surrogate, back-up pleasure. Instead, consider watching pornography an unique erotic experience which has nothing to do with actual sex between people.

Perhaps the best way to describe what I mean is with an example. One afternoon, I had energetic, rough, totally satisfying sex. After my partner left, I lay in bed, smiling, lazy, in pleasant reminiscence of what had happened not more than an hour ago.

Pretty soon, I had another erection (thinking about what we had done). I opened a browser on my computer. I slid on my headphones. The cool leather felt good on my ears. My hands glided across the keyboard, typing in an URL. A page opened. Little boxes displayed still images of women and men blowing, fucking, hitting, choking, spitting, wielding fascinating instruments of purple, pink and green.

I opened a curious window that gave way to two women inserting the ends of large plastic pipettes into one another’s asses, squirting the liquid out onto the other’s face. One moaned surrender, while the other squirmed and grunted with pleasure. I had never seen anything like it before, and that strangeness alone was enough to make me come.

Thinking about this experience, I immediately realize how it is absolutely nothing like the experience of having sex. The two acts (masturbating with porn and sex) bear little resemblance to one another aside from the final moment when you climax.

When I have sex I thrust all of myself into the other person. My total being focuses on overwhelming her, and vice versa. In between us is a tension which our aggressive movements battle to relieve. The ideal would be to merge with one another, obliterating any and all distinction. When we climax, there is a moment of bliss, Jouissance, in which we believe that ideal has been achieved. We melt together. In time, lines are redrawn, and we’re both once again ourselves. Calmer, happier, more assured, versions of ourselves.

Watching pornography could not be more different. Ideally, when I watch porn I want to lose myself, surrendering to something that’s totally alien. I don’t want to fuck someone until there’s no difference between us. I find pleasure in giving myself up to a grotesque machine, an electric spectacle. What’s sexy is not the women and men that are filmed, but the act of filming them, and all the perverse little steps it takes for their gross image to appear on my laptop. And all the peripheral dirt. I relish the sidebar clips with the choppy video. I relish the freakish flashing text: “Anime Monster Destroying Virgins.” “Bossy Women Humiliating Men.” I like the live chat videos that pop-up uninvited with bedridden ghost women staring deep into their webcam, no idea who’s looking back.

Getting off to pornography should involve no illusion. When I watch it, I don’t try to imagine I’m doing anything else. Instead, I aim to take the reality of what I’m doing to its naughtiest extremes. Swallowed by the fuck box, drowned in the networking obscene.

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