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| Dorothy Stratten in "Buck Rogers:" The fantasy seemingly becomes a reality. |
From The Catechism of the Catholic Church: “It [pornography] immerses all who are involved in the illusion of a fantasy world.” (CCC #2354)
From experience, this description is completely accurate. As a porn viewer and or addict, the victim is submerged in a quagmire of phantasms that haunt the mind, torment the body, and weaken the soul. While a boy of 8, looking through my first “Playboy” magazine, everything in that book looked otherworldly: the woman were incomprehensibly beautiful, dreamily photographed and airbrushed, while smilingly displaying their unabashed nakedness; my first crush being the angelic looking Dorothy Stratten who would later be raped and murdered by her estranged husband; her fantastic personae was solidified in my immature mind when she subsequently appeared as Miss Cosmos on an episode of my favorite television show – “Buck Rogers in the 25th Century.” But, like Stratten, the girl-next-door centerfolds of “Playboy” were wholly approachable and none-threatening. As I grew older, and more addicted to porn, I discovered harder-core magazines, such as “Penthouse” and “Hustler.” Here, the visions were more intense, but also darker, and uglier. At first, they frightened me, only, that became part of the exhilaration. I didn’t know it at the time, but I cutting away at my sanity – piece by piece.
As a hormone-crazed teenager, porn became my sole link to pleasure, relief, and sexuality. It was the highpoint of my life. Now, the combination of porn and masturbation was intoxicating. I always wanted to dive into that world, for my own existence seemed so lifeless and mundane. At school, I was nervous and awkward. Porn represented an escape from that painful reality. A place where, through masturbation, I could become a part of the experience. A new obsession, X-rated home videos, made all this come to brilliant and moving color on a private television and VCR in my bedroom. After that, I couldn’t stand the static images on the pages of a magazine. Rather quickly, my collection became vast: a favorite female star being Tracy Lords. Then, gradually at first, my tastes grew kinkier. I acquired a liking for threesomes, bisexuality, and lesbianism. These porn tableaus were utterly bizarre and far-removed from anything I had ever seen in still pictures. I was drawn in. The films seemed to materialize all the strange emotions which coursed through me, especially my increasing curiosity about homosexuality.
When I finally walked into my first adult store at 18, the necessity to be there arose out of the impossibility to remain outside the screen. Naively, I thought this would be my gateway into the glamorous world of porn. I was shocked to find that the place was a dump: makeshift magazine racks, decrepit shelves of video-cassette boxes, creepy guys wandering about, and a psychotic looking cashier, all the while being overwhelmed by the scent of urine and body odor. From the outside, I knew somewhat of what I was getting into. Marching through that door was like throwing myself into hell. I made the choice, and it was done. I hadn’t ever really struggled with porn or masturbation. The issue was morally mute. All my friends all looked at, and I did too. It was part of being a man. Yet, I knew that by going into that store, I was taking the whole fixation to another degree. I was escalating things. I did not know how I knew this, but I did. Once I made that step, I gave myself over to it. This was a strange acquiescence; I was willingly forcing porn to take form in my life. Afterwards, the illusion collapsed. My basest and most basic appetites and desires took on that lower and animalistic shape. Far removed from the glittering memory of Stratten, there was nothing lofty or glamorous here. But, I couldn’t turn away or stop. I felt trapped and enslaved. I couldn’t abandon what I believed was my only link to happiness; even though it had become sick and desperate. A year later, I would be making my first porn film.
In retrospect, that day was sort of unforgettably gross and humiliating. I showed up at a house on the outskirts of The Castro; I had met this guy a few days before at a gay bar. We were introduced by a mutual friend; I was only interested because he was small-time gay porn maker. That day, he planned on shooting a solo scene of me. The man was older, overweight, and unattractively blatant. When the camera light when on, I had a difficult time staying aroused. My debut had been a literal flop. Afterwards, we watched the footage he took. I got immediately excited, pulled down my pants, and began to masturbate while watching myself on the television. Amazed, he turned the camera back on and we did it all over again. While walking back to my friend’s apartment, I felt rather smug and proud. I thought I was a genuine porn star. Down-deep, I understood that I had had just sold my soul; not for money, but for all the praise the man had given me afterwards. Yet the closer I came to The Castro that feeling of elation dissipated and then vanished altogether; I was anxious and queasy. Suddenly, I vomited on the sidewalk. I needed another hit. When I met up with my friend, we schemed some devious plan for that night. I bragged about what I had done. The next time, I knew that I wanted to do more.
Almost 10 years later, I laid dying on a hospital gurney. That day, in order to feel anything, I wanted to be beaten within an inch of my life. But, I had grown so numb, I didn’t know I was at the edge of hell until I felt it’s hot breath on the back of my neck. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, I called to Jesus.
Author note: I wrote this neither to disturb or shock, but to warn: this is what porn ultimately leads to – hell itself.