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I grew up consuming pornography. Pornography of the most vile sorts, pornography laced with leather crops and multiple simultaneous anal penetrations, pornography staged by adults and performed by children, pornography whose participants didn't realize that they were on film. I started consuming when I was... oh, maybe eleven years old. And I consumed for many years there forth. Only recently have I stopped, and I did so by the advent of my Baby-Girl, the first love of my life. Ever since she's been around, pornography has lost its meaning.

It was just last night that a friend of mine reintroduced pornography to me. Now, I don't just mean Internet nudity, or even the photo-digital representations of sexual activity or suggestion -- I am a regular /b/tard after all. What I mean is the pathological behaviors of girls and boys who want for attention, and the foolish people who take advantage of them. And what's terrible is that I liked it a lot.

I realized last night that I have a distasteful fetish for meaningless sex, the profound detachment from the partner. There is something about it that is marvelous in its aesthetic. Maybe it's the obvious superficiality of positioning, or the desire for a climax, a shameful termination, that just isn't present when I'm making love to my Baby-Girl. I'm not sure what it is. But the grainy texture of home-made flesh records, the sounds of sloppy, rushed and incidental fucking, they all bring me back to the time in my life when women were desirable objects, and girls even more so, when penises larger than mine were objects of admiration and aspiration, and when violent ejaculations onto another human being were somehow beautiful.

I got to thinking about what this discovery could mean. I would never impose this fetish on my Baby-Girl, because while she is as adventurous a partner as a guy could ask for, she would only be traumatized by simulating emotionless sex with me, the only person to have ever told her that he would give his life for hers. I would never want her to get the wrong impression, or to lose confidence in my absolute devotion to her. I could never revert to the regular consumption of pornography, and if I didn't make it clear enough before, there is no way in the Universe that I could ever cheat on her. I have come to the conclusion that for now that this fetish should exist for me as only a psychic vice.

So, problem resolved by repression. But my considerations didn't stop. After managing the immediate ramifications of my discovery, I continued to ponder, partially out of personal curiosity, and partially out of the want to punish myself for the vile nature of my desire. I began asking myself questions: How contingent is my pleasure on my partner? Is it ever about her, or is it really about the deed? I thought, well, I've never had a homosexual inclination, but I could totally suck a dick. It'd be easy, it'd be new, and it wouldn't hurt a bit. In the movies, it's pretty hot -- there's passion, there's dominion and force, and hey, there's even a money shot. Why not? I bet for $10 of incentive, I could do one Hell of a job. My thoughts shifted from homosexuality to sadomasochism: Would I mind it if my Baby-Girl slapped me across the face every few thrusts, or if she tied me to the bed and choked me a bit? No, that'd actually probably get me off faster. And then to anal sex: How hot would it be if I just sort of forced myself into the wrong hole? I'd get different reactions from different people, but just about every asshole is the same, and I haven't been in one yet. What if it were a guy's, or some random hooker's? There aren't very many different kinds of asshole... And these thoughts just kept amounting.

What's funny is that I do not particularly want to perform fellatio for money, or get tied up, or even stick it in her pooper. I don't want for anything in particular at all. I just love novelty, the kind that abounds every VHS, DVD or video download that mediates the consumption of pornography. To extinguish the consumption feels like a travesty, but I trust it'll do me good in the long run. I suppose it's certain that I won't ruin any relationships by spitting on my penis in the near future, and hey, who knows -- maybe my Baby-Girl has a whole slew of her own perversions, fetishes and pornographic temptations that's yet to be tapped. The love is better than masturbating alone in a dark room, by the flicker of a CRT monitor.

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