- Is the internet a tool for LGBT+ freedom? - 5 August, 2014
- What the X-Men can teach us about LGBT rights. - 25 May, 2014
- The trans* hypocrisy of LGBT inclusivity - 14 April, 2014
Wanking may be a curiously less acceptable hobbie to bring up in polite conversation than competitive swimming or Korean basket weaving, but unlike those thrilling activities, it is something that we all do religiously. Unless of course, you’re off doing something else religiously, like praying or whatever. To me masturbation is a far more fun, and fruitful use of your time.
For those of my generation, whose sexual development began in a post-broadband world, pornography has become very much entwined with our understanding of masturbation as an act, as well as with sex itself. How many of us first learned of what we could do in bed with another man by watching two Eastern Europeans with one hand on the mouse (not a euphemism, your computer mouse)?
What, to naive generations before our’s, was discovered at a glacial pace throughout adolescence and onwards has been available to us via a Google (or Yahoo Search, eh? eh?) since we were just mastering the fine art of cursive writing. It was not all that long ago in the grand scheme of human history that heterosexual women traditionally learnt about sex on their wedding night, upon being vaginally penetrated in candlelit silence by their awkward new grooms. Sex was a mystery (like the Queen), not discussed or even mentioned, certainly not by stern Catholic mothers (again, like the Queen). The concept and acceptance of the female orgasm, too, is a relatively new discovery. Homosexuality of course, practically infantile as a public discussion point.
We were inundated with cocks, labias, dildos, and with massive chunks of ribbed plastic that look more like they belong among the dog’s chewed-up slippers than human genitalia. Butt plugs, jock-straps, three-ways, four-ways, five-ways, twinks, MILFs, bears, all accompanied by lube, lube and more lube. All this before we had even started high school. At least for me, anyway.
Because that’s what growing up with the internet does. It exposes you. Previous generations had Blue Peter, we had PornHub. The exposure was sought, certainly: it was I and I alone who typed in the search terms, who disabled the adult contend filter, and who stuck the washing basket up against the door in case any family members should unexpectedly walk in. But the actions of a child are not really the actions of a child at all when such external factors are involved. For a child to be left alone with a bottle of bleach and a screwdriver would be unthinkable, yet to be left alone with a Compaq computer and a curious mind was a seemingly fine thing to do when I was growing up.
Just as no one would blame the child left with bleach/ a screwdriver, children who grow into sexually misled teenagers and adults cannot really be expected to just accept that their ideals (or mis-ideals) about sex and relationships are purely their own doing, their own stupidity and wickedness. Too many of us enter the world of sex (which is near Govan, in case you’re wondering) expecting fireworks and ecstasy and the casual use of misogynistic language (slut, bitch, whore). Sex has become something that we not so much discover as attempt.
We attempt to “do it” the way it’s done in the porn films; violently, enthusiastically, mercilessly. Our partner – be them male or female, recipient or penile instigator (“penile instigator”: I’m sorry I really couldn’t think of a better phrase) – is our audience. We need to entertain and shock them more than we need to pleasure them, because it is only through violence and shock that we can truly pleasure them in the end. We have to thrust that little bit too hard, or go that little bit too deep, to get the reaction we’ve been trained to seek since childhood, to actually have sex as we know it to be. No matter if it hurts our partner or causes them discomfort.
And this makes for an unhealthy relationship. Of course it does.
To re-calibrate the brain, to sway it away from the beautiful violence of the baby oil-soaked studio to real intimacy with a real person is no easy feat, no matter how much the individual wants to change. Don’t be surprised by the, for want of a better phrase, rise in erectile dysfunction diagnosis’s we have seen in recent years. When the brain is trained to respond to Croatian hunk orgies, anything else pales in comparison. It’s a growing concern among Western psychologists, as well as our politicians (despite the saddening defeat of the Children and Families Bill in the House of Commons last month, which would have seen lessons about consent as well as sexual and domestic violence rolled out across British schools). We as a culture have become porn-dominated, so much so that it is creeping into our bedrooms, and into our minds. Porn creates unrealistic expectations of sex, yes, but it also creates unrealistic expectations of ourselves. Why don’t I look as toned and chiselled as him? Should all cocks be devoid of veins, or am I just a freak? Those groans are so hot, why can’t I sound like that in bed? Etc.
So with this in mind, I have pledged to give up pornography. It is banned, purged from my URL favourites, from my Tumblr dash, even from my browser history. It’s not that I believe porn to be innately bad, I swear; though it should not matter to anyone else if I did. For many people porn is like alcohol, something to consume on occasion as a treat, so long as it does not distort behaviour and is consumed in sensible moderation. Already, I am seeing a difference in the way that I think about, and have, sex. I’ve steadily managed to exile the voice of the performing acrobat that previously loitered in the back of my mind, taking control and telling me that what I was doing was too romantic or happy or vanilla, and not sexy and dominating and dangerous enough.
Sex is more fun and fulfilling now (ahem) than ever before: and most importantly of all, it’s mine. No externals necessary. Goodbye, pornography. I’ll be fine on my own, thanks.
