A couple of weeks ago, I downloaded a generic-looking ErosAsia video starring one Azumi Kawashima. You know the sort: the ones where these fragile-looking, flat-chested japanese girls chirp like birds when fondled, and the guys look like they have day-jobs scrubbing army latrines.
In any case, it was the most boring piece of drivel I had ever seen. I thought the girl was cute though I only got fleeting glimpses of her face through the forest of pinwheeling limbs.
This wasn’t the first Kawashima video I’d found either, and when I checked the rest of them out, I got that same empty feeling, as if I couldn’t remember how to get an erection.
I found nothing of interest among my other Japanese videos as well. It was almost as if the Thief of Horniness had come in the night and siphoned all their sexual energies, leaving me with dozens of videos of people pushing at each other with their crotches, like an over-crowded meat locker.
Yesterday, as I downloaded my umpteenth megabyte of some random girl (supposedly French, but really, who cares, she’s naked isn’t she) getting chinese-finger-trapped by what looked like a trio of ex-cons, it came to me that perhaps there really is such a thing as Too Much. Not because I feel threatened by a group of sweaty, muscular men with a horny gleam in their eyes, mind you, but for a deeper, more personal reason. That is, I had grown tired of it.
It’s a curious situation. Your mind and your body are so intertwined that bodily needs are translated into mental desires, and so deftly that you can’t even tell if it’s your mind or your body (or both) making you do things. (In this case, I mean “do things” such as “looking for porn online,” and not, “fornicating with furniture.”)
Kicking the porn habit has proved to be just as difficult as quitting smoking, probably because something inside me (i.e., my brain) doesn’t want to stop. Not really, anyway. I don’t want to quit smoking because there is a genuine desire to keep lighting up, to keep puffing away, to keep looking unspeakably cool smoking by myself under a streetlight.
The question I suppose would be, when does that desire dissipate?
And, does it ever?
In the case of porn, will I ever get sick of it? Sometimes, I get little signs like these, and they make me think. I’m not sure if I’ve reached some sort of plateau here, having seen everything and therefore, being surprised (and turned on) by nothing. My offical theory is that a preponderance of porn induces a sort of enlightenment that ultimately results in my being absolutely apathetic towards it.
How very circular that would be.