How to Quit Porn and Not Entirely Ruin Your Life
Hi, I’m Brian. Welcome to Tubesteak, a regular column where I talk about penises mostly and what I do with mine and what you should do with yours. There will also be some discussion of cocks, cocksuckers, cuckolds, and maybe, just maybe, a clitoris or two. But, honestly, mostly just dicks.
There I was, lying in bed ass-naked at 1 AM on a Tuesday night with my eyes closed pulling on my limp dick like a bird trying to get a worm out of the frozen ground. This is what jerking off had become for me: fiddling around with a mushy penis like I was searching for a prize at the bottom of a bowl of ramen. I never should have given up porn.
In a valiant effort to prove that my cock wasn’t indebted to images of manufactured sexual abandon, I had decided to give up pornography altogether to show that I could still beat off like a 15-year-old who just discovered what happens on Cinemax after midnight. But I couldn’t. It had been a week and I hadn’t gotten wood of any kind but the morning variety since.
Before going any further, I should mention that I probably have a more complicated relationship to porn than most people. I wish I could say it’s because I’m hot and hung enough to star in it, but I am neither. Like most horny uglies with small dicks and big opinions, I took to writing about porn, covering the industry and its gossip on Fleshbot for about four years. Watching people fuck had lost its magic for me—it was workand I was “doing research” nearly every day.
It’s not that I became desensitized to it. Oh no, I was still slapping my salami as often as possible, but I had only done it in the company of visual stimulation for as long as I could remember. In high school I had underwear catalogs (and, yes, Cinemax), and then, after getting a job in a bookstore, I purloined stroke mags that were supposed to be mailed back to the distributor. In college I graduated to VHS tapes before DVDs took over. Then, when the internet hit, I had every type of porn known to man just sitting there in my room, waiting for me to masturbate to it. The straw that broke the camel’s penis, however, was when keeping up with it became my professional obligation. My member was more dependent on seeing poles going into holes than I ever imagined.