As my esteemed and beady-eyed colleague has pointed out, Sandra Paterson is not down with the porn. Porn is alllllegedly connected to many if not all incidents of nasty men doing terrible things to innocent virgins with their thunderous truncheons of engorged beef (the nasty men’s truncheons, not the virgin’s truncheons. That’d be plain odd). Porn is also, alllllegedly (i.e. something a drunk guy in an anorak told me) a harmless form of recreation for those of us blessed with the personalities of boiled cabbage unable to seduce even the most vacuous of Shore girls with our tales of particularly hair-raising dice rolls in our last LARP. Did I say “our”? I meant “their”. Honest.
The argument from the woofters whose main fear in life is unauthorised funning is always “This object that we are attacking was at the scene of an incident and as such we will say it was a contributing factor if not the root cause” Teehee, “root”. And fair enough, I suppose: Guy obsesses over porn, springs a dose of surprise sex on some hapless stationery-slinger soon afterwards, then tries to fold the woman in half and cram her under his bed. Porn equals teh bad. Burn the Playboys, tape over “Anal Arsenal 4” with uplifiting sermons from that benign sweater-wearer on Sunday morning TV, blah, blah, blah.
But this is a pretty simplistic attitude. At each location where The Porn (a pretty arbitrary term, I might add) is found, other things are found. Beds, for example. Beds are what people fuck like bunnies in, so surely beds are an inspiration for granny-molestation. Wallpaper, carpeting, TVs, corn plasters, rice, spiders, all lurking in the same dwellings as the aforementioned Anne Geddes calendar or whatever is classed as obscene these days… Spiders = chocolate spiders = sodomy = hand me my raping stick, I’m off to herd up some chitlin. Anything can be the cause.
Okay, so you’re all going “How facetious, for the porn is linked to the sex unlike corn plasters unless you’re sick in the head. Are you sick in the head, young man?” Well, that’s neither here nor there. But those who maintain that porn is about the human sexing, and as such the most likely motivator behind a dose of the in-out in-out with the nice young meter maid ticketing on the wrong back alley in town are in my humble opinion, wrong. In fact, I think porn is a prophylactic.
Yes folks, overuse of porn will actually lessen the incidents of rape. Oh, yes.
Imagine Billy Hard-on, with his sticky collection of crusty magazines stuck to the underside of his mattress and a hard-drive full of Gothic Sluts pictures ripped from the Internerd by some slavering Imagewolf program. He’s all worked up into a lather over a new collection of light bondage with some raven haired and tattooed chick whose track-marks are almost invisible. And he then goes running into the woods, howling at the full moon that so nicely imitates a pock-marked arse, and he decides to have some grunt’n’shunt with a local wench whether the filthy little slut likes it or not.
Cue our hero leaping from the bushes and attempting to do something obscene to a passing milkmaid. So far, so good, cry those who would burn my Dita von Teese collection of artistic gash shots. But this is where the difference between porn and reality comes in. Billy finds that women have hair, and dangling labia, and stretch marks and sweat and odours and wrinkles and differently-sized boobs that are affected by gravity and acne and tend not to look happy when being sodomised. There is little or no relation between the eminently human person squirming in front of Billy and the airbrushed mannequims he was polishing his pole over on his PC. In fact, the gulf between porn and actual pussy is such an echoing one that if one is enthralled by the former, the latter might well be a Lovecraftian nightmare of squirming nastiness and unnameable dread… How watching a Japanese cartoon schoolgirl with a dozen tentacles tearing her downunder asunder with mighty thrusts while she mumbles demands to be split in half by a nekkid demon would make one put up with some bawling shop assistant with a nametag is beyond me. Like the link between your school teacher putting a condom on a banana while a Gray’s Anatomy illustration of a pendulous cock is on the overhead projector and the ballsack keeps being half-projected on said teacher’s shoulder, and lascivious thoughts. Sex education and actual sex are further removed than sex and lawn bowls, goddammit. Everything that people link to sex tend to have very little to do with it. The point is, the point IS, if Billy is all about the porn, confrontation with the unpolished snack–crack of your typical middle-aged Muppet would have him running for his Photoshoped net porn faster than you can say “vagina dentata”. If one likes porn, one likes porn, but that doesn’t transfer over to liking actual intermacourse which is a whole other kettle of (wait for it) fish (teehee again).
So the question is, what IS the actual trigger, the object or action that spurs on rapists and kiddie fiddlers?
Simple: They are bad people in need of a good ballacking with a sackful of bricks. It’s not the porn, it’s not the condom-banana-sundae, it’s their freakin’ decision to beat the ever-living shit out of a harmless wiener then park their dick in them. Introduce porn into this mix and you’ve got exactly he same situation, but the mad crackhead cock-monster is left wondering why the victim doesn’t moan while he prolapses her rectum with Mister Stabby.
Ah, fuck it. Hand me my porn and my raping stick.