My credibility is low, as I get turned on looking at a really great sandwich. But I have always thought that porn is hot, at least in theory. In theory, porn is like the glossy brochure from a tropical resort, the majestic overture from a musical or the mouthwatering aroma of a delicious chili bowl: The stimuli hit your senses and you think, "That looks/sounds/smells like fun — I'm in the mood to go do that now." As I said, in theory. In reality, the pictures for the brochure were taken by a voyeur with a disposable camera; the medley is raunchy music, blatantly faked orgasms and dialed calls to repairmen; and the chili bowl smells like latex. That doesn't put me in the mood; it makes me want to don a chastity suit.
Earlier this year, my roommate and I began downloading porn and eagerly watching it together, hoping to settle a dispute over ejaculation and perhaps uncover an untapped (for us) source of arousal. This surely invokes, in some readers, fantasies of screenings-turned-giggling pillow fights-turned-girly wrestling matches in which she and I breathily pin one another on the floor, our full bosoms heaving beneath our diaphanous nighties that are suddenly, but quite naturally, soaking wet. Not so, sorry. The whole fantasy (not just the full bosoms) is fictional — our cinematic branching-out was purely educational. Or that was the intention — our schooling was rather sub-par; apparently, Kazaa Lite's tax refundish ad-free quality is felt in the budget cuts to its free porn program. The nearby freshmen proved fruitless, and seven hours of file-transfer left us with 47 minutes of some state school frat's appalling roofied-keg party shenanigans.
Determined, I made for one of Greenwich Village's many sex shops, demanding something "soft-core." My pornographically specious phrasing drew laughs, reminding me to stop mindlessly parroting my sexually retarded peers' fabricated lexicon. I indulgently selected the $28 "Christine's Secret," a 1986 winner of four New York Adult Film Awards, expecting plenty bang for my buck.
But alas, the soft (hold the core, please) porn was simply too soft: quiet, missionary-style intercourse on floral bedding broken up by scenes in which doe-eyed women gazed longingly through windows. Through my contempt and disappointment, I reluctantly conceded to a lack of understanding of and appreciation for porn. Time for a little research.
According to the eight or so Princeton guys I casually interviewed over brunch and problem sets, porn is primarily to stimulate and secondarily to educate. No guy masturbates without porn because the good old one-two from the tried, true, and dynamic duo of Dominant Hand and Unscented Lotion is, quite frankly, not enough. Guys need the visual as well — anything else is just tiresome. At least you can skip forearms at the gym this week.
Once they've gotten off, it's also a great source of inspiration for new demands they can make of their girlfriends or random hookups. That's right: all the things they do (i.e. grab your ears, position you in front of a mirror or ask you to wear their grandfather's tighty-whities) probably appeared in something they saw and now emulate.
It also became clear to me very quickly that we ladies could stand to learn a thing or two from porn as well. For example: as was clearly expressed at the Street last weekend, the handjob is on its way out. But there are many guys out there who would gladly receive this treatment if only the jobber would have a training session with Jenna. Or Heather. He's done it about 10,000 more times than you ever will and has accepted his inevitable superiority at the task, so just take a couple of tips from the pros beforehand (terrible pun intended).
Beyond these key functions, porn also serves, as my roomie and I discovered, to amuse. When the timing is right, guys too will have a group-viewing session for kicks — after all, nothing brings a group closer than sitting down to watch the latest Leo DiCaprio film and finding that they've accidentally downloaded Killer Vaginas IV. Count me in.
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