The Porn that Got Away
PrintI've spent the better part of my adult life in and out of relationships, which run the gamut anywhere from "I can't live without you" to "I'm only dating you because I don't want to be alone on my birthday." What I've taken from all of these magical and almost always painful experiences is that, while people come and go, and while love blossoms and fades — there is one thing that is truly forever, and that is pornography.
My fondness for porn was forged during my time spent as a hormone-saturated preteen. The night that the puberty fairy visited the Miles household, I was transformed from altar boy to horn-dog. My sole purpose in life became to hunt down any and all depictions of the scantily clad. Growing up in a strict Catholic home meant there were slim pickings available, so I was forced to improvise. I spent countless hours scouring encyclopedias, art history books, and issues of National Geographic. Frederick's of Hollywood catalogs were gold if I could intercept them before my mother threw them away, but in a pinch an Eddie Bauer catalog would do. I realized I had reached a low point in my life when I looked up the word "genitals" in the dictionary.
And then something magical happened. Just as I began to realize that there was nothing either pleasurable or ironic about masturbating to the Britannica article on masturbation, an amazing new invention was brought into our house — one designed solely for the purpose of channeling unadulterated smut straight to our nation's youth. We called it "the Internet."
Suddenly I had every act of sexual depravity available at my fingertips. And while there was nothing in the world I wanted to do more than sit and stare at naked people, the constant hovering of parents and siblings, the pressures of deleting cached files and clearing search histories, all of it was just too much for me. So it wasn't until my second year of college, when I was finally equipped with my own computer in my own room, that I felt free to download all the sick and wanton things I had been dying to see. Much of it I didn't even find arousing, but there was something so intrinsically fascinating about a man having sex with a parrot that I just couldn't stop.
Over the next several years, I downloaded porn until my computer dragged itself at the speed of an arthritic one-legged monkey. It was so corrupted by massive files and viruses that opening up a Word document would take 15-plus minutes, while my computer made a noise similar to that of a coffee grinder. I took it as a sign that perhaps I had gone a tad overboard. An IT-savvy friend informed me that the damage could only be resolved by reformatting my hard drive – effectively erasing everything that I had spent so much time collecting.
In a desperate act to save what I could, I took a friend's last six blank recordable DVDs, and with the little juice my overloaded computer could spare, I filled each one with some of my favorite video files. I labeled each "CHRIS' PORN" in big bold red letters, and numbered them 1 through 6. When I was done, I wiped my computer clean, and vowed never to download pornography again. It had nearly destroyed my computer, so the small remnant of my once extensive collection would have to do.
Over the next few years, I became very familiar with each disc's distinct personality. Disc 2 was good for a subdued evening. Nothing too earth-shattering, just a lot of moderately attractive people doing missionary in beds. If I wanted something a little more challenging, Disc 4 had some intense plot lines — one involving repair men at a summer camp, another a comedy of errors involving identical twins.
As time progressed, however, one disc stood out as a clear favorite. Disc 5 was leagues ahead of the others. The stars must have been aligned when I burned it. I worried that eventually I would grow tired of it, but the more I watched it, the more I loved it. There was something about it that made everything seem better. The actors seemed more alluring. Orgasms appeared to be more intense. Asses were somehow less pimply. Plotlines involving job interviews and deliverymen seemed more believable. Ukrainian accents seemed less Ukrainian. There were times that while having sex, I found myself fantasizing about sitting at my computer, watching Disc 5.
After I graduated, I packed up everything I owned into the back of my station wagon and dumped the boxes into my parents' garage. When I found an apartment in New York, I packed back up and moved it all again. As I settled into my new place, I looked forward to being reunited with my pornography collection. I found discs 1 and 4 hidden in a box of school supplies. Disc 2 was tucked away into one of my psychology textbooks, and discs 3 and 6 were stuffed in my CD case behind the Austin Powers 2 soundtrack. But Disc 5 was nowhere to be found.
My initial response was pure denial. I told myself that it had to be somewhere. Perhaps I'd find it the next time I tried to watch Short Circuit 2, or when I opened up my Introduction to Gender Studies textbook. As I tore through the rest of my belongings to find it, denial turned into anger. In a fit of rage, I smashed Disc 3 (Multicultural Pornography) against my desk. If I couldn't have my favorite disc, I didn't even want to look at the others. Over the next few months, I cycled through the remainder of Kübler-Ross' stages of grief, until I finally reached acceptance. Disc 5 was gone, and it was never coming back.
Looking back on it now, it seems silly how upset I was. I probably should have been more concerned that there was a misplaced CD somewhere in the world labeled "Chris' Porn — Disc 5" (I'm not sure what's more embarrassing; the fact that I felt the need to label my pornography so obviously, or that "Disc 5" implied it was only part of a larger anthology).
I would be lying if I told you that I no longer enjoy a good porno-flick every once in a while. However, these days watching two destitute and emaciated Eastern-Europeans banging it out just doesn't excite me the way it used to. Maybe it has something to do with the dwindling amount of hormones pulsing through my body. Perhaps it's related to the fact that I have had enough hands-on experience with the subject that watching it on a computer screen seems unsatisfying in comparison.
But the truth is that, after Disc 5, pornography will simply never be as good again. I guess that's what happens when you lose something you truly loved. It permanently changes you. It alters the fabric of your being. You can never return to the person you were before. In this case, though, I can't say that's necessarily a bad thing.
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