You know something I don’t like about the modern era – how there are no more secrets. I remember a time when you could fuck someone and not everybody knew about it the next day. I remember a time when girlfriends couldn’t track their boyfriend with pictures. Back when every stupid thing you did wasn’t on the Internet. No wonder everyone just binge-watches Netflix these days. Doing anything else might follow you around forever. No wonder everyone takes boring pills. I, for one, don’t. I want to have a life that is worth remembering. If some dumb shit follows me with it, so be it. That’s fine by me. In fact, I want it that way. The dumber the better. The age of privacy is pretty much dead, at this point. Human nature is changing because of how the Internet has become so integral into our lives. It really is disturbing, sometimes. If a guy wants to have a drunken three-way with two sorority girls, that shouldn’t be a shaming thing. Vice-versa, for the ladies. You want two frat guys? Go for it! Power to ya.
I remember a time when article that were personal and aired out people’s dirty laundry was in tabloids. You’d have whatever stupid celebrity bullshit in rags like People magazine or Cosmopolitan. Or, you’d have dirty stories being told in more risque magazines like Maxim. They still a thing, by the way? I have no idea. Anyway, that was where you saw stories about people’s personal lives, that maybe shouldn’t be out in the public. Still, the audience was limited, so the exposure wasn’t that bad. You’d never see real journalists printing this kind of stuff.
Enter the 21st century! Where news is based on how many clicks you can get, and every single news outlet, from NPR (who did an unboxing video) to The Guardian is looking for ways to sell out. For example, let’s look at a story in The Guardian where they decide to air out a woman’s dirty laundry. What was her problem? Well, her husband looked at porn! So she divorced his ass. Yeah, another one of THOSE immature people. The fact that a news outlet that has won awards and is respected like The Guardian chose to print this baffles me. Here’s a link to the article, now let’s talk about it.
Porn ruined you. Ruined us. When people asked, shocked, how I could leave such a funny, clever man, father of my children – “a good earner” as my mother put it – what could I say? I said it was me. My fault. I’d changed. Only it wasn’t me. It was your love of porn that slowly diminished my love and respect for you and destroyed my self-confidence. I couldn’t tell them and I’ve never said it straight to you but you must know, you must remember those conversations. The rows.
The next time that a woman brings up stuff like this, ask them one simple question – did you read Fifty Shades of Grey? If the answer is yes, then you know that they are completely full of shit. That book, and the two sequels, are porn. Oh, I’m sorry – erotic novels. Fuck the euphemisms! They’re porn! Porn for people who are too high-class to get into the regular kind. For people who want to pretend that what they are doing isn’t rubbing one out to fantasy. We’ll get into how all of this stuff about porn ruining marriages is garbage in a few. Let’s keep going.
I’m not a prude. I’ve done burlesque. I love images of sexy, strong women. My house – once ours – is full of kitsch Lynch prints, 1950s bombshells and Art Deco nudes. And I love sex. Even children and the exhausting slog of being a working mother didn’t diminish my drive – though I had to bury it, pretend it didn’t matter.
*rolls eyes* The obligatory statement that you’re not a prude and how you think nudity and sex are great. As a prelude to you talking about how low-brow what he watches is. Naturally, like EVERY woman who goes on about this, you have to put yourself on a higher plane than the man. Because vilifying him isn’t as fun if you aren’t a total Mary Sue.
We were about six months in when I found your stash and I picked it up smiling – “Boys will be boys” – expecting Penthouse Pets, Readers’ Wives etc but found women so mutilated by beach-ball, supersize-me, fake breasts that their eyes registered pain where their pouts pretended otherwise.
I felt it was mutilation. I wept. You shrugged off my arguments – “They get paid. It’s their choice” – and dismissed my arguments about exploitation as unchecked radical feminism.
He’s absolutely right. It was their choice. Are you saying that the women who do porn have no agency in their lives? Really?! I can think of one woman who I’ve become acquainted with on Twitter who might disagree. Think I’ll send this her way after it’s written. Get a feminine input. It’s just so unreal. You wept! Why? Because women chose to do things with their bodies that you disagree with? That’s cause for weeping? And just like that fucking article I responded to from Life Site News (a pro-life propaganda site) where a woman talked about why her getting an abortion was awful, you have to infer that you know what these women REALLY thought. Because any woman with breast implants is miserable. To be a conceited, upper-middle class suburbanite. You, and women like you, really do make me sick.
So why did I stay? In the rest of our life you were funny, leftwing, Mr PC, cultured, creative; and we could talk forever about politics, 70s sitcoms, obscure 80s bands … Anyway, like the frog in the slowly heating water I didn’t realise or I’d have jumped out.
Like SO many radical feminists before you, you discover that you don’t see eye to eye on this one thing, so that means that your entire marriage is invalid. That’s…amazing. You are willing to throw away this relationship because of one thing. Your kids must be so thrilled. There are kids, right?
And, I told myself, sex isn’t everything, is it? Not when everything else is so right. I thought maybe, in time, we would learn together, maybe you will connect the emotion with the action. I tried to explain how it could be, but could only conclude that your lack of desire for sex with me was my fault.
