Recently, I told a man what I do for a living. This man was neither a potential client nor a potential romantic partner. He was a friend of a friend, who I was meeting for the first time, and who happened to ask what I do.
This is, apparently, a question people ask when they first meet.
I told him.
This man is married, and not in the market for my services. However, as is often the case, knowledge of my job made him more honest than he may have been otherwise, and the conversation quickly turned to porn.
“I hope you’re paying for it,” I said.
He laughed. “Why would I pay for it?”
“Because you should,” I said.
“No, no, no,” he said. “There’s no way.”
“Is it because you’re scared of what your wife will say?”
“She knows I watch porn. It doesn’t bother her.”
“Then why?”
He explained that porn was free. Almost too free. So “free” that the idea of paying for it seemed nonsensical. I’ve heard this before, both from friends, and ironically, from clients who paid to tell me. I gave my usual spiel: that much of the “free” porn available online is actually stolen, how Pornhub is the result of a monopoly on the industry that is hurting porn performers and devaluing the product. He remained unmoved.
Besides, he continued, he had no way of knowing what he’d be in the mood to watch when porn-watching time rolled around. Pornhub was the most practical choice.
“I’ve got a whole process,” he said. “You wanna see?”
His attitude was not that of a man who uses frank sexual language as a means of intimidating women, trying to make them uncomfortable under the guise of “just being honest.” You see this a lot in mixed company, especially when / if the topic of porn or relationships ever comes up. Nor did I get the sense he was flirting. He talked to me as I imagined he would talk to another man—a peer—with no sense of predation, threat, or awe. This is how clients often speak to me, as if we are on the same level, and can be uniquely honest with each other. It made the entire conversation profoundly interesting.
He took out his phone, and opened Pornhub. He started scrolling. He passed at least 50 thumbnails, dismissing each video with automatic : “I don’t like brunettes,” “too skinny,” “not skinny enough,” “nipples are too small,” “breasts are too saggy,” “not enough ass,” “I don’t like seeing her get fucked from behind if she’s facing the camera.”
I was mildly horrified, but also fascinated. If these were all the reasons not to watch a particular video, what did that leave? Every reason he gave was superficial, but also personal. Lived in. Like he had honed these preferences, and this process, after years of porn consumption.
I wanted to ask him more, but it was at this point that our mutual friend came back from the bathroom, and asked what the hell we were doing, shifting the focus of the conversation irrevocably.
During this whole interaction, I thought of a story a client had told me. Back in the 1970s, when he was still in college, he went to an adult bookstore. There were other men there, looking at things. There were peepshows in the back. At the register, he told the cashier that he was looking for a movie for his friend’s bachelor party, and could the cashier recommend something? In fact, he was not shopping for a bachelor party, but for himself, but he was too nervous to say so and too nervous to look around. The cashier suggested a movie; he bought it, took it home, and watched it, alone, on 8 MM film.
“I’ve tried to find it since, but I can’t,” he told me. “It’d be great to see it again.”
I’ll refrain from saying the title, but I’ve tried to find it also, and I can’t either.
I found this story not just fun and interesting, but actually moving. Buying porn used to require effort. And cost: financial, and social. You used to have to look at and talk to a cashier. There would be other people in the store. There was the anticipation of going, finding something, and getting it home. Surely, I thought, that had to make the ultimate experience of watching the porn better? After all that struggle, how could it not?
Having used tube sites in the past, I do understand the appeal. Sometimes you don’t know what you’re looking for until you find it, and with such a wide variety on offer, you’re bound to find things you wouldn’t have otherwise. But I can’t help feeling nostalgia for a time when you had to go to a store, not in the least because admittedly, I’ve never had to. Paying should be a given, no matter what, but the effort it takes to find?
Years ago, I went into an adult bookstore with a platonic male friend to buy a copy of Hustler. We needed it for a play we were performing in. He offered to go without me, but I insisted on joining him. At the register, I noticed how his posture changed, how he never seemed to look directly at the cashier, while I noticeably startled everyone with my abundant enthusiasm. I was so excited to be there, putting down money for Hustler, but my friend had long ago absorbed the second-hand cultural shame. Maybe this was because, for him, paying for porn feels inherently embarrassing when it’s “free” online, maybe not. Maybe it was just the embarrassment of procuring porn at all, but I—a woman, unaccustomed to being acknowledged as a porn consumer—enjoyed the experience. I want more of it.