Okay. Let’s take a moment and talk about masturbation. And let’s do it candidly. Let’s specifically discuss situations that include amateur pornography on the internet. I am going to dip a toe in the water, and share with you, dear reader, something about myself: I have been known, on occasion, to experience sexual fulfillment whilst reclining on my couch, precariously cradling the laptop with my left hand and arm. It requires a pillow, frankly, to be anything close to comfortable, but the details are not, I assure you, as important as the general idea and circumstance about and surrounding the act itself.
Our discussion will focus rather, on the question of the moments after, where I pointedly and deliberately erase the history of the browser so as to conceal the inscrutable and sometimes odd inroads to web-assisted self-fulfillment.
The question, plainly:
From whence the NEED to purge and maintain secrecy?
That I am not alone in the Act of Erasure and that it is commonly practiced amongst my peers, my contemporaries, my fellows—anyone really who finds it possible to labor for a moment, under the consideration, that their computers could be accessed by the person closest to them. I.E. That It’s Not Weird To Do This.
I don’t feel that it’s shameful, in the least: neither the act of self-pleasure or the use of internet porn are depraved in any way. And yet, I am consistently beset by the need to keep them both silent and hidden. Why?
A Discussion On Why We Blush
Masturbation is a deliciously selfish and decadent act. It’s a flight of fancy for those in the sexual know. I’d wager a hefty sum that it’s also one of the few instances where the majority of adults exercise their powers of imagination. It is as long or short as it needs to be, not to mention a deft show of expertise and efficiency in its execution; hardly a wasted motion or movement.
Without pretense or guise, masturbation allows the indulgence of fantasy. Further, an indulgence of UNCENSORED fantasy. I imagine it as a highlight reel of turn-ons; all fetishes and kinks given open rein. And then, to be able to connect to a VISUAL medium wherein can be found the LARP of the innermost desire? Perfectly splendid.
But what that medium does, is leave a trail of smut and skin, that I would prefer the world (read: The Old Man) not see. Because there’s the off chance that what I look at really IS just THIS MUCH too far. “Never would have thought THAT about her!” comes the whisper of anonymous and imaginary onlooker. “*snigger*” Prude? Hardly. Shamed? Nah. Embarrassed, demure and the slightest bit modest? Assuredly.
And what of the things that, for no other reason, are preferred unspoken? I posit that not all dreams or desires are meant to be shared. To a certain extent, the unknowable has a lustre and gilded coating that is destroyed the minute it’s actually experienced. In it’s journey from fantasy to reality, an experience is ripped from it’s pedestal and placed directly in our line of vision. Once lived, all bets are off and the sheen of new is hammered to the dull patina that covers empirical knowledge.
In the end, I continue to erase and to preserve my little secrets. So there. Keep your eyes on your own paper.