The Internet. It’s a veritable pornucopia.

What keeps you up at night?

It may well be an over-simplification, but in 2 words : My Brain.
“Spiffy!” you say, “but can’t you , just for the sake of your word count, plump up the description a bit, maybe into double figures?”

Well… if I *must*…

I wish I could say that in the still darkness of the night I’m contemplating the meaning of existence, but in all honesty I could just as easily be lying there musing on the inherent curliness of pubic hairs and wondering why , despite receiving the barest minimum of hair care, they’re always bizarrely shiny and conditioned-looking. Or maybe that’s just mine? I suspect I’m over-sharing again. My apologies.

Whilst I’m naturally prone to excessive and often counter-productive analysis of practically anything, sometimes I just “think about…stuff.”

For example, last night I had a rather lengthy contemplation of porn.

Now, let’s get this straight, I’m not a pornaholic. Having been introduced to it at a relatively young age there’s been a certain amount of desensitization to the whole affair that renders skin flicks less titillation and more tittering really. I can sort of understand why some folk get so embarrassed about it, but it’s not as if they’ve been caught wet-handed watching “Red Hot Butt Monkeys II” ( infinitely superior to “Red Hot Butt Monkeys I”, in my humble opinion. Much saucier banana action.)

Recommended for your post-pleasure-viewing pleasure.

That said, I do find it amusing, and always have, and find a person’s choice of viewing a perfect opportunity for a little analysis. I read once in a book, and I’m paraphrasing here, that conduct during sex is a window into the psyche, as sex isn’t a learned practice ie it’s something that has germinated in your mind over time, and not something shaped by taking notes and watching your parents. Ick. In essence what turns you on says a lot more about you than, for example, your social interaction. As a people-watcher I find this fascinating, not because your confessed goat porn addiction makes me trembly in the gusset, but because it’s another part of the jigsaw of you. OK, I admit, it’s pretty funny too, you pervert.

Naturally, the internet is a pornographer’s playground. There’s a joke that goes “If you took all the web pages that have some sort of porn on them offline the entire internet would consist of a single site – the campaign page for “Bring Back The Porn!” And there’s more than a smidgen of truth in that. On an evening of random surfing over 60% [* totally made up statistic for demonstration purposes only ] will have at the least something sexually provocative in an ad somewhere on the page. Unless you surf scrapbooking sites exclusively, in which case it’s ribbons and fabric-covered buttons that are going to crank up your engine. If these random-core advertisements are to be believed there would be a plethora of young ladies feeling lonely and looking for conversation in my local area RIGHT NOW. Naked conversation usually. I don’t know about your neighbourhood but moderately attractive women between 20-30 years of age with no qualms about getting their nipples out at the drop of a hat are very rarely lonely for long. Or looking for conversation either. But here I go wandering off topic again…

I don’t encourage those who haven’t seen any the watch it, and I don’t condemn those that watch it pretty regularly. Similarly, I have  pretty much the same viewpoint on masturbation, which traditionally goes hand in hand pants with regular and prolonged porn viewings. I just don’t think I’m in any position to judge one way or another. Having an interest in watching folks bumping uglies for a little genital-related stress relief is fine, and not watching it because you find it degrading / sinful / tawdry is ok too. Whatever floats your boat is just fine & dandy by me, and the way I see it is that anything that goes on between 2 consenting adults, or one if you’re flying solo, is nobody else’s damn business. Possibly exploitation within the sex industry is a subject worth returning to in the future, so I’ll save it for another time. If I digress too much I tend to find myself starting out talking about vegetarianism and ending up blathering on about whether or not apes go through the menopause.

Hmm… I have to go look that up now, be right back.

…..

Inconclusive. Pfft.

If there’s one little pearl of wisdom I can offer before I go for tonight though, it’s this:

Blog about it if you want. Chat about it with your best friend. But if you possibly can, keep it out of your relationships. This is because :
a) A lot of porn is about fantasy. Share a fantasy and you run the risk of it losing it’s potency.
b) Sometimes it generates a whole lot of entirely un-necessary performance-related tension and
c) Being known as “Open-minded and Generally Unphased By Things Of A Sexual Nature” will often encourage a partner that would otherwise have remained blissfully silent about their personal quirks to share. That’s how I found out that an (ex)Sweetie was harbouring secret cravings to wear my underwear and make-up. Nothing kills an otherwise relatively stable relationship as fast as an embarrassing secret, and you don’t get much more embarrassing than a 5 o’clock shadow, baby blue eyeshadow and stilettos combo.

Somewhere, someplace, this guy thinks I'm his ideal woman.

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Sex, lies, and unusually entertaining train journeys.

There are two schools of thought on the “hour to live” issue, the Hedonist and the Romantic. The romantic would spend that time with their loved ones, the Hedonist in a short sudden orgy of excess.

I once dated a guy whom I’d hoped and suspected was the romantic type and asked him what he’d do if the clock was ticking in the vague hope he would say something along the lines of,
“I’d rush to your side to take one last look into your beautiful eyes, and though I respect your intellect and razor-sharp wit, I’d really love to cop a feel of your frankly magnificent breasts, if that’s ok with you?”
But instead he said, “I’d spend time with the people I like most”, in a suspiciously non-committal way.
Still clinging on for at least a mention I pushed, “But what if you’re more than an hour’s travel away?”
He tossed back “Then it looks like I’d spend the last 60 minutes of my life on a train on the way there masturbating furiously out of sheer frustration.”
Romantic – 0, Hedonist – 1

I’d fall into the Romantic category. I’d want to spend those last moments with those I’d already chosen to spend my life with. That said, I’d like to go with a clear conscience. It’s not as if I leave a huge trail of deceit behind me ( I’ve actually tried it, but I lack the necessary memory to keep track of the lies, and I have very poor fibbing skills) but there are things that I would like to say before my tearful , and slightly panicked I suspect, demise. That’s assuming, of course, that it’s just me going. If it’s the entire planet that’s due to be pushing up the proverbial daisies last-second confessions are pretty much pointless and you might as well skip to the sex and tequila.
This is where Topic 2 comes in, because I think I would need to ‘fess-up to an offshoot of this little-known fact :
“I never truly loved my husband, not even on the day I married him”.
It’s kinda sad really, more so when you find out that I was aware that he didn’t love me either, and that when we used to joke with friends that we only got married for tax reasons it was to hide the fact that we really did only get married for tax reasons.
When it all came to a crashing end I was relieved. I could stop smiling and making “Oh, these sprouts are delicious!” pleasantries with my Mother-In-Law about her Sunday roasts that had the consistency of charcoal-broiled snot. I no longer had to pretend that excessive sweating and poor personal hygiene didn’t make me gag just a little bit. And no, he wasn’t funny, and yes, I had noticed.

My deathbed secret is this:
“When I found out about his affair I didn’t actually care.”
Sure, I cried a bit, but mostly I was just monumentally pissed off that he’d been dipping his noodle for months and ALL our friends knew and they all covered for him.
So, I admit it, I milked it for the sympathy. Yeah, I genuinely felt crappy, just not for the reason that everyone thinks I did. Serves me right for marrying him, though I suspect I probably wouldn’t have fared any better with Mr Intercity Impromptu Hand Job or any of the other staggeringly bad relationship choices I’ve made in the past.

Luckily I’ve now found that Holy Grail of Couples… The Good Man. And I make sure I’m wearing my best undies and he’s never more than 10 minutes travel away, just in case.