Wanking it with <em>New York</em> Magazine
Every day, it seems, another writer punches away at his keyboard and produces that saddest excuse for page-filler: the emerging trend piece. In the good old days one at least had to dig up some statistics in support of the trend. Now it’s enough to cull a few anecdotes from your social circle, quote a couple of “experts” and stamp your half-baked ideas with the imprimatur of Truth. Ailing New York magazine ran a David Amsden feature this month on the abuse of internet porn among—gasp—white yuppie males.
[I]n the same manner that looking for flings online went from deviant to de rigueur behavior, the mass consumption of cyberporn has slyly moved from the pathetic stereotypes (fugitive perverts, frustrated husbands) into the potent mainstream (young professionals, perhaps your boyfriend). Thanks to the advent of cable modems and DSL connections, it’s now easier than ever to scan lewd material in the privacy of your own home.
Not only is the article a few years behind the times (hell, broadband porn was percolating through university dorms ten years ago), but Amsden’s contention that internet porn is turning hordes of otherwise “nice” guys into porn-addled freaks is hard to swallow. A more likely explanation is that sexual dysfunction knows no socioeconomic bounds—the socially-retarded upper-middle-class raincoaters who once would have made clandestine visits to strip clubs and video stores now get their fix behind broadband terminals. They are the digital-age equivalent of yesterday’s “fugitive perverts” and “frustrated husbands.” And they certainly aren’t any less pathetic.
The article leans heavily on another dubious trend that’s been in the news of late: the mainstreaming of porn. Carly over at Pornoblography has ably deconstructed the mainstream media’s porn obsession, so I won’t delve into it too deeply here. Porno-chic is the new black, we are told. Even if there’s been a porn-revival of sorts, I doubt that sitting behind a terminal for hours hunched over your pumping fist will ever be considered normal, much less cool.
Amsden resurrects all the tired feminist cliches about the male psyche. He supplies a handful of all-too-convenient quotes from “normal” guys to prove his point that porn is screwing with the way a generation of men view women. And this is my biggest beef with the piece: it doesn’t give men any credit. Not only are we feminized and pussy-whipped, but now we’re the hapless victims of the sex industry—we’re so weak that we can’t help but compulsively click on every pornographic link. In our puny male minds we can no longer tell the difference between a real woman and a porn star.
I think most of us are better than this. Like many males, I’ve looked at my fair share of pornography. The on-screen antics even awakened me to some sexual possibilities. But for me, and for most men, porn is not a crutch. My sexual imagination has more to do with Henry Miller than Jenna Jameson. Unlike the hopeless wankers in Amsden’s piece, I know it’s not real. Amsden’s friends need to get themselves some professional help.
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