Boy Seeks Porn God

By Gregory E. Miller

It seems like just the other day that I was 13 years old, sitting in church, daydreaming about how great my first time would be. During our tender lovemaking, we would orgasm at exactly the same time, then hold each other. I’d try not to drift asleep, wanting to make the moment of staring into his deep, dark eyes last forever.

This was before I, at the ripe age of 15, discovered ManFuck.com, SuckMyDickBitch.com, and ItsAsCloseToRapeAsWeCanLegallyFilm.com. Suddenly, sex wasn’t quite the beautiful rainbow that I’d once imagined. It was a fucking thunderstorm, and that hail was coming down hard. I swapped visions of spooning in flower petals for images of brutal pounding in a locker-room. Where I once dreamed of Luke Wilson in Legally Blonde, I now lusted after Gerard Butler in 300—only more vicious.

Pornography demolished the images of intimacy I once held dear. I was on a Lewis and Clark expedition to the land of Raunchy Awesome Sex, but I learned quickly that real people can’t compare to porn stars—and that sucks. With porn, you don’t hear complaints like “I need more lube,” and “I’m tired,” and definitely not “Sorry, I couldn’t wait.” I can search the Internet for a porno with any fetish, any body type, and any position in seconds. Tired of missionary with the blonde from the diving team in the back of a car? Click. Now I’m going at it wheelbarrow-style with an Italian who grunts a lot in his executive office.

Three years of college later, I still find myself thinking about homework and/or my next meal during sex. Compared to my time spent with Brock Thunderdick and friends, live sex is boring. Until the day the Chinese food delivery man hands me my fried rice and a side order of blow job, I guess I’ll keep pining. If I fuck enough people, one of them is bound to be a porn star someday—or at least someone who watched the same smut I did at 15.