Oh, I see. Now we’re getting to the meat of this. He stopped being sexually attracted to you, and you felt burned. That’s what this ENTIRE article is going to boil down to, isn’t it? Oh boy. I can’t wait to waste my time with this. Why is this in a news publication? Shouldn’t it be feeding the egos of women everywhere in Cosmo? This really feels like their territory. Not a publication that wants to be regarded as writing real news.
When computers came, you got better at hiding it. You could no longer have an orgasm with me and blamed me and childbirth but I now know you had a case of the Prisoner’s Hand. Then your hints began. Could I wear more makeup? What about those white-tipped nails? Had I ever thought about breast implants? I hadn’t. Wouldn’t. You preferred my hair blond. What about latex? Role play? Dirty talk? You liked the ideas of threesomes and could see by my face that I didn’t and then you wore my underwear and there were appliances and … It worked for you. It works for others. Some of my friends love all that. I tried. I didn’t.
This is where I get kind of pissed at this article. Um…why is this in your newspaper, Guardian? This seems like something that should be private. This is airing out a person’s dirty laundry. Why are you printing this? Are you so desperate for clicks that you are willing to stoop to the bottom of the barrel, just to get some miniscule amount of views from people who you already know are going to agree with this woman? Because that’s your audience. It’s so obvious that your audience is women and beta-males who are going to be shouting, “yeah, you tell him, girl! Tell that pig!”
There is nothing worse in this world than seeing a publication basically throw out their integrity for money. That’s what’s happened here. It’s kind of disgusting. It’s easy to look at Rolling Stone‘s latest debacle and laugh at them, but this is another great demonstration of how bad modern journalism has become. And I don’t find it funny. Not one bit.
There were words for what we did but it was never making love. And without the extreme visuals, the DVDs playing in the background – you looking at them rather than me – you could never find satisfaction. So there could never be compromise. It made me feel that I was less than.There was never intimacy in what we did and in the end I stopped wanting sex. Not that you wanted it with me anyway.
I have no sympathy for women like this. Did you ever talk to him about any of this? Marriage is about communication. If you didn’t feel like you could talk to this man, then why the fuck did you marry him the first place? If you don’t trust him, then what are you doing with him? If being with him was so awful, then why didn’t you just walk away sooner? Oh, I’m sure that I’ll get a sob story about how you tried, for the kids or some other bullshit reason. If your marriage is that bad that every moment of being with this man is bad for you, then maybe you shouldn’t be with him anymore.
So I threw my energies into gardening and our children thinking that that part of my life was over and dead. And the boys at university who had loved me and enjoyed my body were a distant memory, and maybe I had imagined it all, how beautiful and emotional just plain, naked sex could be.
I fucking called it, didn’t I? And man, how hateful a person must you be that you decided to just see this man as a reminder of where you’ve been? This stereotype that porn just turns men into pigs is so tired and old that it’s just not that fun to talk about. It’s not true! “Ah, but Lucien, people can become addicted to porn!” Yes, and you can also become addicted to booze, gambling and sex. All three of those things can destroy marriages. The thing that I find so interesting is that this man was never unfaithful to his wife. He never fucked another woman. The other person he had sex with besides his wife was himself. Keep that in mind. “But Lucien, he was fantasizing about other women!” Yes, and the women who read Fifty Shades of Grey aren’t thinking about Christian Grey’s cock at all, right?
What came next was not easy. Tears, guilt, divorce, kids shuttled between two homes, the shockwaves to extended family and friends. I’m in a relationship now. The sex is emotional and intimate and I am enough.
I can’t help that all of this has been about residual bitterness. Like the person who wrote this is hurting and wants the person they were with to hurt to. That’s really sad.
You are still alone. People think it’s because you haven’t moved on. That you’re still in love with me. But I think it’s because relationships require effort and consideration of other’s needs, and the women you spend most time with ask for nothing. You are actually happier in your relationship with porn.
And there it is. Her axe to grind. All of this was about bitterness. She says that he’s not happy. That he’s miserable and alone and she’s happy and everything’s emotional and beautiful. But her words speak volumes about how she actually feels. “I don’t need you! I have a man who wants me for me! You’re just lonely and miserable and stupid!” Sure, Ms. Swift. Sure he is. An unflattering comparison. Well, let’s just say that this “letter” has all the subtlety of one of her songs. You wrote this to make him feel bad, and to get sympathy from women who are OBVIOUSLY going to agree with you. It is so blatant that it boggles the mind.
Which brings me to you, The Guardian. You gave a platform to a person who felt the need to cry in your publication. I have no doubt that angry tears were flowing in the writing of this. Or maybe not tears, but extreme resting bitch face. You let a person who clearly just wanted to get supporting comments air out her dirty laundry. And there’s a good chance that either her or her children will see this. So yeah, this has all the subtlety of someone posting one of those “there’s this person” posts on Facebook, knowing that the person they are talking about will see it.
You are supposed to be a respectable publication that has journalism that is meant to be respected, and you let this crap go onto your site. I have lost so much respect for you, and while one person may not mean much to you, I have a voice and a pretty decent audience. That audience will see this, and hopefully they see you for what you are as well.
Until next time, a quote,
” This guy wants to tell me we’re living in a community? Don’t make me laugh! I’m living in America. And in America, you’re on your own. America’s not a country. It’s just a business. Now fucking pay me!” – Jackie Cogan, Killing Them Softly