Wired

Watching porn is a private activity, at least it is for me. I just can't get to the point where I want to share it with my wife; our sex life is between ourselves - those blonde, shaved, fake-boob bimbos make her insecure and that huge-cock wrestler guy makes me nervous.

My porn tickles something personal and private. I like to meditate on it (vide the "mediation" videos I've posted). There's a peace and a mental/physical zone I've written about before - guys in the thrall of exterior sexual excitation are very quiet, preoccupied and almost meek. Quite different than what apparently happens at bachelorette parties when the girls have all had one too many tequilas and are taking turns blowing the stripper.

This has changed for me over the years. I watch it online now, never in public, because I don't "have to." If it's on at a party, I'll do my best to ignore it. (The girls don't like it if you stare.)

But I used to get my fix in one of those adult bookstores. You know, with other men all around you or in the next booth, or in an adult movie theatre. With guys across the aisle or just behind you (hopefully not too close behind you).

Some of my horniest times were in the old movie palaces downtown, converted to porno houses in the '70s and '80s before video closed them down for good by 1990.

My response to porn had a lot to do with who was watching me watching.

Walking into an adult theatre was a kind of social contract - you were admitting to being expected to behave yourself in a certain way, and while not getting in the way of anyone else's enjoyment, and also to not judge of anyone was caught being ... overly enthusiastic.

Adult bookstores were filled with slightly sweaty, semi-erect men, rather politely fingering the issues and the boxes. Carefully weighing the narrative diagetic promise of various set-ups, acts, and bodily attributes as they gingerly passed each other in the hallway towards the quarter slots in back, when taking it home simply wouldn't work, financially or physically.

Now the porn's out of the bricks-and-mortars and anonymous on the net. We've fallen into a social network of forums, posts and hyperlinks, but we're not in the same room with anyone else anymore. There was a daring and dangerous element to risk being seen going into the Pussycat theatre downtown. What if someone knew you? Or what if it burned down or got raided and you were on the news? (I had a different idea of free speech after Paul Reubens enjoyed his film in 1991.)

Now, online, does anyone know we were there?

I recently installed the Google desktop search on my computer, a fine and amazing tool, but for that it searches for terms anywhere on your computer, no matter where - no matter where - they may be. Like your old internet history, or in files that you not only rewrote over but that you deleted! So if you type in something you may not want someone else who uses your computer to know you're interested in (like Google), like say "red pussy hair," there it turns up over 100 times, in old emails, postings, even drafts I've since erased.

I can't retrieve it but Google desktop can?

Every dark and misguided action or post done at 2 am half drunk is available. Every horny email and response. I don't know how Google is finding or indexing my entire computer or my every thought and action but I don't really want that stuff to be found. I deleted it for a reason.

I don't have control of who I'm sharing with. I used to know exactly who saw me. In my younger years, I could take a certain amount of comfort in looking the guy who'd seen me pull out my cock and jerk off in the next row over in the eye - he'd smile and we had an understanding between each other (and he had his cock in his hand too, jerking off to Serena up there). No judgment. We were here for the same reason.

Sure I like to be watched. But I like to know who's watching.