the end of pornography

Could this be the end of pornography for me?

We have been bumped back to the speed of dial up. There is no point trawling for my 30 seconds of stimulation. The interminable waiting is an end to any desire that I might have had in the first place. I search though my bookcase. I am looking for images. I am used to structuring my 2.5 minutes of pleasure around a series of images. I have books of photographs. I have magazines. But my finger finds the pretty blue spine of The Story of The Eye by Batailles and I shrug.

Batailles. A bull fight, blood, an eyeball, an egg. These are the images that lodge in my groin and keep me there. I flip through pages, aroused, and yet there is more to it than that. I can feel my brain engaging with the work at hand. This is more than a bodily response. This is a slideshow of ideas. I remember the 30 second clips that have randomly lodged themselves across the many spaces inside my computer, popping up in itunes, brazenly exposing themselves on my desktop or in documents. The plastic people who I would not desire if they were actually in a room with me. I suddenly want them all removed. I want their faces gone, their bodies. The casual disinterest of their love making vaguely hidden behind a facade of groans and wails and eye-rolling. I can not bear to think about their digital presence so close to the tapping of my fingers. I am repulsed by them.

Today it is all about literature. The words, the symbols, the ideas that are erotic in themselves. I want to be romanced by the interplay of the body and the mind. I sit in the aftermath and I am alive with the idea of sex, I am sharpened by it, instead of falling into the usual drugged haze of post-pleasure, and yes, Mr Batailles, with you at my fingertips, I could indeed go again.