I didn’t write in, it’s completely right that what do I know?
In response to what would the world be like without porn
Copy pasted from a website
‘What would a world without pornography look like if we ended it all and began again?’
You are sixteen years old. You are sat on the back seat of a bus with your mate. It kind of smells of smoke. The window is open and there’s a little bit of breeze on your neck. You’ve got your knees leant up against the seat in front. You’re wearing waist high Primarni jeans and your new Air Max. You dangle your feet, kick them a bit, drum out a beat.
The bus stops and a group of lads get on. They are from a different school to you. They still have their uniforms on even though it’s nearly six o’clock. Their ties are loose and their top buttons are open. Some of their blazers are stuffed through their back pack handles. They look a bit younger than you. Year ten maybe. Fifteen.
They come and sit over the two sets of seats in front of you. They spread out. They’re chatting and taking the piss out of each other. One of them is crouched up on top of a seat instead of sitting on it. They’re looking at stuff on their phones, laughing. You stop kicking your feet.
One of them has earphones in. They’re plugged into his phone. He’s not listening to the others, he’s just sitting listening, or watching. Or both. You can’t see what’s on the screen. One of the other lads slides into the seat next to him, nudges him, takes an earphone. It catches the attention of the one who’s crouching up, he moves over to the seat behind them, starts watching too. Then a couple of the others. They’re all over one side of the bus now. The opposite side to you. They’ve gone quieter. The hum of their breath, sucking teeth, hushed laughs, every now and again. But mostly just watching. You wonder what’s on the screen.
It’s your stop. You say see you later to your mate. She doesn’t get off until the next one. You stand up and have to nudge the back of one of the lads’ legs with your foot to show you’re trying to get past. He moves, without taking his eyes off the screen. You pass him and you look to your left. You catch a glimpse of the image. Bright, close up. It’s not porn.
On Saturdays you go ice skating. There’s a rink in town and a lot of your mates go. You haven’t got your own skates so you have to borrow them. You’re wearing your waist high jeans again but with a little belly skimming top. It’s pretty cold, but you have to look good, especially if you don’t have your own skates. There’s loads of lads here. You spot some of the ones who were on the bus, out of school uniform. Now in Fred Perry jackets zipped up to their chins. The look good. They look older.
You get some chips from the café. One of them is behind you in the queue. He says, ‘Saw you on the bus the other day.’ And you say ‘Yeah.’ You start talking. He’s funny. He’s fit too. He asks if he can add you on Facebook, you give him your name and he finds you and adds you and you accept. Then you get some chips. He goes back to his mates.
You go home and have tea with your Mum and your bro. Lasagne. It’s nice. Your phone pings while you’re sat at the table. It’s from the lad at skating. He’s asking you what you’re up to. You say you’re just chilling. Your phone pings a load more times while you’re sat at the table so you put it on silent. You don’t want your Mum asking you stuff. You finish your tea and go upstairs and lay on your bed messaging him. He’s still funny. He asks you if you’ve got a boyfriend. He asks you what you’re up to tomorrow. He asks you what you’re wearing to go to bed in. He doesn’t ask you what your favourite sexual position is. He doesn’t ask you if you’ve ever done it in a public place.
The next day you meet him at the park. He’s got his dog with him. It’s a cute thing, bit yappy. Small and scrappy. He doesn’t know what breed it is. It does a crap under a tree and you both laugh. He has to pick it up with a bag and put it in the bin. It’s gross and funny at the same time. You sit on a bench for a bit and just chat. He says you could go back to his if you want, his Mum and Dad are at the caravan. You say yeah.
You go back to his and it’s pretty standard. Semi-detached on the estate. Cross hatch windows and a green settee. He says you could put a film on. You say yeah. He gets his laptop out and plugs it in the telly. He’s got some stuff downloaded. He puts a thing with Tom Hardy on. You’re not sure what it’s called, like an action movie thing. You don’t concentrate. He’s got his arm round you and all you can think about is the electric that’s zapping between the tiny bit of your leg that’s touching his. Then he’s kissing you and you’re not really sure how it happened but it just feels really nice and right and he’s actually a really good kisser. His hand is fiddling with the button on your jeans. They’re kind of elastic so it doesn’t matter. He finds his way down, into your knickers and then he’s touching you and you really didn’t know you’d be doing this today. He doesn’t flick the film off and put something else on. He doesn’t ask you if you want to go down on him. He doesn’t hurt your throat from doing it too hard.
He texts you all night. He wants to know if you want to be his girlfriend. Or at least if you want to say you’re seeing each other. You say yeah. He doesn’t send you any pictures of his cock. He doesn’t ask you to send him any pictures of you doing stuff to yourself either.
You see him a lot then. All the time, whenever you both can. You’re having sex. For the first time, both of you. Regular sex with someone. Figuring it out. What it’s all about. He doesn’t ask you to watch how other people do it. Or suck it like that. Or take it up there. He doesn’t repeatedly call you frigid. He doesn’t keep telling you, there’s nothing wrong, it’s normal. You don’t spend three years with him. You don’t feel a constant sense of insecurity. You don’t fake tan daily. You don’t shave all your pubic hair off. You don’t talk dirty when you don’t feel like it. You don’t swallow things you don’t want to. You don’t worry about what he’s done with that video of you. You don’t have a string of unsatisfying sexual relationships in your twenties. You don’t do that.