OK, I confess. I've looked at porn. I have dared to stare into the face of Medusa, and have not yet turned to stone. Yes, I admit that I've gazed at naked girls, ogled unclad ladies, and peered at pert nymphettes. Hey, I'm an adult male, I like looking at the female form, and porn is freely available in my local newsagents, at the video store, and on the Net. So sue me.
Pornography for women is deeply, intrusively offensive; for our self-appointed moral guardians, it's the thick end of the wedge. Ask any man you know if he "uses" porn, and he'll most likely deny it. Ask any woman, and she wouldn't have it - or its user - in the house. In fact, I wouldn't dare ask any of my male friends if they've ever indulged in this politically incorrect, male-oriented pastime. I'd probably get an indignant rebuff, followed by an accusation of being a pervert. Yet the global porn industry is thriving to the tune of billions of pounds a year, which means that somebody, somewhere must be looking at it. And if it isn't any guy you or I know, then who the hell is it?
Porn has always had a dirty, unclean image. Looking at it is traditionally seen as a clandestine sin, committed in the darker recesses of Soho sex shops or back-alley bookstores. To the morally upright, porn is a solitary, somewhat sad church, and its disciples are shifty, raincoat-clad nerds lurking in the shadows, peeking furtively at the perverted sex acts and gynaecologically detailed close-ups hidden away on the top shelves. In the old days of censorship and Catholic guilt, porn was forbidden fruit, a naughty, illicit pleasure the unavailability of which made it seem all the more exotic.
It's all different now, though. Porn is everywhere, and it stands proudly in the light of day unapologetic in its explicitness. Stroll into some newsagents around Dublin and you'll see a dizzying variety of perversions on display, right above the computer mags, men's monthlies and lifestyle publications. Banner headlines beckon enticingly, promising a cornucopia of visual pleasure, all yours to enjoy in the privacy of your own bedroom. Inside, these mags do exactly what they say on their covers: they deliver eye-popping, triple X-rated, full-colour glossy pictures in which nothing - and I mean nothing - is left to the imagination.
Hollywood is now the world hub of porn, and the form's big stars are almost as famous as their fully-dressed counterparts in "normal" movies. When US band The Bloodhound Gang released a single called Dear Chasey Lain, we all knew exactly who they were referring to (although naturally we pretended otherwise when asked by our girlfriends). Your fella may disavow all knowledge of Nici Sterling, Jenna Jameson, Raylene, Devon or Sylvia Saint, but I'll bet that's only because he hasn't bothered to read the captions.
These porn stars are highly-paid, earning as much as supermodels and far more than their male co-stars. The girls may make big bucks, but let's not kid ourselves: they're still pandering to cheap male fantasies.
And they don't come much cheaper than the college-girl porn star who famously had 251 men in the world's biggest gang-bang - and didn't even get paid for her feat. Sex: The Annabel Chong Story, shown recently on Channel 4, tells the sordid tale of this messed-up porn queen as she prepares for her record-breaking bonkathon, then follows her as she slowly unravels in the aftermath of her sexual overdose. Throughout this powerful documentary, Chong (real name Grace Quek) seems to teeter on the brink of hysteria, and as she recites her constant mantra of "feminism" and "exploring her sexuality", she sounds like a pathetic victim in denial. Hardcore stuff indeed.
Much of the pornographic material on sale in Irish newsagents is sourced directly from the US and much of it is 100 per cent hardcore. The publishers of these magazines have been pushing the boundaries of what is acceptable, trying to get harder, more extreme material between their covers. The result is that each month brings new perversions, bigger close-ups and more improbable sexual scenarios. How do I know all this? Er, a friend told me.
The Irish Censorship Office cannot ban a pornographic magazine unless a member of the public makes a written complaint, and hey, I ain't gonna be putting pen to paper. Complainants
have to jump through a few hoops to get an offending rag banned. They must state why they want a publication prohibited, enclosing three different issues of the mag with the offending passages clearly marked out (now that could really give you a sore wrist). Even if a title is then prohibited, the ban only lasts for up to a year, after which the offended party must go through the whole rigmarole again. Publications which have been banned in this State include Larry Flynt's notorious Hustler magazine, the subject of a movie starring Woody Harrelson; Oui; Fantasy X; Live Girls; Leg Parade; Jock; Male; Busty; and Small Tops. Never mind, porn fans: there are dozens more titles, equally as explicit, ready to take up the slack.
YOU don't have to lurk in your local supermarket to sample from the smorgasbord of sex. You can always log on to the Net, but don't do it at work or you may find your own ass out on the street. Porn is the biggest thing on the Net right now, and great minds are being exercised in the ongoing battle to keep porn sites out of our children's sight. The only thing which threatens porn's supremacy on the Web is MP3, the compressed file which allows people to store their favourite songs on their computers, and get free music from the Web. If Napster is good for one thing, at least it's distracting attention from naked teenage girls.
There's been a lot written about how porn degrades and oppresses women, but little has been said about how it demeans and emasculates men. One thing which became apparent from watching Sex: The Annabel Chong Story, was the facelessness of the 251 men who were lining up at the meat rack to take their turn. These men seemed little more than sad, somewhat pitiful drones, holding their limp members in their hands as they prepared to service the queen bee on the slab. This is one boy's club I would never, ever want to join. My own relationship with porn has been marked by a mixture of guilt, compulsion, curiosity and shame - not the healthiest of emotions for a grown man to experience on a regular basis. Ever since I peeked at my first Playboy as a teenager, porn has been like a bad habit which I've sunk into in times of weakness. It's like smoking, eating cream pies or watching soaps: bad for your health and a waste of time (although I'm delighted to report that it doesn't make you blind). Ironically, it's described as adult material, when it actually only appeals to the immature little boy in all of us. To become a real adult, every man needs to grow up and throw out the naughty video collection, and after 25 years as an on-off watcher, I've decided I've seen enough. Tony Parsons, top columnist for GQ magazine, likened porn to drugs. Its addicts, said Parsons, were desensitised by over-exposure to extreme images and needed a stronger dose each time to get a thrill. "The trouble with porn is that it doesn't know when to stop," he wrote. Bondage, gang rape, child sex and even snuff films: there's no limit, and no way back once you go out there. As soon as Annabel Chong completed her 251man shag-fest, there was an indecent rush to try and beat her record. I believe we're up to 500 now, and rising. If that's what porn aspires to, then I no longer want to be part of this brave new global gang-bang. Now that it's freely available in our once-benighted land, porn no longer seems an exotic forbidden fruit, but is finally exposed as the rotten vegetable fodder it truly is.
Me, I'll stick to nice, innocuous magazines such as Loaded, Maxim and Later, which are filled with beautiful, pouting girls in lingerie and bathing suits. And if anyone complains that these mags objectify women, I'll point to the top shelves and say, well, at least they don't turn men into objects of pity and revulsion.
