If Porn Grew on Trees
So God popped by while I was looking at porn again. You can apply that “again” to just about any part of that sentence and you’ll be right, by the way. I’m not going to bother to permute it for you here, though.
Anyway, she did it this time because she wanted to show me an amusing article on the military trying to urge soldiers to not spend their time looking at porn. The article kicked off by talking about not having them do it on the work systems at a missile watch site and it makes perfect sense to me that you don’t want people surfing sleaze while working. Not that all, or even most, porn is sleazy, but, well, you get my drift. It went on though to talk about some religious crusader that was trying to make sure that stores on army bases in Afghanistan didn’t carry magazines of a prurient nature, even things as mild as Playboy, because soldiers would look, compare the airbrushed models to what they had waiting at home, and find their own relationships lacking, thus, somehow, guaranteeing marital infidelity.
So I told God what I think of that. Now I like porn as much as the next guy (well, as much as some next guys, probably more than some next guys but also probably less than some next guys, too) but the only porn that I’ve been able to find embraces only two of our many senses, sight and sound. Even the dumpiest, least interesting person that I’ve been lucky enough to have sex with had things going for them that appealed to more senses. There’s a kind of warmth to touching another person, skin-to-skin, that can neither be faked nor recorded. There’s myriad smells and tastes that come along with engaging in sexual play, not all of them pleasant, but all part of the richness. So, yeah, porn may be pretty good, and occasionally parts of it are even aspire to perfection, but it still comes up lacking when compared to the real thing, in the same way that some artificial flavors are pretty good, but still don’t compare to what you can pull off of a tree.
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