Ferdinand Bardimu put this up a while back on In Mala Fide, and in true FB/IMF style, it’s pretty twisted, but thought-provoking. It’s a poem about a necrophile, making necrophilia a metaphor for masturbation.
I’m unable to resist the nerd impulse to point out that if the guy was an actual necrophile, he wouldn’t have been turned on by the woman when she was alive, or vice versa. But that’s not the point. The point is, it’s crazy to be obsessed with things you can’t have.
FB is on a big kick against masturbation. I’m not ready to give it up, but I see his larger point. Masturbation and porn addiction are on some level much like necrophilia. The actual woman is not being possessed and enjoyed, because that would be impossible. Only some essence, taken away and stored on ink and paper or these days, pixels on a computer screen, is. Being obsessed, enamored, enthralled, possessed, by the ghostly image of a woman who wouldn’t give you the time of day in the flesh is crazy.
People- men and women- only really do this with sex objects. People lust after many things, but mostly only in passing. You may love cars. You may see an expensive car you can’t afford in the street, and say to yourself “cool car” but that’s it. You may flip through a car magazine, but you don’t keep it under your bed. Women do this with clothes, I think. “Vogue” is their “Car and Driver”. Our porn is visual, theirs is textual. They obsess not over swimsuit models on the internet but mysterious cowboys and millionaires in romance novels.
In any case, it’s far better to enjoy the thing you can actually have than something created in your head with words and pictures. It occurred to me recently that looking like porn is like sniffing glue- it’s not really something enjoyable as much as something that knocks you out and numbs you to the misery of your existence. Not a good way to spend your time.