Content Warning: Not suitable for minors. Not suitable for anybody.
My life revolves around the consumption of alcohol I haven’t paid for along with a regular routine of masturbation and doomscrolling. There’s nothing more pathetic and disgusting to me than a view of myself writhing on the ground with my cock in my hand. I’m lucky there isn’t a mirror in my bedroom. Countless books on my shelves, a number of distractions, photos of family, photos of idols I often compare myself to. All evaporate with a splash of cum on a regularly used towel. This is all I have to live for.
Lately, I never know what my next meal is going to be, and I’m down to my last thirteen dollars in my bank account. Gloriously, I ignore it all. I distract myself with the sight of breasts, cunts, and heavy balls. I stare, vacantly, at the sight of bodies pretending like they’re enjoying themselves, at the forced smiles of daughters and the noxious grins of sons. A defeaning silence permeates my room, as I mute everything I watch. Who taught me to act like this?
Pornography is impersonal. It’s a banal convenience, like drunk ordering DoorDash or cobbling together a gas station chili dog. Many complain of its existence and wish to see it gone, comparing it to an addiction or an affront to our moral order. Those, like myself, merely view it as utilitarian consumption, stripped from any semblance of intimacy. I cum, therefore I am. It’s a bag of chips. It’s a frozen pizza. It’s any other indulgence we’ve been inundated with. Gazing with my glassy, vacuous eyes, upon a hairy pussy and poorly chosen tattoos, isn’t this an indulgence that could never have been imagined before?
You know you’ve become fixated when you start to read all of the available tags, as if they’re a taxonomy of perversions and curiosities—whether your own or that of others, you’ve stopped questioning. Gloryholes, gangbangs, gaping, gagging. How do you feel? How do these words sit with you? Do you greet them with enthusiasm, perplexity, horror? Imagine the smells and the sounds. Imagine the laughs, the outfits, the confusion as thoughts swirl and circulate in the actors' heads, thinking to themselves, is this really how I’ve begun to behave?
Now, try your best to imagine the faces of everyone you’ve gazed upon, whether it’s their eyes, their nipples, their hidden moles, swirling in horrid vortices from out of your spine, bursting violently out of your pineal eye like so many money shots. You’ll never get to apologize to any of them for having seen any of the acts they’ve performed. Yet, you’ll also never feel their disgust from the sheer degradation that comes from feeling like you have anything to apologize for. You’re just a pathetic animal that needed comfort, same as anyone else. You’re so disgustingly pedestrian.
And then, upon realizing this, you’ll look down at your genitalia, implicated just as much as anyone else, every shot of spunk you’ve ever squirt out a microcosm of billions of raw animal needs, and you’ll pray.